Page 68 of The Trouble with Flings

My chest tightens again, but it doesn’t make it hard to breathe this time. It’s different, like it was in the doctor’s office when I heard the heartbeat.

“I’m not trying to push you.” His expression softens. “I just want to do right by you and our little bean.”

My eyes tear up, and I look away to regain control.

“Okay, no manuals,” he says gently, without any trace of spite or anger, and quietly closes the book.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and look at him. “No. You’re right. We should be prepared.”

“It’s overwhelming enough. I got excited and jumped the gun. I don’t want to pressure you.”

“You’re not. It’s okay, Fitz. Really. The tears are just hormones.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

He snatches three books off the shelf like a kid who was just told to pick three treats and puts them on top of the laundry tote.

I laugh. “Were you making a mental list of the ones you wanted?”

“Maybe,” he says innocently. “I didn’t exactly get much sleep last night.”

“You stayed up making a reading list?”

“Among other lists. Come on.” He picks up the laundry tote, and I follow him up to the register, floored that he’s already treating fatherhood like his new favorite hobby.

Chapter Eighteen

Fitz

Jennifer and I commandeered two washing machines at the laundromat, and we’re separating her clothes into lights and darks. “We should do three loads. Whites, lights, and darks,” I say, holding up her light green T-shirt.

“We’ll be here all day. All the washers are full.” She snags the shirt and puts it in with the whites. “Don’t overthink. If it’s super light, put it with whites.”

I hesitate. “That feels like a trap. I have two sisters. I know what happens if I ruin your favorite outfit.”

She puts another shirt in with the whites. “You do your sisters’ laundry?”

“No, but when we were younger, I tossed some of my mud-soaked clothes in with their whites, and I still haven’t lived it down.”

She smirks, eyes dancing with some kind of mischief. There’s a lightness to her this morning that I didn’t expect, and I can’t decide if I should admire it, worry about it, or be grateful for it.

“What’s that smirk for?” I ask.

“I’m just picturing you racing around in the mud, probably wrangling the other kids to keep them out of it, and tossing your dirty clothes into the already running washing machine so the good one doesn’t get in trouble.”

I grab her ribs, and she laughs, backing away. I sweep an arm around her, hauling her into my arms. “I wasn’t that good.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she teases.

I steal a kiss before she pulls away and goes back to sorting clothes.

“I’m impressed that you did your own laundry. I figured your family would have a domestic staff.”

I arch a brow. “Remember what I said about preconceived notions?”

“Oops,” she says lightly.