Turning, she walks into the apartment, leaving the door open. It’s an invitation, however begrudging.
I take a selfish moment to watch the sway of her hips and the way the silk of that cami clings to her back before I follow her in, clicking the door shut behind me.
She’s pacing. A restless, nervous energy fills the room.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she snaps, not looking back.
I hold my hands up, palms out. “You’re a woman it’s hardnotto look at.”
She ignores that.
“My mother,” she starts, her voice tight, “already has us married with three kids and a dog.”
I hum, moving deeper into the room. “Golden retriever?”
“Obviously,” she mutters. “She’s a cliché.”
“And the kids? What are we naming them?”
She throws out her hands. “I don’t know. I don’t want kids.”
She stops dead in her tracks. Even with her back to me, I can see her shoulders tensing. She slowly turns around, her eyes wide, looking like she’s just accidentally confessed to a crime.
“Shit,” she whispers. “I wasn’t supposed to say that part out loud.”
I keep my expression neutral. “Why not?”
“Because!” She throws her hands up again, and the silk of her top shifts dangerously.
Eyes on her face, Beckett. Eyes on her face.
“Because now you’re going to think I’m the ice queen who doesn’t want kids. I’m great with kids. Ilove them.”
“You let them use Silly String.”
“Exactly. I’m the best aunt on the planet. I just… I don’t want them for me.”
She’s bracing for the impact. She’s waiting for me to look disappointed or to start the “you’ll change your mind” speech I’m sure she’s heard a thousand times.
“Okay,” I say instead.
She scoffs, her eyes searching mine for the catch. “Okay? What do you mean,okay?”
“I mean, okay, Madison. It’s your life. Your body. Your choice. Why would that change anything?”
She blinks at me.
“What?” she asks cautiously. “Don’t you want kids? Not that I’m saying we’re having kids. I’m not saying we’re anything. I just mean, generally, hypothetically, in some alternate universe where you and I don’t live in the same building and my mother isn’t planning our anniversary party—”
“Madison.”
She barrels on. “Because, statistically speaking, most people do want kids, and you’re very… stable. You wear glasses sometimes. It’s very attractive, by the way. Not the point. The point is, you’re the kind of man mothers point at in supermarkets and whisper, ‘That one. That one will provide structure…’”
“Madison.”
“…And I just don’t want you thinking I’m some sort of emotionally stunted monster who hates joy.”
“I never really thought about kids much.”
