Page 192 of Slapshot Baby

"Already?"

"She's been here for ten minutes. She brought a bag the size of a suitcase."

"She's staying for four hours."

"The bag suggests she's prepared for a natural disaster."

He crosses the room and holds his hands out. The baby reaches for him immediately, fingers opening and closing.

He takes her. She grabs a fistful of his shirt collar and pulls herself against his chest, tucking her head under his chin. His hand covers her entire back.

"Hey." His voice drops to that low register he only uses with her. "Are you being difficult for your mother?"

"She tried to eat my jewelry."

He smiles. Not the quarter-smile he gives the rest of the world. The full one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes the broken nose look adoring. He presses his mouth against Elise's forehead and breathes her in.

I watch them for a moment too long. Because there's a small velvet feeling in my chest that I haven't gotten used to yet, and I'm not sure I want to get used to it. I'd rather keep it fresh.

Downstairs, Mira has spread the contents of her bag across the living room like a command center. Bottles, formula backup, diapers, two changes of clothes, a stuffed rabbit the baby ignores, and a binder.

"Is that a binder?" I say.

"It's a schedule. Feeding times, nap windows, temperature settings. I printed it in color."

"Mira, she's four months old. She doesn't have a schedule."

"Then we're going to introduce structure." She takes Elise from Kai. "Go. Eat food. Be adults. She'll be fine."

Elise grabs a fistful of Mira's dark hair and yanks.

Mira doesn't flinch. "We're going to have a great time."

Biscuit is curled on the couch, one eye open, watching the baby. Her tail wags once when Kai scratches behind her ear on his way to the door.

"If she cries for more than fifteen minutes, call me," I say.

"She won't cry."

"Mira."

"I’ll call you. Go."

In the car, I flip the visor down and check my lipstick. The emerald dress catches the streetlight. Kai pulls out of the driveway and I catch him glancing at me.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

“Of course, I am. Do you want me to do more than stare?”

His gaze drops to my mouth. His eyes move over the emerald silk dress I pulled from the back of my closet.

Heat curls up my neck. Seven months of living together and sleeping beside this man and having his baby and he can still make my skin flush with a sidelong look.

We drive to the restaurant on Fourth Street. It’s small and warm, amber light spilling from candle holders on each table, white cloth napkins, the smell of garlic and rosemary drifting from the kitchen. The waiter seats us in the back corner without asking.