“You’re doing great,” I tell her, taking Penny. Then I hesitate. “Are you sure you can help? Don’t you have listings?”
She waves a hand. “I’ll manage, sneak by between appointments. Stop worrying.” She gives my arm a playful slap.
“I just don’t want Brooke to get overwhelmed. The birth wasn’t easy.”
Ma studies the nursery. “She does look fragile.” She tilts her head. “But honestly, between diet culture and everything, women barely have enough meat on their bones these days.”
I purse my lips. “Please don’t say that to her.”
“I won’t,” she promises, hands up. She watches me dress Penny and then she says, quietly, “You’re a good dad.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
“Why are you surprised?” she replies.
I shrug. “I’ve just been feeling useless.”
“That’s natural,” she says. “With breastfeeding, the man’s role isn’t always hands-on. All you can do is work hard and support the family.”
“I’m trying,” I say.
“I know, baby. I know.”
Chapter Eighteen
Brooke
“You’re dressed,” I say, stepping into the kitchen.
“Hey,” Matthew answers, pouring coffee into his travel mug. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s alright,” I shrug. “I had to change the pad anyway.”
He glances over. “Want me to put ointment on the stitches before I go?”
I shake my head, tugging the refrigerator door open. “Nope. I got it.”
He smirks. “You do realize I’ve seen your body. Licked your body. From top to bottom, literally.”
I make a face. “I’m not shy.”
His arm slides around my waist, warm and familiar. “Really? Then why can’t you look at me?”
Still staring into the fridge, I answer flatly, “I’m looking for food.”
He chuckles, kisses my cheek, and reaches around me, plucking out the bowl of strawberries I’d been scanning for.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the bowl from him.
He doesn’t let go. My eyes flick to his, caught.
“You have those stitches because you brought our baby into the world,” he says softly. “The least I can do is-”
I tug the bowl free, sharper than I mean to. “Can we not?”
He exhales, long and heavy, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wants to argue but won’t. “Fine. Only because I’m late.” He hesitates, studying me. Then his voice drops lower. “But Brooke… don’t think for a second I don’t want you. All of you. Stitches, pads, strawberries in your hand, you’re still the woman I fell in love with.”
My throat tightens. I glance away, pretending to be focused on the bowl, but I appreciate his words, no matter how uncomfortable they make me.
