Page 45 of Pregnant in Plaid

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I close the book carefully and set it down.

He's actually preparing. Not just going through motions or playing house. He's taking this seriously.

Taking us seriously.

The baby does a flip. I press my palm flat where it's rolling around. "Yeah, yeah. I know. He's stupidly perfect."

"Talking to yourself?"

I jump. Trace stands in the kitchen doorway, two mugs in hand. "Talking to the baby," I correct. "It's judgmental this morning."

"About?"

"You." I hold up the book. "You made notes."

He sets the mugs down, looking embarrassed. "Yeah, well. Seemed important."

"It is." My voice comes out softer than I mean it to. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Caring."

He sits on the opposite end of the couch, handing me a mug. Hot chocolate, not coffee. With tiny marshmallows.

"I thought pregnant women weren't supposed to have caffeine," he says at my raised eyebrow.

"We can have some. Just not excessive amounts."

"Right. Well. This is safer."

I take a sip. It's perfect. Sweet but not too sweet, exactly how I like it. "How did you know?"

"You made it this way yesterday. I paid attention."

Of course he did.

The baby kicks hard, and I wince.

"You okay?"

"It's awake. And active." I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't feel like I'm being used as a punching bag from the inside. "This is the morning workout routine."

"Can I—" He stops, uncertain.

"Feel?"

He nods.

I should say no. This is already too intimate, too comfortable. But the hopeful look on his face kills me.

"Sure."

He moves closer, and I guide his hand to where the baby's currently practicing kickboxing. His palm is warm through my shirt.

The baby kicks, hard.

His whole face lights up. "Whoa."

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