Page 63 of The Trouble with Flings

“You like it?” Amused, I say, “Is this how you woo women when you date them? You claim to like doing their errands?”

“It’s been a long time since I dated anyone, but it’s not a ploy, if that’s what you mean. There’s something cathartic about cleaning up messes and starting fresh.” He gives me a quick kiss and says, “Where’s your washer and dryer?”

“Around the corner at the laundromat.” I watch as that sinks in. To Fitz’s credit, the surprise in his eyes only lasts a second or two.

“Then let’s grab your laundry, hit the coffee shop, do the wash, and then stop by the grocery store. What else have you got?”

“Nothing.” He’s so eager. He has no idea what it’s like traipsing down city sidewalks with your laundry or trekking several blocks with groceries. “That’ll take longer than you think.”

“I’ve got all day.”

On our way out, he stops at the door. “I almost forgot. Do you happen to have a screwdriver and a lightbulb?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I want to replace the bulb on the second landing and tighten the banister on the first floor,” he says.

It takes me a second to process the fact that he noticed those things last night just minutes after finding out he was going to be a father and is still thinking about them this morning. The guys I’ve dated weren’t short on charm, but not one of them would have noticed the banister or lightbulb, much less thought about fixing them.

“The maintenance guy will fix it,” I say to the thoughtful anomaly standing before me.

“I’m not leaving the safety of my girl and our little bean in the hands of a guy who might or might not show up.”

That’s too sweet for me to argue.

I gather the things he needs, and then we head downstairs.

On the second-floor landing, he sets down the laundry tote and changes the lightbulb. The stairwell brightens. “That’s so much better,” I say, having forgotten how bright the stairwell had been. “Thank you.”

“No worries. Give me a sec.” He heads down the steps, checking the banister at each of the three spots where it attaches to the wall, and then takes his time tightening screws and testing his work. He glances up, catching me watching him, and winks.

“Don’t mind me,” I say. “I’m just over here having visions of you wearing nothing but a tool belt and wondering what I can break in my apartment.”

He smirks. “I like the way you think.”

When he’s finished, he tucks the screwdriver and bulb into the laundry tote and zips it closed. “Okay, wild girl. Have at it.”

I give the banister a shake. It doesn’t move. “Nice job.”

He gives me a nod, and his hand warms on my back as we make our way downstairs.

I’ve been taking care of myself for so long that someone looking after me should feel intrusive. But while it’s a little unnerving, it’s also kind of a nice feeling…with sharp edges reminding me not to hold on to it too tight.

Fitz carries the laundry tote in one hand, holding my hand with the other. It feels strange holding hands in the city. Stranger than it did in Costa Rica. There, it somehow made sense. There, everything made sense. But on this busy sidewalk with people rushing past us in both directions, their heads down, avoiding eye contact, coffees and phones in hand, it feels out of step with everything around us.

“People don’t hold hands in the city,” I say, and try to slip my hand out of his.

He tightens his grip, looking around, taking in the blur of coats and earbuds and purposeful strides. There’s not a single interlocked set of fingers in sight. “Is that a law?” he asks.

“Of course not.” I smile at his sense of humor. “It’s just what it is.”

“Then we’re pioneers.” He looks up at the skyscrapers and says, “You’re welcome, New York.”

I’m starting to believe he can make anything fun.

He holds my hand tight as we make our way around a group of people standing outside a convenience store. “This city has long blocks. I thought the coffee shop was right around the corner.”

“It is.” I point to Barks and Beans at the end of the street, where people are sitting at tables out front with their dogs perched at their feet.