She turns back to the clothes, pulling out a black dress that looks like every other black dress to me.
"What about this one?" she asks, holding it up.
"Looks like something you'd wear to a funeral."
"It's professional."
"It's boring." I scan the racks, spotting something with color. "What about this?"
I hold up a blue dress that would hug those curves that have been driving me insane for weeks.
"It’ll show off too much cleavage.”
"There’s no such thing," I say before I can stop myself.
She rolls her eyes again, but her lips tilt up on one side. "Youwouldthink that. These things are ridiculous.”
She looks down as she gestures to her tits andfuck my life.
“I need things for work, and contrary to the rumors, I’ve never slept with anyone in the business. Except…”
Me.
"Fine." I put the dress back, but I’m coming back for it when she’s not paying attention. I need to see her in it. "But at least get something that isn't black or gray. You're having a baby, not summoning the dead."
That gets a laugh out of her,. "I didn't know you were a fashion expert."
"I'm not. But I know what looks good on you."
The words hang between us, too honest maybe, but I’m done fucking around. I want her to know I want her. Wren turns away, busying herself with another rack, but not before I catch the deepening blush on her cheeks.
We spend the next hour loading up a cart. Wren sticks to the practical stuff. Pants with stretchy waistbands. Tops with room for her belly. Black. Gray. Sensible.
Boring as hell.
I wouldn’t hate it if she put all this shit back and just wore my shirts for the next five months, but I know she won’t.
When she's busy arguing with that snobby saleswoman about whether maternity clothes need to look like shapeless sacks or whatever they’re talking about, I grab that blue dress and toss it in the cart. Add a blue sweater that’ll make the gray in her eyes stand out. She’ll be pissed I didn’t listen, but I don’t really give a shit.
In the back of the store, we find ourselves in the baby section. It’s still early, but we’re gonna need all this shit at some point.
There are racks of tiny clothes and shoes. Onesies with ridiculous sayings that make Wren roll her eyes and me secretly smile.
"We should probably wait on this stuff," she says, but her fingers trail over a tiny flannel shirt that's clearly meant to look like mine. She thinks I don't notice, but I notice everything about her.
"Probably," I agree, but I'm already picking up a pair of miniature boots that match the ones I'm wearing. "But this is pretty damn cute."
She looks at the boots in my hand, then up at my face, something soft in her expression. "Yeah, it is."
We end up buying the boots and the flannel, along with a stuffed beer mug that makes us both laugh. Who the fuck made this for babies? It’s inappropriate as hell, but whatever. It's the first thing we've chosen together for our son, and it feels significant, like we're taking a step we can't take back. I don't want to take it back.
I hope she doesn’t either.
At the checkout, I pull out my credit card before Wren can reach for her wallet.
"I can pay for my own clothes," she protests.
"I know you can." I hand the card to the cashier. "But I want to."
