“That gives me one extra shot at a baby name.”
“What?”
“Technically, two. You apologized just now and also in your text. I’m thinking Aspen, maybe Juniper. Tree names are nice, don’t you think?”
Her frustrated huff gets me grinning. “Fine. Make jokes. But I really need your help with something for the girls.”
The girls.
She means our daughters.
I love how that sounds, so I roll the words over in my head a few times before responding. “What’s up? You’re okay, right?” I hope she would have led with that if something was wrong.
“Yes, I’m fine, except that I’m having trouble building these blasted cribs.”
“You’re building the cribs?” I instantly picture Hazel with a bandsaw. “I didn’t even know you owned power tools.”
“I don’t. Just one of those little metal L-shaped things that came with the assembly kit.”
“You mean an Allen wrench?” That makes more sense. “Why are you doing this by yourself?”
“Because.” She makes an exasperated sound. “I have a master’s degree from an Ivy League school, and I thought I could manage a simple project like assembling two handcrafted cribs from Brazil.”
I try not to chuckle but fail. “Are the instructions in Portuguese?”
“That’s part of the problem, yes. Also, my furnace is broken, and it’s ten-million degrees in here.”
That sounds unsafe. “Are you sure you should be doing physical labor in heated conditions?”
“No, Luke. I’m not. That’s why I called you. Also, I might’ve exaggerated. It’s more like eighty-degrees, which is still pretty hot, but not ten-million.”
“Noted.” God, she’s adorable. “I’ve just recorded one fib on the tally sheet for Hazel Spencer. That’ll be fifty lashes with a limp piece of kelp.”
There’s that frustrated growl again. “Luke?—”
“Shouldn’t getting your furnace fixed be the first priority?”
“There’s a guy coming to repair it, but he’s late, and I really want this done before the painters show up Thursday to do the nursery.”
The nursery.
That hits a bit differently than the girls.
My house isn’t bad, but it’s hardly a mansion. I’ve made progress preparing the spare room for babies, but I don’t need an Ivy League degree to know it’s more likely the girls will grow up spending most of their time in Hazel’s house rather than mine.
We should probably discuss those arrangements.
“I’ll be right there,” I say instead. “What are you hungry for, Hazel?”
There’s a swift little intake of breath. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve gotta be craving something.”
She doesn’t reply, which seems weird.
“To eat.” Did she think I meant something else? “Are you still on the rambutan, or would you like something else?”
“Where on earth are you getting those?”
