Page 105 of The Trouble with Flings

My heart races, my mind juggling the way he treated me like a queen in his private oasis that very first night, making me feel safe and wanted, and the fact that he was thinking about his future in such detail at twenty-five, much less how he’d treat his future wife. A thread of jealousy snakes through me. How many women has he pampered in here?

His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “Are you okay?”

“Mm-hm. I was just remembering that night.”

A slow grin curves his lips. “That was a special night. We christened this room.”

“I’m sure we weren’t the first” comes out before I can check it.

“Actually, we were,” he says casually. “I learned early on not to bring temporary people into my permanent spaces. I made that mistake before I built this house and had a couple of clingers. After that I kept it simple. I’d go to wherever they were staying, or we wouldn’t hook up.”

It takes me only seconds to pick that apart. “But you brought me here that night.”

“Yes, and I’m sure you’re thinking I’m full of shit, but I assure you I’m not. I broke that rule exactly once. When we met, something about you and our connection made the rule feel irrelevant.”

I get goose bumps remembering the jolt I felt the moment our eyes connected and how I couldn’t look away from him. But I went into that tryst thinking it was just that and doing my best to deny the emotions that hit too hard and fast to be real. The idea that he not only felt something similar but embraced it bowls me over. It’s no wonder he made me feel so safe and seen that night, but my fucking insecurities, that fear of the other shoe dropping, push “Why?” out of my mouth. “What was it specifically that made you believe I was worthy of being here?”

“I’ve asked myself that a hundred times, and the truth is, I can’t pinpoint any one thing. As I’m sure you know by now, I’m not an impulsive person, but I also don’t ignore my instincts, and that night I had the overwhelming sense that we were going to be more than a fling. And I was right.” He lifts my hand, kissing the back of it in that intimate way that feels like it’s ours. “Ready for the rest of your tour?”

I’m still reveling in his certainty, but I nod, curious to see the rest of his lair.

He shows me two spacious guest rooms, beautifully decorated with understated elegance, private baths, and gorgeous views of the water. When he opens the last door, it’s a third guest room, similar to the others, but this one has a cozy window seat.

“This is the room I want to make into a nursery for our little bean,” he says, following me in. “I thought the window seat would be nice for late-night feedings or reading to the baby.”

He says it in the same simple way he spoke about his bathroom. That’s one of the things about Fitz that keeps catching me off guard. Whether he’s holding doors open, complimenting me as a principal, making me feel safe, or talking about the resort like it’s a living thing, a member of his community, he doesn’t do or say things to be noticed or commended. He does them because he long ago decided what kind of person, what kind of friend, partner, businessman, father, and husband he wanted to be, and it isn’t just a goal. It’s who he is at his core.

“A nursery?” I say with awe, noticing several paint swatches taped to the wall by the windows. Pastel green, blush pink, light blue, butter yellow, light coral, and soft lavender. I think about the lack of anything that says baby in my apartment and feel another flutter of guilt.

I turn to look at him, and what I see over his shoulder steals my breath.

On top of the dresser is the sonogram picture I gave him the night I told him I was pregnant. It’s framed by a white mat that has little bean in one of those fonts that has a long tail on the first L in little and the N in bean. The I is dotted with a tiny lavender heart, matching the lavender frame. My emotions whirl.

He follows my gaze, and his lips curve up. “I had to put it some place nobody would see it until after we tell everyone we’re pregnant. Then it’s going on the mantel.”

My throat thickens.

Before I can find my voice, he says, “I thought after we have breakfast at Keira’s café tomorrow, we could head to Seaport. There’s a craftsman there who makes the most beautiful furniture on the island. I thought we could check out his nursery furniture.”

I get teary eyed and look away.

“Shit,” he grits out. “It’s too much too fast. Forget I said anything.”

“No,” I say quickly. “It’s not that.” I’m breathing too fast, my eyes are blurry, and with my heart in my throat, the truth tumbles out. “It’s just that you’re so much better at this than I am. You’re already thinking about a nursery and midnight feedings, and I’m just trying to hold my shit together and not be a jerk because of my past. When is the other shoe going to drop?”

His expression softens, and he steps closer. “There’s not going to be any shoe dropping.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can, because I know myself.” He cradles my face in his hands, brushing away the tears slipping down my cheeks, and gazes deeply into my eyes. “I know this is all happening fast, but I want this, Jen. All of it. I’m excited about the baby, and I’m excited about us, and that’s not going to change. Not today, not tomorrow, and not as you grow round with our baby and earn stretchmarks and whatever else women worry about. All of that will only make you more beautiful in my eyes.”

Emotions clog my throat.

“So, please, do us both a favor, and take that for granted. Know that I’ve been all in since day one, and my feelings have only gotten stronger. You can look for cracks in everything I say, or you can take a giant leap of faith and believe in me. Or even better, believe in yourself,” he says firmly. “Because you are a remarkable woman, and you deserve to have a man who is completely and utterly obsessed with you.”

“Okay,” I choke out.

“Okay?” he asks.