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She tips her head to the side and searches my face. “What demons?”
I take a big, deep breath. “It’s a long story.”
“How long will it take to make dinner?”
Almost exactly as long as it takes for me to tell her about my parents, it turns out. She listens thoughtfully, not interjecting unless I trail off, and then she prompts me with a gentle question that gets me going again.
By the time I’m putting a plate in front of her, I feel both hollowed out, but also lighter than I’ve felt in a long time.
“What did your mother think about the empire you built?” Isabelle asks.
I laugh at myself, remembering. “She worried I wouldn’t ever have a family.”
“You didn’t plan on it.”
“No.” I can’t lie to her. I mean, Icouldlie. But I know what it would cost me. So I’m choosing to be fully honest. “Nothing about what we have is planned.”
She twirls her fork in her pasta, her face a study in concentration. “It’s understandable to be conflicted.”
“I’m not.” I lean in, putting my elbows on the island beside her. “You were a surprise, but a good one. So good I didn’t know how to ration myself. And the baby is the same way. I’m bowled over, but I’m delighted. When we finish with the personal shopping for you, we can have people bring us nursery furniture choices if you want.”
She laughs out loud, a peel of giggles that fills me with warmth. “That’s a little premature.”
“What’s the next step for your pregnancy, then? What do you need if not yet a nursery?”
She takes a bite, thinking. Then she shoves the plate at me. “I need you to eat some of this,” she says after finishing her mouthful. “I can’t eat this much.”
I take the fork and twirl my own big bite of pasta, showing her I can be whatever she needs.
It makes her smile, so I do it again.
As she watches me eat, her brows pull together adorably, and then she finally says, “Why didn’t you make your own plate?”
I swallow what’s in my mouth. “I thought I was too nervous to eat.”
“And now?”
“Turns out, you make me less nervous just by being you.”
She smiles, pleased, and I’m glad that was the right answer. She snags the plate back and takes two bites before leaning back in her chair. “I have an idea. For…a date?”
I straighten. “Anything. Name it. We can go to Paris. Or we could watch the sun rise over the Grand Canyon?”
That gets me another peel of glorious laughter. “A little closer than that.”
Fifteen minutes later,we’re standing in front of Bright Books for the second time in one day. It’s dark inside, no lights left on, and it feels like we’re doing something illicit even though Isabelle has the key I gave her clutched in her hand.
A much better idea for a first date than getting on my private jet and going somewhere over the top.
She opens the door and we step inside. I disarm the security system as she flicks on a flashlight she insisted on bringing.
“We could turn on the lights,” I say.
She sticks her tongue out. “This is more fun. Trust me.”
Oh, I do.
But I’m also worried she’ll trip on something and hurt herself.
