Nick’s breath catches. “Hi, little one.”
I melt. What the hell else am I supposed to do?
Days turn into a rhythm.
He wakes me up with tea.
He insists I can’t carry anything heavier than a pillow.
He reorganizes my fridge, because he’s cooking and he’s damn good at it.
“My parents own restaurants, and I grew up shucking mudbugs,” he told me arrogantly when I complimented him.
He reads baby books at night in bed with me and asks me questions that lead to weird conversations.
“What’s the circumference of your ankles?”
“What?”
“Just so I know when they start swelling.”
He then gets a measuring tape. Weirdo!
He rubs my back when it aches.
He holds me as I fall asleep.
He talks to my belly when he thinks I’m asleep. It’s so freaking cute.
“Daddy’s here.”
“I can’t wait to meet you.”
“I’ll always take care of you.”
“I love you and your mama very much.”
He’s living at my place—i.e., we’re living together, but we don’t talk about it. I pretend I live alone, and he lets me pretend. The mailman, however, knows the truth. Dominic Delacour lives in my apartment on top of Lucille’s.
I should put my foot down and get him out of here, but then I watch him fold teeny-tiny baby clothes that Daisy shipped to us, and….
“Nick.” I lean against the doorway of the room that’s going to become the nursery.
He looks up from his gentle folding of a yellow onesie with a sunflower on it. “Yeah?”
“You’re living here.”
“Literally or physically?”
I roll my eyes. “You’ve been in my bed for weeks.”
He sets the onesie down and meets my gaze, nervous in a way I’ve never seen him. “If you want me to leave, I will.”
Do I? I try to swallow the truth, but it rises anyway.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t want you to leave.”
His shoulders loosen. “Okay.” His eyes soften. “What do you and Junior feel like for dinner?”
