Page 101 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

Grayson straightens, mock-serious. “It’s the lighting.”

“It’s the loyalty,” Mae corrects, patting my hand. “You two give people hope.”

I blink faster than necessary and smile, genuinely touched.

As I browse the wall of onesies printed with slogans likeFuture CEO,Nap Queen, andI Make My Own Rules, I catch Grayson standing suspiciously close to a tiny gray beanie with knitted ears.

He lifts it delicately. “Too much?”

“For who?” I ask. “You or the baby?”

“I was thinking… matching hats.”

I laugh, louder than I mean to. “You do that, and I will leak your baby photos to the press. Including the one where you're dressed as a cowboy.”

We leave the shop with a knit llama, the ear-hat (naturally), a handwoven mobile, and a blanket so soft I briefly considered buying one for every room in the penthouse.

***

Back home, we start unpacking the bags like it’s Christmas morning, each new item bringing a mix of amusement and disbelief.

Grayson pulls out the knit llama and holds it aloft like he’s presenting it to the sky. “You think this looks dignified enough to be our daughter’s first stuffed animal?” he asks, solemn as a judge.

“She’s not being inducted into the House of Lords, Grayson. She’s being tucked into a bassinet.”

He grins, unfazed. “Don’t listen to her, Lord Llamington. She doesn’t understand your lineage.” He strokes the llama’s ridiculous fuzzy ears with exaggerated reverence before setting it beside the glider chair.

I turn my attention to a stack of parenting books, titles likeThe Strong-Willed Child,Montessori for the Modern Parent, andHow Not to Raise a Little Tyrant. I start shelving them, half-laughing, half-terrified.

Grayson lifts one and studies the cover. “This feels… pointed.”

I smirk without looking at him. “I’m just preparing for the inevitable. You know, raising a small human who is fifty percent you.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding as he sets the book down. “So, ninety-five percent stubborn.”

“Exactly.”

A box of alphabet blocks catches his eye. They’re handcrafted, all organic materials, with a price tag that makes me wince even though I picked them out. He starts arranging the letters on the play-mat with far too much focus.

“I don’t trust that look,” I murmur.

“I’m just exploring her early linguistic capabilities,” he says innocently. “See what I can do with the L, O, V, and E blocks.”

I smile. “That’s actually…”

“Vole,” he finishes, flipping the ‘E’ upside down with a triumphant flourish.

I groan and hurl a plush giraffe at his chest.

We hang the mobile above the crib, soft moons and stars in muted tones that sway gently as the air shifts around us. The nursery glows in the late afternoon light, casting long shadows across the floor. Everything feels quiet. Safe.

“We need to mount the baby monitor,” Grayson says, holding it in one hand while eyeing the walls.

“Thirty-degree angle should be fine.”

He shakes his head. “Forty-five gives better range.”

“It’s a baby monitor, not a sniper scope,” I reply dryly.

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