Page 20 of Curvy Girl and the Bad Boy Cowboy

"This is nice," Ethan says, looking around at my living room with its overstuffed couch and walls lined with bookshelves. "Cozy."

"Thanks," I reply, "It's not much, but it works for me."

"It feels like you," he observes, studying the collection of mismatched teacups I display on an open shelf. "Warm. Welcoming."

The compliment catches me off guard. "Kitchen's through there if you want water or anything," I say, deflecting. "The nursery—well, future nursery—is this way."

I lead him down the short hallway, past my bedroom door (firmly closed, thank goodness) to the small room at the back of the house. Taking a deep breath, I push open the door.

The room is still mostly a guest room—there's a daybed against one wall that will eventually have to go—but I've started the transformation. One wall is now a soft sage green, with the others still the original cream. A wooden rocking chair that belonged to my grandmother sits in the corner, and I've hung a simple mobile of felt woodland animals above where the crib will eventually go.

"It's not much yet," I say into the silence as Ethan takes it all in. "But I thought a nature theme might be nice. Gender-neutral, though now that we know she's a girl, I might add some more—"

"It's perfect," Ethan interrupts, his voice thick with emotion. He walks to the rocking chair, running his hand along its smooth arm. "This is beautiful craftsmanship."

"It was my grandmother's," I explain. "My mom rocked me in it, and now I'll rock Grace."

Hearing her name—our daughter's name—spoken aloud between us makes the air feel charged somehow.

"Grace," Ethan repeats softly. He moves to the window, which overlooks my small backyard with its vegetable garden and single apple tree. "Nice view. She'll be able to see the seasons change."

I'd had the same thought myself when choosing this room over the slightly larger one I use as my bedroom.

"I have some other things," I say, crossing to the closet. "Just a few things I've picked up, before I even knew..." I trail off, suddenly embarrassed by my early preparations.

But Ethan looks genuinely interested, so I pull out the small collection I've gathered: a stuffed rabbit with impossibly soft fur, a yellow blanket I couldn't resist, a few gender-neutral onesies with ducks and bears.

"You really have been planning," he says, taking the rabbit when I offer it.

"I guess I wanted to be prepared." I sit on the edge of the daybed. "And shopping for baby things made it feel more real, in a good way."

Ethan nods, still holding the rabbit. "I haven't bought anything yet. I wouldn't even know where to start."

"There's plenty of time," I assure him. "And honestly, babies don't need that much at first. Somewhere to sleep, something to wear, diapers. Love."

"Love they'll definitely have," he says with such conviction that I must blink back sudden tears. Pregnancy hormones are no joke.

Ethan perches beside me on the daybed, careful to leave space between us.

"I want to help with the nursery and everything else. I'm pretty handy—rebuilt half the cabins on the ranch last summer. I could build her a crib, maybe?"

"That would be wonderful, actually. I was looking at cribs online, but they're so expensive, and the reviews are all over the place."

"Consider it done," he says firmly. "And anything else you need. Just say the word."

We sit silently for a moment, both lost in thoughts of the future. I can almost see it—Grace toddling across this very floor, her first steps, her laughter filling this small room.

"Naomi," Ethan says suddenly, his voice serious. "I want you to know I'm in this for the long haul. Whatever that looks like."

I stare at him—the earnest hazel eyes, the slight furrow between his brows that appears when he's being completely sincere.

"I believe you," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "Today helped. Seeing you at the appointment, the way you looked at the ultrasound..."

"I've never felt anything like that before," he admits. "Seeing her, hearing her heart—it changed something in me."

He moves closer on the daybed, shortening the distance between us. His eyes, usually dancing with mischief, are serious and focused entirely on me.

"I know we should take this slow," he says, his voice dropping lower. "I should do things right, be patient, prove myself to you. But I've always been a bit crazy."

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