And I’m so curious to know what it feels like to have an ally by my side for a long night of parenting, to see if it’s as nice as I’ve always thought it would be.
“We’ll try it,” I add, “but only on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You let me help you with something while we’re here, too. I don’t like to take without giving.”
He nods. “All right. Assuming I need help, I’ll ask for it.”
“But you probably shouldn’t let me cook,” I say, holding up a finger. “Except things that contain sugar.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know how to cook.”
“I know how to cook,” I say, adding in a mumble, “Foods that contain sugar.”
He grins. “But you work for a catering business.”
“I’m the pastry chef and baker. I paste and bake and put icing on things in a pretty way, I don’t cook-cook.”
“No home-cooked meals,” he says, shaking his head with a sigh of mock disappointment. “What kind of fake wife are you?”
“The fake kind,” I tease in a voice that’s far too flirty for my own good.
But Nash doesn’t seem to mind.
“But I can help you put on ten to fifteen pounds of cupcake and homemade cherry pie weight,” I add. “If you’re interested.”
“I’m very interested.” His gaze locks with mine, making me keenly aware of the less than one foot of space that separates us, and how nice it feels to be teasing instead of fighting.
It’s only our first night, and already it’s clear how easy it would be to get used to this. To get used to him.
I’m going to have to start going to bed when Felicity does and limiting my Nash exposure as much as possible, or I’m going to be in big trouble.
“Worrying again?” he murmurs.
“How can you tell?”
“Your eyes get cloudy and sad. Which is a shame. You have beautiful eyes, the prettiest I’ve ever seen.”
I glance down at the counter, my cheeks heating. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Nash says before draining his beer with one final swallow and pushing away from the counter. “We should get some sleep so we’ll be ready when Felicity is. I’ll grab my toothbrush from the master and use the half bath for now.”
“Okay,” I say, sad that our grown-up time is ending so soon, though I know it’s for the best. “Should I come wake you when Felicity gets up?”
“I’ll wake up on my own,” he says as he circles around me and heads toward the bedroom. “I’m a light sleeper.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, doubting I’ll be sleeping much at all, not with half-dressed Nash just a room away, waiting to get up and rub my back when Felicity starts crying.
I wonder if he meant that back rubbing thing literally…
“Guess I’ll find out in a few hours,” I whisper as I flick off the kitchen light and go to get ready for my first night’s sleep as Mrs. Nash Geary.
I’m exhausted by the stress of the day and a restless night last night, but still, I lie awake for hours in Nash’s enormous bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
Or maybe…the smartest.
Chapter Fourteen
Nash
It’s all fun and games until a screaming banshee keeps you awake for several days straight.
By Tuesday morning I have dark circles under my eyes, by Wednesday I’m yawning through my morning staff meeting, and by Thursday I’m second-guessing the Mee-maw method, sleep-training in general, and every parenting instinct earned through years of helping take care of babies.
Felicity is not a normal infant.
She’s as determined as a beagle after table scraps, filled with an unholy midnight hunger, and every bit as stubborn as her mother. By day, she’s sweet-tempered and charming, but by night she’s a hellion with an eardrum-piercing wail that I’m betting has every dead person within a ten-mile radius rolling over in their graves.
Aria wasn’t kidding about her daughter’s cry. It is blood-curdling, and back-rubbing does nothing to calm her down. In fact, it only seems to enrage her even more.
For the past five nights, Aria and I have spent the better part of the witching hours wincing and cringing as we stand guard by Felicity’s crib, taking turns rubbing the baby’s back as she wails and moans and cusses us in a baby-language all her own.
Raleigh—who is both thrilled and outraged that I not only eloped, but also refuse to bring my new wife over to meet the family until we have her daughter sleeping through the night—said to give it seven full nights before throwing in the towel, but I’m on the verge of sending up the white flag of surrender.
Listening to Felicity cry until her tiny face turns purple with rage night after night is hard on my head, and even harder on my heart.
As for Aria…
Well, the poor woman is a wreck. Her skin looks bruised beneath her eyes, she’s lost at least five pounds she couldn’t afford to lose, and her hands shake as she bustles around the kitchen making coffee in the mornings.