Page 30 of Wrong Number, Right Valentine

“No, thank you. I’ll leave that up to you.”

“Fine, be that way.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “Speaking of hormones… what were you thinking about for dinner? Maybe we could stop for pizza on the way home.”

“No more French toast?”

“Nah,” he said, laughing. “I think I’m good with French toast for a while—or forever.”

I bit back a laugh. He’d burned out a day earlier than I expected. French toast was officially out, and pizza was in.

I couldn’t help but wonder—what would next week’s craving be? Whatever it was, I’d be there ready to make it for him. He was my mate, and he deserved the best of everything.

23

BANKS

“I wish I could join you.” Reg handed me an ice tea as I swayed in the hammock.

It was a beautiful day, and while I wasn’t yet on paternity leave, it was Saturday. The past month I’d been working three days in the office and two at home. Both options gave me what I craved. Being able to work with no interruptions from office chatter allowed me to complete assigned tasks in half the time. But I was energized when surrounded by colleagues and that got my creative juices flowing.

“You could. Ian is prepped and ready to take over.”

My mate put a hand on my belly. “Nah, he’s got his vacation lined up.” The guy needed a holiday before being thrown into managing the restaurant for six weeks while my mate stayed home with me and our newborn.

Reg kissed me on the lips, his unique scent filling my nostrils and turning me on.

“Sure you can’t stay?” I tugged his hand, and he tried to pull away. His strength was superior to mine, and if he’d really wanted to, he could have slipped out of my grasp.

“I’m certain.” He told me the fridge was full and the meals just needed heating up.

“I’ll miss you.” I blew him a kiss, and he “caught it” with both hands.

“Text or call if you need anything.” He disappeared into the house, and moments later, the car started.

I had no plans to move from here other than to eat or pee. My eyes closed as the hammock swung back and forth.

But annoying thoughts interrupted my drowsiness. There were boxes in the spare room we’d never unpacked. Not that they couldn’t stay there, as the nursery was ready and we kept the door closed to that bedroom-slash-storeroom. Out of sight, out of mind. The ridiculous microwave smores device was making fun of me, saying I’d never get around to either using it or tossing it out.

“Forget it. I’m ignoring you and your silly companions.” Reg had never used the citrus sprayer thingy or the baby bottle pancake device. But if we ever had another child, they’d need that room, and battle lines would be drawn.

My mind drifted to the nursery and the pale gray walls we’d painted. But the more I thought about it, the more I didn’t like the gray. Our baby should not be introduced to his world with gray! What had we been thinking when we decided on that boring-ass color?

Heaving me and my belly out of the hammock—which was quite an effort—I traipsed into the nursery and sat on the sofa. Blech. The gray was so dreary, and I had to do something about it.

At this stage of my pregnancy, I couldn’t climb a ladder, and as I wasn’t prepared to endanger myself or our child, I’d paint what I could, and poor Reg would have to finish the upper sections on his day off.

Or it might never be complete and our child would grow up believing that was how walls were supposed to be.

A quick trip to the hardware store became an hour with me agonizing over a yellow, a green, and a lilac. While I didn’t want to interrupt Reg at work, I sent him screenshots of the three colors.

Take no longer than three seconds and tell me which color you prefer.

Lilac.

That was quick. I’d been leaning toward that color, as it was softer, more restful than the other two.

What are you doing?

Damn! Now I had to respond.Just thinking of color schemes.

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