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“Not now,” I reply softly. “I want to do things right this time.”

She stares at me. The crosses the room and joins me in bed without another word.

I pull her into my arms and kiss her hair. “We’ll use condoms until you’re on something. I’ll set an alarm for the pharmacy tomorrow and get a box so big it’s embarrassing. And if you want me to sleep on the edge of the bed until you aren’t pissed, I will.”

“Don’t you dare.” She wraps herself around me so that I can’t move.

“For the record,” I murmur into her hair, “that was the best sex of my life, and I still should have pulled out, and I am sorry I made you run to the bathroom on our first night. Next time I’ll have more condoms than the student health clinic at the University of Miami.”

She scoffs. “Next time.”

“Yeah. Next time. We’ve got a lot of those now.”

Chapter twenty-six

Blaire

Theo is four today.

Four.

I woke up this morning sobbing into Simon’s shoulder about it.

Not cute little sniffles, either. Actual tears soaking into his T-shirt while he rubbed my back and tried not to laugh at me as I rambled about how I couldn’t believe how big our little baby had gotten. I cried while we started pulling decorations out of bags. Cried about how perfect he is. How smart he is. How I would be his mom in every lifetime. How I can’t imagine a version of my life where he isn’t in it.

Then the kid actually woke up.

Theo has always been a yapper, but apparently turning four unlocks an entirely new level of chatter that nobody warned me about in the parenting books or child development classes.

“Theodore.” I glance over my shoulder.

His hand is frozen around the refrigerator handle.

“I’m thirsty,” he says innocently.

“The juice is for your party. You can have water right now.”

God help me, he has Simon’s exact expression when he’s disappointed.

“No.” I repeat.

Theo groans long and theatrically, letting his forehead thunk against the refrigerator door.

He’s not even dressed yet. Still wearing nothing but the boxers he sleeps in. He used to wear actual pajamas—at least at my house he did. Apparently with Simon he sleeps in just boxers like a “big boy” does. Like Simon does.

Like Daddy.

Speaking of Daddy—

Foil crinkles behind me.

I slowly turn. “Simon Crane.”

His eyes flick up to mine. “What?”

“You’re supposed to be getting him dressed and going to the store. Not encouraging thievery.”

“I was just—“