Page 92 of Filthy Rich Daddies
“I’m so fucking sorry,” I whisper into her hair. “I didn’t know. I saw the way you tensed at the tub, or flinched when you passed the pool, but I thought…I don’t know what I thought. Maybe it was just about that night. Or that you were still shaken up about everything… I know we’re not the easiest people to deal with?—”
“It’s not your fault,” she says quietly, her voice still hoarse. “You were trying to do something beautiful for me.”
“I meant it for all of us,” I murmur. “Not just for you. Not just to show you I was listening, or that I’d been snooping on your Pinterest boards—which, by the way, you should really lock down. I meant it for our babies. I meant it forus.I thought…this could be our anchor.”
She exhales shakily. “You’re allowed to be excited about the babies too.”
“Iamexcited,” I say. “Even with the hormones and the screaming and the sleepless nights and the mystery poop and the fact that I’ll probably step on at least a hundred rubber ducks before they turn three. Iwantthis. We all do.”
Her eyes shimmer again. “Even if I can’t…I don’t know…even if I can’t bathe them?”
I blink. “Thalassa.”
“I panicked in a nursery, Colin. What happens when they’re here and they need a bath and I can’t?—”
“Then we bathe them,” I say. “We hold them. We swaddle them. We check the water temp three times. We make duck voices. We make it gentle. And we never, ever pressure you.”
She tries to speak, but her throat catches.
“And maybe,” I say carefully, “when you’re ready, you’ll try again. Maybe you’ll just sit on the floor while one of us does it. Or maybe you’ll peek your head in. Or maybe you’ll hum lullabies from the hallway. And maybe, someday, you’ll step closer.”
She nods, slowly. “I want to be the one who teaches them to swim,” she whispers. “It used to be my favorite thing in the world.”
“And it can be again,” I say. “But one step at a time. Maybe the nursery stays dry. But you walk past it. You let yourself glance in. Just a second. Just a heartbeat longer each day.”
She leans her head against my chest again. “You’re really good at this.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice with fear,” I say. “Tech launches. Public speaking. Love.”
That makes her laugh, the sound muffled in my shirt.
“I thought I was going to be the worst mom,” she says, voice cracking. “Like, right out the gate. Can’t bathe them. Can’t let them near pools. Can’t even look at a sea-themed paint job.”
“Hey,” I say, tipping her chin up to meet my eyes. “You are already the best mom I know. You’re worried about doing it right. You care about doing it right. That’s the hardest part, and you’ve already nailed it. And you’re not alone. You have three, somewhat capable men happy to parent their children too.”
She smiles through the tears. “God, that was such a Hallmark moment.”
“I try.”
She sniffles. “I’m gonna have to redo that whole nursery, huh?”
“Only if you want to. I mean…I was thinking maybe we could do a totally dry sea theme. Like, no fish. Just coral. Seashells. Driftwood. Land crab chic.”
She laughs again, properly this time.
“Oh my god,” she says, leaning into me. “That’s hideous.”
“I know.” I grin. “But you smiled.”
We don’t move right away.
She stays curled into me, back against the wall, fingers tucked inside my shirt like she needs the fabric, not just the skin. I could stay like this for hours—her breath finally steady, her body softening against mine, the worst of the panic fading into something quieter.
“I really do want to love the nursery,” she murmurs. “I want to walk in there and feel happy and safe and excited. I just…can’t yet.”
“That’s okay,” I say, brushing her hair off her cheek. “You don’t have to love it today. Or tomorrow. You can let us walk you through it.”
“Through the nursery?”
