Page 115 of The Trouble with Flings

“I told you Mr. Whitlock was talented. He made most of my parents’ furniture, including the crib they used for all of us.”

“And he’s still at it?” she asks with shock. “How old is he?”

“I don’t know. Late seventies, maybe.”

“I guess he’s never heard of retirement,” she whispers.

“When you love what you do, why stop?”

“I guess you have a point,” she says. “But all jobs come with stress. I know you love what you do, but don’t you ever dream of walking away from the stress of it?”

I think about that for a minute. “Not really. I’m sure one day I’ll do what my father is doing and ease out of it when someone I trust takes over, but I don’t dream of that day.”

“That’s probably because you don’t have to work. You choose to.” She says it without bitterness or jealousy. “It’s different when you have to work to keep food on the table and a roof over your head.” She wanders toward a bookshelf built from reclaimed wood, her expression thoughtful. “I can barely remember a time when I wasn’t working to earn something. Money for a school dance or for college tuition, books, rent.”

My chest tightens. She’s not complaining. Jennifer would never complain. If anything, she sounds detached from it, like hard work settled into her bones so early, she never questioned it.

I look at her standing there in the middle of the showroom, beautiful and capable and completely unaware of how fiercely I want to give her the chance to step back. I know that’s not what she wants. She’d lose a piece of herself without having goals to chase and making a difference in kids’ lives. She’s not built to drift through life spending someone else’s money, waiting to be entertained, and that’s not what I want to give her. I want to give her freedom from the constant pressure of the uncertainty I know she carries. What if something happens and she loses her job or gets hurt? How will she maintain this beautiful life she’s built?

I slide my hand along her back and say, “For what it’s worth, I admire your unstoppable nature and the life you’ve built.”

She glances up at me, her brow furrowed.

“I mean it. A lot of people inherit money and mistake it for capability and power, when none of it is earned. You earn yours every day. You should be proud of yourself.”

“I am,” she says confidently.

“Good girl.” I lean down to kiss her and then whisper, “I also think you deserve a life where everything doesn’t rest solely on your shoulders. A life where it’s okay to step back when you need a breather without giving up yourself or all that you’ve worked for.”

She looks at me like no one has ever offered her that before. Not money. Not comfort. Not rescue. Relief.

Her eyes soften first, all that quick wit and careful composure easing just enough for me to see what’s underneath it—the exhaustion of someone who’s spent her whole life bracing for the next bill, the next responsibility, the next thing that might fall apart if she stops holding it together.

And then she looks at me like she wants to believe me. Like some small, guarded part of her is stepping forward despite every reason not to, drawn to the possibility of putting some of that weight down for once. Not because she expects me to carry her but because she’s starting to understand that I would, happily, without making her feel small for needing it.

There’s gratitude in her expression, but it’s the trust beginning to thread through it that hits me the hardest. The rare vulnerability of a woman who’s so used to being capable that the idea of someone wanting to stand beside her instead of looming over her still catches her off guard.

That look levels me.

Because I don’t just want to take care of her when things go wrong or get too heavy. I want to become the person she calls first and the shoulder she rests on when things go right.

Her shoulders draw back, and I feel her reeling in those emotions. I don’t want her to feel pressure or ever have to choose between coming across as capable and strong and trusting me. She’ll only ever be those things in my eyes, so I shatter the need for her to choose by taking her hand and saying, “Let’s head upstairs. That’s where they have bedroom furniture.”

She exhales with relief, and we make our way upstairs, into a room full of nursery furniture. Several cribs line the walls. Free of fancy bedding and other extras, the beauty of the cribs is left to sell themselves. There are traditional cribs in rich cherry, mahogany, and oak, with smooth lines and classic spindles, and modern cribs that appear lighter in build and color, with flat slats and curved end boards. Then there are the showstoppers. The cribs that are marked as one of a kind, made with breathtaking detail.

One crib in particular must have been designed with me and Jennifer in mind, because we’re both moving toward it. It’s a masterpiece of craftmanship in antique ivory, with classic spindles and arched end boards. The end boards are inlaid with finely woven caning with a decorative arched border draped with swags of carved ivy that are delicate, strong, and a little magical. The crib has a permanency to it, like an heirloom piece you treasure and pass down to your grandchildren.

Jennifer’s expression melts into one of wonder. She reaches out to touch the crib, but her fingers hover just above it, like she’s afraid to touch it. I imagine that’s what she looked like as a little girl dreaming of whatever caught her eye, before she realized how hard she’d have to work to obtain those things. Right then I know that’s the crib we’re buying.

“Fitz,” she says, a little awestruck. “Look at this one.”

“It’s timeless,” I say. “Perfect for a boy or a girl.”

“It says it’s one of a kind.” She reaches for the price tag. “It probably costs a fortu—” She drops the tag like she’s been burned and stumbles backward, right into me. “Are they crazy?” she whispers harshly. “That costs more than my college tuition.”

I chuckle. “It does not.”

“That’s not the point. It’s way too much.”