Page 2 of Birthday Kisses

I shake my head. He knows that’s my favorite but… “I need to still lose a few pounds.”

He rises from the chair and comes to me, wrapping his arms around me so the two of us are surrounding Willow. “I like you curvy.”

“I was already curvy. Now my boobs are enormous.” I am softly wailing, but I only complain to him.

“You’re feeding our child. Of course, they are.” His gaze drops to my chest, which is straining the front of my sweatshirt that used to fit perfectly fine before I was pregnant. “Stop being so hard on yourself. And it’s almost your birthday. You deserve French toast.”

“Fine.” I give in because arguing with Crew about things like this is pointless. He always gets his way. Not that I don’t benefit from it.

I settle at our table and hold Willow while Crew moves about the kitchen, making us breakfast. I never would’ve imagined this would be our life, but it is. The two of us married with our first child, living in a small apartment on the Upper West Side. And when I say small, I’m referring to Lancaster standards, because his family owns some of the biggest apartments I’ve ever seen in the city. Their real estate holdings are vast and impressive.

One of Crew’s great aunts who never had children died a few years ago, right after our wedding, and she left her apartment to us. It was an unexpected and wonderful gesture, and while Crew’s brothers—who are both in real estate—tried their best to get us to sell the place, thanks to the prices in the neighborhood being the highest they’ve ever been, we refused.

Instead, we had it gently renovated, bringing it up to modern standards without taking away any of its charm. It was built in the late 1800s, and the moment I entered the apartment, I turned to my husband with so much hope in my gaze, he began to laugh.

“You want to keep it.” He didn’t even bother asking. He just knew.

Nodding, I went to him and threw my arms around his neck, kissing him soundly on the lips. “Yes, please.”

We’ve made it ours. His brothers think we’re crazy for wanting to stay in such a small apartment, but I love it. It’s cozy and warm and every time I walk through the front door, it just feels so right. There are three bedrooms, which is plenty of room for us but someday, we’re going to have more children. We’ll eventually run out of room.

I can’t bear the idea of moving from here.

I’m so lost in my thoughts it takes my daughter to grab hold of a strand of hair and yank it hard to pull me from my reverie. I yelp and the naughty little girl laughs.

Actually laughs.

“She’s more Lancaster than I thought,” I murmur to my husband, who only flashes me a helpless grin over his shoulder before he resumes his cooking duties.

Wouldn’t the girls—and the guys—of Lancaster Prep fall out of their chairs if they knew the all-mighty leader of our class had become completely domesticated? I don’t take full responsibility for this change. My husband enjoys spending time in our home. Renovating it. Finding art to hang on the walls…

A horrible scent hits my nose at the exact moment our beautiful little daughter passes gas, which of course, makes her laugh again.

“I can smell that,” Crew says as he cracks eggs into a bowl.

“I should probably go change her.” Rising to my feet, I hold Willow closer and shuffle out of the kitchen, heading to her bedroom.

The moment I walk into her room, I’m calm, a smile curling my lips for no reason other than I love it in here. The walls and drapes are cream. The crib is the palest pink, and there’s a giant stuffed pink bear sitting in the rocking chair, his face covered in lipstick kisses.

Crew found that for me. Just like he found the art hanging on the wall of our daughter’s bedroom. When I first asked to move the piece into her room, Crew appeared concerned.

“Are you sure you want it in there?”

My nod was firm. No way could he convince me it was a bad idea. “I’ll be in that room a lot. I want to stare at the piece every chance I get.”

Crew made sure to hang my favorite work of art on the wall that’s opposite of where I sit in the rocking chair with our daughter. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I’ll crack open the curtains and let the streetlight shine into her room. It casts the piece in a beam of golden light, letting me stare at it almost dreamily while I rock and nurse Willow.

Anytime I look at A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime, my head is filled with the romantic moments Crew and I have shared. All of the things he’s done for me. All of the lipsticks that still take up most of the drawers in my vanity table. The pink Chanel bag I still carry to this day, though he’s purchased me others since then.

My husband is very generous. And handsome. And sexy. While I’m not feeling particularly sexy lately, he still makes me feel wanted. Cherished. I still get butterflies when I first see him, even just now when he was cooking in the kitchen, I couldn’t help but admire the smooth expanse of his back. The perfect swell of his butt beneath those pajama bottoms.

I’ve got Willow changed and back into her jammies when Crew appears in her bedroom doorway, a spatula still clutched in his hand.

“Breakfast is ready.” He grins, his gaze on our daughter and not me.

I fight the disappointment that threatens. While I know my husband loves me, I still struggle just the tiniest bit with not getting all of his attention. Which makes me sound like a spoiled brat, especially because I dote on Willow just as much as Crew does.

But it’s almost Christmas. And my birthday. I’d like my husband to focus on me.

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