He hesitated, then said, “I bought the big one so I could watch you play over the years if I couldn’t make it to your game.”
“Oh,” I said. “Why’d you hesitate to tell me that?”
He laughed then. “I wasn’t so sure I wanted you to know how obsessed with you that I am.”
I reached for his hand and said, “Lead the way, hubby.”
He jolted. Shot me a smile that made my heart melt—along with other things that I wasn’t willing to examine right then—and guided me through the rest of the house.
There were five bedrooms. A formal dining room. An informal dining room. A master bath that was three times the size of the other bedrooms. A bathroom that looked like it stepped right out of a luxury home ad, and a closet that was big enough to accommodate ten people. Not just two.
But it was the fourth bedroom that was closest to the master that had all my attention.
It was a soft, baby pink.
There wasn’t much on the walls yet, but all of the other stuff was there.
A crib. A rocking chair. A changing table. A baby play mat. Several other baby things that looked super fancy, and a pink fluffy circular rug right in the middle.
The wall decorations were laying on that rug with a “hang these up for me already, loser” note taped to the glass.
I giggled.
“I was going to do them.” He paused. “I know that sounds like an excuse, but I swear, I was going to do them. That day of the accident I had plans to come home and hang them up. I’d already built the glider while you slept in that morning.”
He pointed to said glider in the corner.
I squeezed his hand. “What’s her name?”
He cleared his throat. “We’re naming her Margery. After my grams.”
“Oh.” A little niggle of a memory hit me.
An old woman with soft eyes.
But just as fast as it was there, it was gone.
Shit.
“I like it,” I decided. “And the middle?”
“We’re debating,” he admitted. “I like Margery April. You like Margery Mae.”
I snickered. “I have good taste. I still like Margery Mae. It’s cute.”
“It is,” he agreed. “And we’ll probably go with that one. But Margery April has sentimental value to it.”
“Why?”
“April is the month we met. The month that we became officially husband and wife. And the month that I asked you to date me. It’s a damn great month.”
Him and his sentimentality.
“You’re cute,” I said. “What was my argument against it?”
He hesitated.
I poked him.
