“A date,” Soren repeated slowly, like he was explaining algebra to a toddler. “You know, dinner, a movie, mini golf. Literally anything that doesn’t involve your couch, your kid, or PBS Kids playing in the background.”
My stomach dropped.
Fuck. Me.
All this time, all these months, and I had never asked Dani out on one fucking date. What the fuck was wrong with me? Had it really been that long since I wooed a woman? Answer, yes.
Come to think of it, I hadn’t been on a date in years, not since well before Carolina had been born. By the time I met Allie, we were already a decade deep into our careers, both of us too busy to waste time on candlelit dinners or late-night walks. We dated off and on for a few years, circling each other whenever my schedule allowed, until it finally got to the point where we had to choose—commit or breakup. We got married the following year, more out of practicality than whirlwind romance.
Carolina came a year after that. Diapers, bottle schedules, doctor visits—our lives had filled up with all the new demands of keeping a tiny human alive. Nights out had turned into nights in, and “date night” had meant splitting takeout while the baby monitor crackled between us on the couch. Eventually, even that had stopped. We hadn’t carved out time for each other anymore. We’d been comanaging a household, partners in logistics instead of romance.
Maybe that had been the start of the end. We hadn’t dated each other, not really; we’d just gotten by.
And now here I was, years later, realizing far too late that I’d walked into the same trap again. This time, though, I had someone I desperately didn’t want to lose. Dani wasn’t just the mother of my future kid. She was someone I wanted tochooseover and over, the way I hadn’t done with my ex. She deserved the chase, the effort, the full weight of my attention.
“Shit,” I muttered, raking a hand through my hair.
Soren smirked, clearly delighted. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, coach. We date now.”
Pink leaned forward, eyes lit with mischief. “You know what she would love? A trip to the farmer’s market. Women eat that stuff up. Fresh flowers, homemade candles, some guy playing sad acoustic covers—it’s a date factory.”
Brock jabbed his fork in my direction. “Or a bookstore. You could pick out books for each other to read.”
“I don’t know,” Soren said. “She’s really into the whole true crime podcast thing. Maybe there’s something there?”
“What do you want him to do? Murder somebody and then let her solve the case?” Pink taunted.
“It’s not your worst idea, Stinky Pinky.”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, but I couldn’t help the way my lips twitched.
Their voices blurred together as they continued volleying suggestions across the table, half-teasing, half-serious, but underneath it all was the truth I couldn’t ignore.
There were only so many times I could tell Dani that I wanted to be with her; I needed toshowher. Not with another baby blanket or another night cuddling on my couch, but with something that made her feel chosen.
Because Dani deserved that—to be chosen out loud, publicly—and I was going to make sure she knew I already had.
Dani
Icouldn’t remember the last time I’d been this nervous about a date. Which was ridiculous, considering the man in question had already seen me naked—manytimes. And yet somehow, this felt different. More important. Like everything we had been dancing around for months was finally coming into focus.
“Stop chewing on your lip. You’re going to ruin your lipstick.” Nessa flicked my chin lightly, a makeup brush clamped between her teeth as she dug through the mess on my bathroom counter.
I groaned, tipping my head back against the doorframe. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
Her eyes met mine in the mirror, sharp and smug all at once. “Because I’m the only one around here who knows how to do a proper cat eye, and because you’d show up in sweatpants if I didn’t intervene.”
“I can’t help it if ninety percent of my clothes don’t fit right now.”
Sweatpants had become my second skin during the past month. More specifically, Brooks’s sweatpants. The same pair I had borrowed—well,stolenbecause I had no intention of giving them back—the first night I’d stayed over at his place.
And thank fuck for them because somewhere between weeks twenty-one and twenty-two, my belly had popped. That meant no more hiding beneath oversized sweaters, no more fastening my jeans with a paper clip, and no more pretending like the only reason I had put on ten pounds was because of my daily bowl of ice cream.
I was pregnant—visibly, undeniably pregnant. Every time I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror or one of the windows at the Roasters’ facilities, I did a double take. Sometimes it scared me, the way my body was changing faster than I could keep up. Other times, I rested my hands against the swell, waiting, hoping to feel my little girl kick—according to the books, it would be any day now.
When nearly everything made me sweat, itch, or break out these days, Brooks’s sweats gave me comfort. Even after two washes, they still smelled faintly like his detergent. Sliding into them at night made me feel like he was wrapping me up, holding me close, even when he wasn’t there.
And maybe that was why I was so nervous.
