Page 66 of The Trouble with Flings

“You might think differently when I have more jiggle than wiggle.”

A low laugh rumbles out, and he hugs me, right there in the middle of the pickup area, where most everyone else is focused on their phones, and says, “I have news for you, wild girl. That little bean you’re carrying will most likely leave your body jiggling in places you’ve never jiggled before, and whether you jiggle, wiggle, or make the earth shake with every step, it’s not going to make me any less attracted to you.”

“All Frills No Rush!” the guy behind the counter calls out.

“That’s us,” Fitz says proudly, and retrieves our breakfast tray.

I reach for the laundry tote, but he says, “I’ve got it.”

We sit at a table by the windows, and he opens the pastry box. “These look mighty tasty.” He pushes the box a little closer to me.

I peer into the box, and he whips out his phone, taking a picture.

“Hey,” I complain. “A little warning would be nice.”

“Get used to it, wild girl. This is what people who are dating do.”

“They take pictures of pastries?” I ask.

“They take pictures when they’re in the moment, so they’ll always remember them. This is our first time at your favorite coffee shop, the morning after we found out we’re having a baby. That’s pretty momentous.”

I hadn’t thought about it that way, and I wonder what that says about me.

He glances at his phone with tremendous satisfaction. “Beautiful.”

I roll my eyes, and he turns the phone toward me. I study the picture of me peering into the box, my hair falling forward, looking far more interested than I care to admit.

“We’ll show this to our little bean one day, and I’ll say this is what your mother looks like when she’s weighing the jiggle consequences of pastries.”

I laugh softly. “You wouldn’t be wrong.”

He sets his phone down and reaches across the table, taking my hand. “Thanks for letting me crash your Saturday.” He glances around us, lingering on the dog at the next table before moving to the pictures on the walls. He lifts his chin. “Is that Robert De Niro in that picture?”

I turn, and for the first time, I really look at the pictures on the walls. They’re not just pictures of customers with dogs. They’re celebrities, and all of the pictures were taken in the café. I find the picture he’s referring to—the adorable one with Robert De Niro snuggling a cute chihuahua—and say, “I think so.”

How many times have I glanced at these pictures in passing, never stopping to truly see them? I’m always in such a rush, I miss the little things.

Across the table, Fitz sips his latte, his eyes crinkling at the corners as his fingers tighten around mine. He’s not a little thing. He’s the only person who has ever made me slow down enough to notice the world around me.

I pick up my coffee, but my attention lingers on him, searching for all the little things I don’t want to miss.

After breakfast we head for the laundromat a few blocks away. When we walk by a bookstore, Fitz says, “Hold on. We need books.” He’s carrying the tote in one hand and the pastry box in the other. He hands me the pastry box.

“Pastries and books? Now you’re just trying to weasel your way into my heart,” I tease.

“I’ve got news for you, wild girl,” he says as he opens the door. “I want more than your heart.”

As we head inside, I wonder if he’s talking about the little bean growing inside me or the body part that allowed our current situation to occur.

I have no idea how thinking about said little bean isn’t causing me to have a full-on panic attack, either, but it’s just floating around in my head, looking for a place to land.

The bookstore smells like old paper and cedar. The shelves run floor to ceiling with narrow passages between them barely wide enough for two people. I’ve never been in this bookstore, and now I have no idea why. I get a lot of hand-me-down romance novels from Mia and Jayla, and my parents pass their mysteries and thrillers on to me, but I like bookstores. There’s one close to the school that I go into sometimes.

“Good morning,” the woman behind the counter says as we walk in. There’s a fat orange tabby cat sleeping on a black velvet chair by the counter.

Fitz spots the cat and heads over to it. “Good morning. Who is this?” He motions to the cat.

“That’s Henrietta,” she says. “I wouldn’t suggest petting her. She’s a biter.”