Baby Momma: Do you mean pedicure?
Rett: Yeah, maybe. Whatever it’s called, you deserve it.
Baby Momma: I’ll see if I can talk her into it when we have some time.
Rett: What are you doing now?
Baby Momma: Lying on the couch with my feet up, trying to summon energy to walk to the kitchen for dinner.
I glance at the time.
Rett: You haven’t eaten yet?
Baby Momma: I haven’t needed to. Someone keeps sending me these incredible meals for lunch.
Rett: You’re literally growing another person. You need good food.
Baby Momma: I really appreciate it.
Rett: What are you having for dinner?
I know I need to stop going on about food. I’m probably driving her crazy. But I don’t care. There isn’t much I can do to help with all this baby stuff, but ensuring she’s got access to a range of healthy food is within my capability, so I’m going for it.
Baby Momma: Leftovers from lunch.
A growl rumbles in my chest, and before I know what I’m doing, I have my food delivery app open, and I’m scrolling to find her something else.
I select a Mediterranean restaurant and choose a range of light salad dishes and sides before tapping my basket. But I come up short when I have to fill in an address.
I know her building, but I don’t know her apartment number.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I think for a moment before switching over to Instagram and searching my messages for Sienna.
This isn’t the first time I’ve needed help. Before placing my first coffee order for Bea the other morning, I dropped a message asking what the other girls in the salon wanted. So every morning now, there isn’t just a decaf latte with salted caramel foam that arrives at the salon, but a whole tray of their favorites. Bea tried ripping me a new one for it because she hasn’t told the other girls about the baby or me yet. I told her to say it was a treat from her. I think she assumed it was going to be a one-time thing, but it’s happened again every morning since. Whoops.
I fire off a quick message requesting Bea’s apartment number, and only five minutes later, I have it.
I place the food order and then return to my messages with Bea.
Rett: You should run yourself a bath. Really relax.
Baby Momma: That sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day.
The image of her submerged in a tub, her hot body hidden behind a pile of bubbles, fills my mind. Yeah, it’s a damn good idea.
Baby Momma: What are you doing?
Rett: Hanging out at Rivers’s house, watching his daughter play in the pool.
Rett: Thinking about you in the bath.
I probably shouldn’t have added that. But it’s the truth.
Holding my half-empty bottle of beer up, I snap a picture and send it over to her.
Baby Momma: Is that a half-naked hockey player blurred out in the background?
I look at the photo I took.
