Page 72 of The Bartender's Baby

“Yeah. No. I don’t know.”

She pulled me right up next to her, ignoring the water I placed in front of her. “Are you going to throw up?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What happened?”

“My dad talked to me. Like,talked.”

“Are you okay?”

I hauled her into my lap, sitting her sideways, her legs draped over mine. She turned to mold her hands to my jaw, her thumbs smoothing over my beard, her fingertips stretching up to the hair at my temples and behind my ears. I closed my eyes, taking a few breaths through my nose, and she pressed her forehead to mine.

And this—this—was what I needed. All I’d ever need.

“I want to be good to you,” I rasped, my emotions still so high I didn’t know how much more I could say without exploding.

“You are. You’re so good to me. You always have been, and it fucking wrecks me to know you’ve felt like you haven’t. As if you bending over backward for me hasn’t been enough.” She gripped my hair at my scalp, urging me to look at her. When I did, her eyes were glassy too. “I don’t know what happened just now, but I suspect you finally learned the truth about your dad.”

I nodded, holding on to her wrists to release her hands from my hair and bring them to my mouth, kissing each of her palms.

She licked her lips, breathing hard. “I understand why you’ve never felt good enough, but I want you to know that I have not ever and will not ever feel that way about you. You’ve been really patient with me, and I know you need words. I know.”

I smiled against her fingertips, enjoying her nervous babbling. Yes, I did need the words, but I also knew she needed time. I felt everything I needed from her. She wouldn’t be here, at my sister’s wedding, if she didn’t love me. She wouldn’t have let me be so demanding and all but kidnap her to live in my house. She wouldn’t have kept coming back to Walt’s year after year if there had not been a spark inside her.

The same one that kept burning inside me, urging me to keep her around, keep cracking the hard shell, fitting her puzzle pieces together.

“I’m trying,” she said, drawing me to her for a kiss, and I knew that too.

That’s why I loved her, I thought.

“That’s why I love you,” I said, not expecting to hear it back, so it didn’t hurt when she responded by pressing her face against my neck, making my skin damp with tears.

After a minute, I sat her up, dabbed at her face with a napkin, and then took her hand in mine. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

TWENTY-TWO

TABBY

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I muttered, struggling to bend over, my foot on the edge of the bathtub.

It was the day before my due date. With the nursery finished, bags packed, and Genevieve lined up to take care of Lucy, I was beyond ready to have this baby come out of me. At my last appointment, the doctor told me I was a few centimeters dilated, but I could stay that way for a while.

So I had to find ways to keep myself busy while wondering if any little pain or hiccup was a contraction.

I had exactly zero patience for it.

Nate had all of it. Of fucking course.

“What are you doing?” he asked again.

When I kept on going, he caught my wrist, stealing my razor from my hand.

I heaved a sigh. “I’m shaving. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeated flatly. “Why?”

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