Page 97 of Puck Princess

“I want to swaddle him in bubble wrap!” he says as Nicky tries to crawl up on the couch.

“Do you even know how to swaddle?”

“If it would make him stay still, I’d learn. Fast.”

He’s wrestling with a small infant, trying to keep his squirmy little body in his arms, and my heart warms. Owen is frantic, but he’s going to be a good dad. I can feel it.

Owen sets him down in front of the pile of toys, but Nicky has lost interest. The fussing turns to a full meltdown.

“I think he needs a nap,” I say. “You want me to take him in the other room?”

We’ve cleared most of the things out of the spare room except for one or two sentimental jerseys Owen has on the wall. I haven’t told him yet, but I think they should stay. Hockey is a gender neutral theme if you aren’t a sexist asshole.

We haven’t furnished much yet, but we do have a glider chair and a crib that Uncle Randy gifted us.

Owen scoops him up with one arm and grabs a blanket out of the diaper bag. “You make the bottle. I’ll put him to nap.”

“Teamwork,” I announce, heading into the kitchen for the goods.

While Owen waits, he paces, bouncing and rocking Nicky. I hear what might be singing, but it’s impossible to tell over Nicky’s ear-piercing shrieks.

Wordlessly, I hand Owen the bottle, and he heads into the other room.

For a very long time, nothing changes. It’s unbroken, unfettered crying. I keep waiting for Owen to pop back out with Nicky held at arm’s length, demanding a swap. But the door stays closed.

Finally—slowly—the crying softens and fades. I can hear Owen talking to Nicky, soft and low. After a few quiet moments, I chance it and open the door to peek in.

Owen is rocking Nicky in the glider, a contented smile on his face. My heart nearly explodes at the sight.

“Is he out?” I whisper.

Nicky’s eyes are closed, the bottle dangling limply from his mouth. He’s snuggled into Owen’s chest. Cue a second round of heart explosions for me.

Owen slowly gets up and lays Nicky in the crib.

We both tip toe out, closing the door as silently as possible behind us. We don’t breathe a word until we’re back in the kitchen.

Owen takes one look at the dopey smile on my face and arches a brow. “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing. You just…” I’m practically fanning myself. He had ideas in the elevator earlier, but I’m the one with plans now.

“Your ovaries are exploding, aren’t they?”

I swat at him, prepared to lie through my tough—but only until Owen drags the truth out of me with his mouth and his hands.

But his phone starts to buzz in his pocket. He pulls it out and his smug grin fades. “It’s Summer.”

He answers. “SOSing already?”

“Owen?” Summer’s voice is delayed. Slurred. His brow furrows, and I step closer to hear what’s happening.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t… I don’t feel right.” She sounds wasted, but she wouldn’t get drunk on a first date.

“Are you still at the bar?” I ask.

“Are you still with him?” Owen adds.

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