She snorts. “I think you’re right. And you’re going to have to give me a new nickname. This little one will become the princess once she’s born, and we both know it.”
I grumble against her ear. “I have room in my life for more than one princess.”
Wren’s smile is worth every trial and tribulation. And we’ve overcome many. This little life in my hands represents our future and the safety I’ve promised her.
After another moment, she slips from my arms and takes my hand, tugging me along to more and more clothes. How many clothes does a baby need?
When she holds up another, all I can do is nod and toss it in the cart with the others. I’ll give her whatever she asks for. And more.
Saint and Doc’s debate is escalating into a playful competitiveness, although I’m sure the staff here doesn’t think so. Not with the way they’re hovering.
If anyone else caused a scene like this, they’d have been handled already, but Saint’s Sanctuary vest seems to be keeping them at bay.
The staff will have to intervene soon with the way they’re testing the crib, using a knee to bounce on it to check for stability, rattling the side that lifts and lowers for easier access, flipping over the mattress to read every word on the label.
For a moment, their voices lower as they seriously discuss the pros and cons of the two cribs they can’t seem to agree on.
“All you have to do is go point at one, and they wouldn’t dare argue with you,” I say.
Her laughter rings so loud, so joyously, that everyone in the store pauses to look at her. “They would. But no, this is way too fun to watch. I thought Judge was the only one with the stones to argue with Saint, but Doc is in his element right now, and I can’t pass up the entertainment.”
After a few quieter minutes, they seem to agree on a crib, but then they move onto strollers.
“You know, we’re going to need an actual car for when the baby arrives, right?” she says softly, and it’s an argument she’s already been having with Saint for a month. With her belly growing day by day, it’s harder to sit her on the back of our bikes to bring her to her checkups.
“Imagining what kind of throwdown that’s going to turn into?”
She nods, humor glittering in her green eyes. I marvel at her beauty and how she’s changed since she arrived at our club in a ruined wedding dress and only armed with her violin.
Saint commandeers a stroller like a weapon.
He pushes it down the aisle, stops short, then shoves it forward again. Hard. The wheels squeal in protest. “Turn radius is garbage. If I have to move fast?—”
“You are not evading gunfire with a stroller.” Doc crosses his arms, done with Saint’s behavior.
Saint pivots the handle, testing resistance. “I’m planning for worst-case scenarios.”
Doc rolls his eyes like a sullen teenager fed up with his parents before he crouches to examine the wheel assembly. “The worst-case scenario is a curb. And this one has independent suspension. That’s what you want. A smooth ride, with less vibration.”
Saint leans down, grabs the frame, lifts the entire stroller off the ground a few inches, then drops it.
Plastic cracks.
We all freeze.
Saint straightens slowly. “Okay.”
Doc stares at the dangling wheel. “You just broke a seven-hundred-dollar stroller.”
“It failed,” Saint says evenly.
“It failed because youdropped it.”
“I dropped it a few inches.” Saint frowns down at it. “That’s a stumble. People stumble.”
Doc pinches the bridge of his nose. “People also don’t normally carry infants like battering rams.”
Saint grips the stroller handle, knuckles whitening. “I’ve done this before. I know what it feels like to get it wrong.”
