Or the night he sat on the floor for two hours assembling the crib—only to realize he put the legs on backward and had to start over. At midnight.
Or the tiny, personalized bookplates he ordered to glue inside every children’s book we’ve collected so far.This Book Belongs to MacGyver Maverick McBride.
I smile as Lucy blinks at me through the phone.
“Cappuccino Mist sounds like an overpriced seasonal drink, not a color for a baby’s room.” She sighs. “It would drive me crazy if Harris was peeing all over the decorating like that. How are you putting up with it?”
I shrug. “He’s doing that, I’m planning this wedding. He’s rubbing my feet and bringing home food, and I swear, he’s spent more money on stupid shit the baby doesn’t need.”
Lucy cackles. “Give me an example.”
“He bought a bottle warmer that connects to Wi-Fi.”
She gasps. “Why?”
“Exactly.” I grin. “My dad was a good dad. But this? This is like if Martha Stewart and an NFL quarterback had a baby and that baby grew up to be a nesting husband.”
Just then, Callum strolls into the room, barefoot and shirtless, but holding a color wheel in one hand.
The timing couldn’t be more perfect.
“Babe,” he says seriously, completely ignoring the fact that I’m mid-call. “Hear me out—what if we do an accent wall in Toasted Almond instead of Cappuccino Mist? It has more depth.”
Lucy snorts so loudly she startles Callum. “Toasted Almond?Is he planning a nursery or a coffee shop?”
He pauses when he hears her voice. He gives me a wounded look. “Are you making fun of me?”
I lift my water bottle in solidarity. “Always.” I look back at the screen. “You see what I’m dealing with.”
Lucy fans herself with one hand. “Girl, you’re not dealing—you’re thriving. That man is hotter with paint swatches and no shirt than most guys are in tuxedos.”
“I accept this compliment.” He walks over so he can stick his face in my phone camera. “Also, I ordered the six-foot stuffed giraffe you liked.”
I melt.
“Who is this man?” Lucy whispers dramatically. “And what has he done to the NFL linebacker?”
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” I say with a breathless sigh. “Okay, enough about my freakishly thoughtful husband. What about you and Harris? You guys are all in now, right?”
She lifts her left hand, wiggling her bare ring finger. “We are disgusting. Like, his Netflix is my Netflix and we’re like—splitting bills and stuff. It’s bonkers.”
Whoa. I watch her for a beat, then ask the question that’s been floating between us for a while. “Do you think you guys will get married?”
She goes quiet. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I used to say I didn’t care about the whole wedding thing. And honestly? I still don’t need the poofy dress or a tower of cupcakes or, like, doves.”
“Lucy. Literally no one does doves anymore.”
“But,” she continues, a little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Sometimes I look at Harris across the room and think—yeah. I could do forever with this guy. He’s so fun. And funny, and I just adore him.”
I grin, setting my water on the arm of the couch and curling one hand under my belly like it’s second nature now. “You picked a good one.”
Lucy hums. “You think?”
“Iknow. I mean, he volunteered to help with Fall Fest when half the guys you hired bailed.”
“Oh my God,” she laughs. “That lumberjack show was a disaster.”
I don’t know if it was a disaster—we raised a shit ton of money, which was the point. Tons of money. The crowd went nuts for Harris Bennett and his football buddies.
