Page 67 of The Trouble with Flings

He flashes that charming grin and says, “I can be that way, too. Where can we find your pregnancy and parenting books?”

I choke on my breath and cover my mouth, coughing.

“You okay?” Fitz asks, rubbing my back.

“Yes, sorry.”

The woman directs us to the back corner of the store. As we make our way there, I try to shake off my shellshock. “Pregnancy and parenting?” I ask quietly as we come to the modest section.

“I need to know how to support you through this pregnancy, and I’ve never been a dad before. I want to make sure I know what I’m doing.”

I can’t help but swoon at that, but as I scan the titles—What to Expect When You’re Expecting, The Baby Book, Fatherhood for Beginners—my fight-or-flight response kicks in. This is happening so fast. I try to rein in that fear.

“What’s our strategy?” Fitz scans the shelves like he’s studying for the biggest test of his life. “Do we start with the classics or go straight for the what-to-expect stuff? Pregnancy, newborns, sleep training—”

“We are thinking none of the above,” I say. “People have been having babies for thousands of years without handbooks.”

He puts down the laundry tote, pulls out a book, and flips it open. “People have also been assembling furniture wrong for thousands of years, and now we have manuals. That’s progress.”

I bite back a smile. “Did you just compare our child to a bookshelf?”

“No,” he says, completely serious. “A bookshelf is easier.”

A half laugh slips out.

His gaze flicks over to me, and he smiles like my laugh was the goal all along. His expression softens. “Hey, it’s okay to be nervous.” He reaches for my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “We don’t have to buy anything today. Let’s just look.”

I exhale, some of the pressure easing from my chest.

He squeezes my hand, then releases it to look through the book he’s holding. After a minute, he exchanges it for The Expectant Mother, and flips through that one, scanning the pages. “This says your body is about to become a science experiment you didn’t sign up for.”

“That’s not helping.” I reach for a book with a pretty blue cover. Mindful Pregnancy. “This one looks less terrifying.”

Fitz leans in, his shoulder brushing mine as he scans the cover. “Mindful, huh? Are we supposed to meditate our way through labor?”

“I don’t know,” I say, turning a page, trying to keep my wayward emotions in line while they try to swoon over his use of we. As if he’s going to endure labor pains with me? “But it’s got to be better than the one you have that says my body will never be the same.”

He winces. “Yeah, this one’s going back.” He swaps it for another book. “This one has a five-star rating on the front cover. We have to get it.”

“Fitz, you’re picking a parenting book like you’re choosing a restaurant.”

“Exactly,” he says. “High ratings, good reviews, minimal risk of disaster.”

I shake my head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re smiling,” he points out. “Admit it, you like my ridiculousness.”

“I like your something,” I say, but he’s right. I am smiling, and that’s the thing about Fitz. Despite being overwhelmed and scared, he makes this feel almost manageable and kind of fun.

That’s what makes my stomach drop. Not the fear of pushing a baby the size of a watermelon out of my body but of being tricked into letting my guard down and realizing too late it was a mistake. The thought makes my chest constrict.

“Hey, come here,” he says gently.

I didn’t realize he was watching me. “I’m okay.”

“Just come here.” He reaches for my hand, and I step closer.

He slides his arm around my waist, holding me against his side, and hell if that doesn’t take the edge off. “Check this out. Week by week.” He holds open the book, showing me illustrations that look like our sonogram photos. “This one is twelve weeks.”