“You said you wanted to make something for dessert. Did you do that or did you not get the chance? We can go pick something up. You’ve had a really long week, baby, and my mother won’t care, and hell, I can make a bad joke about you baking something and?—”
“I don’t have anything to wear,” she blurts out, a fresh wave of tears streaming down her face. “I feel huge and everything feels too tight or the fabric is itchy or I hate the color.”
Looking down, I realize she’s wearing one of my T-shirts with the tree farm logo on it, the light blue cotton worn and buttery soft.
“Wear this.” I tug on the sleeve for emphasis.
“But—”
Pressing my mouth to hers, I wait until she gives in, sighing and melting into me, her lips parting so I can slip my tongue between them.
Wrapping my arms around her, I hold her tight, loving every hum and whimper she makes, grounding her in the moment.
In me.
“I needed that,” she admits, pulling back and resting her forehead against mine.
“Me too.”
“I wanted to look nice for dinner. I want your family to like me.”
“Theydolike you.”
“But I’m not one of those cute pregnant women with the adorable dresses and makeup with their hair all done up and?—”
“Indie.”
“What happens when I don’t have ankles anymore and can’t tie my shoes?” Her bottom lip quivers, and I bite back the smile that wants to escape because she’s fucking adorable.
We’d found her a new doctor before the ink had dried on our marriage certificate and done all the necessary scans and measurements to coincide with her being more than halfway to her due date.
I watched her physically relax the longer the doctor talked.
Strong.
Healthy.
Perfect.
“You’ll still be a stunner,” I tell her, tucking a piece of loose hair behind her ear. “I think right now, the best thing is to listen to your body. If this shirt feels good on your skin? I have a whole closet full of them you can wear. If doing your hair and makeup is important then I’ll learn how to do it so you don’t have to.”
“You’re going to make me cry again,” she whispers, her eyes glassy. “I know I’m being ridiculous; I just can’t help it.”
“I think you’re growing a baby and you’re allowed to be ridiculous.” I pause and then add, “Although if I get a choice, I’d rather learn how to wield a curling iron than learn how tocontour or whatever that shit is with the nineteen colors and all the brushes.”
She laughs, the sound light and happy and enough to make my heart feel lighter than it has since I walked inside.
“You’re a good man, Beau Sterling.”
“Your man, Mrs. Sterling.”
She hums, pressing a quick kiss to my lips before standing. “Let’s go before I make you my personal stylist.”
She’s kidding, but I don’t hate the idea because I’d do anything for this woman.
And I think she might be starting to believe it.
18
