But these are not thoughts for this moment as Roman’s shoes echo against the kitchen floor, crossing almost silently onto the living room carpet.
“I brought your wine in.”
“Great!” I look up, my answer sounding shrill rather than bright. “Take a seat, and I’ll bring these over. Just give me a minute.”
As I pull the first stack of baby albums to my knee, the glasses clink against the coffee table, signalling that Roman has chosen the couch. I tip my forehead to the stack and swallow a groan. Bad enough sitting across from him but next to him?
Big girl panties, Kennedy. Pull ’em up. Girl boss shields: engaged.
“Here you go.” I make as though to drop the pile to his knee when his fingers loop my wrist.
“Stay and look at them with me? Please?”
At the pleading in his voice, I raise my eyes from his battered watch. Blue eyes. Shy smile. Tummy squirms. Okay, those are mine. With a nod, I take a seat to next to him, but not too close. Because he smells too good.
“Here.” He leans forward, and I can’t help but notice how the sleeve of his T-shirt tightens on his bicep and how his strong forearms are dusted with dark hair. He retrieves both glasses, pressing one into my hand before sliding his arm along the couch back and—kill me now—scooting closer. “I can see better from here,” he adds with a quick smile. But seeing isn’t all he can do from this distance. Our thighs almost flush, I expect he can literally feel me trembling.
“So.” I swallow and try to concentrate on the matter at hand, sliding my fingertips over the embossed title. Welcome to the World, Baby. I feel mildly unnerved as I slip my index finger under the cover.
“New baby Wilder.” Roman’s voice is warm and full of wonder.
I nod. “Though he didn’t have a name at that point.”
“How did you choose his name?”
“Holland came up with it.” My gaze meets his before darting away again. Those blue eyes are kind of intense. “When I found out I was having a boy, Holland decided letting her choose his name was the least I owed her. It had always been just us girls up until then.” Me and Holland. Nana. Sometimes Mom. “Not that she wasn’t excited,” I remember with a smile. “But it wasn’t until later that I realised she’d chosen it because of Laura Ingalls Wilder.” Puzzlement flickers across his unfairly handsome face. “Little House on The Prairie?” I prompt. “Those were her favourite books.”
“Oh, right,” he says with a nod that’s not convincing to either of us. “I grew up with the opposite. A houseful of boys. I’m surprised we didn’t drive our parents crazy.”
“I can only imagine.”
“Wait until you meet them. You’ll wish you stuck at imagining.” A hint of chagrin passes over his features. “I think Wilder is a good name, for what it’s worth.”
“Yeah, I like it. I’m glad it stuck, though Holland usually calls Wilder rug rat, which he loves . . . not a whole lot.”
“Nicknames.” He grins, and we both remember, but we’re not going there. “She chose good. It’s a strong name. Strong. Wilder James Harper. I’m guessing you kept your name,” he says with a quirk of his lips, another from the fathomless store of his smiles.
“Guess we’ll have to add your name to his.”
“Yeah?”
“Not right away,” I add quickly. “First things first.” I flip the page, and we both gaze down at the tiny bundle in the acrylic crib, and I swallow the words I was about to speak. Right after we see about a divorce.
“Look at him.” Roman’s whisper is so awe-filled that I can barely look at him. Instead, I use the moment to revisit my infant son. It all seems so far away, yet also like yesterday as I was handed this tiny bundle with a shock of dark hair and such knowing eyes. In the photograph, a tiny blue beanie covers his tuft of hair, and though someone has tried to swaddle him, he’s wriggled his little fists free.
“Where are you in this one?” Roman’s eyes flick to mine. “Do you have any of the two of you?”
“They’re only available for private viewing.”
“What’s more private than just the two of us?”
I shake my head and add, “Believe me, I was not at my best. And neither was Wilder. I was swollen and red from the drugs, and he was unhappy and gloopy . . . neither were good looks. So moving swiftly on!” I point at the opposite page at the picture there.
“I bet you were gorgeous when you were pregnant.”
I cough out a laugh and take a swallow of my wine, telling myself I just imagined his low tone. “I looked like a Q-tip where the cotton had shifted.” Best not to mention the abundance of boob and how sad I was to see them go. They went. Literally.