“Make me a part of it. Share it. Please?”
“Okay.” I kissed her hair again, holding her for a few precious minutes. Then I stood from the bed, her dainty hand tucked firmly in my grasp. “Come on.”
Aria stood too. “Where are we going?”
“Dinner. Bed.”
“Not yet.” She dropped my hand to snake her arms around my waist. Her fingers dove into the back pockets of my jeans and she squeezed my ass. Hard. “Did you wear these jeans because you thought it would make me less angry at you?”
“Maybe. Did it work?”
She stood on her toes and her lips whispered across mine. “I guess you’ll find out when you take them off.”
Chapter Fourteen
Aria
“Courtland.”
“I will never, ever name my child Courtland.”
Brody frowned. “That was my great-uncle’s name.”
“Did you love and admire this uncle?”
“I didn’t really know him.”
“Then it’s a no.” I took a bite of my cheeseburger and scrolled down the list of names I’d been collecting on my phone. “Parry. Spelled with an a.”
“Meh.”
That made five in a row he’d nixed with a meh. Ben. David. Steven. Jacob. They’d been too plain. And now Parry. “Fine. Your turn.”
Brody and I had been making lists of baby names. We’d collect favorites throughout the week, then have lunch at the flower shop on Fridays to pitch them to each other. Today he’d come bearing cheeseburgers from the diner because it was the one craving I’d had consistently during the transition from the second trimester to the third.
In the past month, ever since I’d confided in Brody about my past, the two of us had settled into little routines, like this one. Dinner every evening. Breakfast after he’d worked out in the morning. Texts throughout the day to check in. Saturday night dates in the theater room. Anything to spend time together.
Today we were debating boy names. Next week, we’d start tackling the girl list.
“Adler,” he said.
I scrunched up my nose. “Adler?”
“It was my grandfather’s name.”
“It’s not awful. But it’s . . .”
“Pretentious?” Brody finished.
I pointed a finger at him. “Now you’re learning.”
He chuckled and wadded up the paper wrapper from his meal. “What if we can’t agree?”
“We have three months. I’m sure we’ll find one boy name and one girl name that we both like.”
“I think you underestimate our natural tendency to disagree.”
I giggled and tossed my napkin at his face.
The smile on his made my heart flip.
I’d seen that smile more in the past month than in all the years I’d known Brody. Even Clara had commented on how happy he was.
How happy we both were.
We bickered endlessly about stupid topics like nursery purchases and the BMW I wouldn’t drive. Every time I lifted an object weighing more than two pounds, Brody would scold me for five solid minutes.
The arguments, I was learning, were foreplay. Because by the time each day closed, we would be together, either in his bed or mine, and there was never any argument about ending the night naked and wrapped in each other’s arms.
“I brought cookies too.” Brody pulled another to-go container from the white paper sack on the table.
Before he’d arrived at noon, I’d cleared away the floral petals, leaves and discarded stems from the bouquet Marty had made for one of five deliveries we had today.
“Can I run an idea by you?”
“Of course,” he said.
“You have to promise not to run out and spend a bunch of money.”
He frowned. “Have I bought you anything extravagant lately?”
I tore off a chunk of cookie and popped it into my mouth. “This cookie is fairly extraordinary.”
He grinned. “Your idea.”
“Someday, in the distant future when I’m ready, I want to build a greenhouse. I love working with the flowers and making bouquets. It’s been an exciting change from what I did in Oregon, but I miss playing in the dirt. I can grow houseplants for the shop and maybe even expand to have annuals and perennials available to customers.”
“I like it. Whatever you set your mind to, I have complete faith you’ll make it a success.”
“Thank you.” I blushed and tore into the chocolate chip cookie, moaning as the sugary, buttery confection melted on my tongue. The greenhouse idea wouldn’t be anytime soon. I needed to save some money and get the shop turning a bigger profit, but someday, I wanted both.
“Marty’s going to have to run the shop this afternoon,” I said, devouring my cookie. “I’m going to be in a food coma.”
“I heard that.” Marty walked into the room with a grin on his face. “And I’ll allow an afternoon nap if you agree to call the Friday promotion Fresh Flower Friday.”
“Done.” I clapped. “Easy.”
That was my favorite name out of the options anyway. But if I could get a nap in on the gold velvet couch in the office, I was taking it.
“See how easily some people can agree on names?” I shot Brody a smirk.
He simply shook his head. “Eat your cookie.”
“Yes, sir.” I winked and took a huge bite to polish it off.
Fresh Flower Friday was going to be a new addition to Welcome Floral. We were going to rearrange a wall just inside the door. We’d add shelves to hold tin buckets. Then each Friday, we’d fill them with bundles of fresh flowers and offer them at cost.
The goal was to get people into the shop. For too long, Welcome Floral had survived on deliveries to area residents. That would always be our core business, but to expand, we needed foot traffic.
When John Doe drove home from work, we wanted him to stop here and grab a bundle for his wife, Jane, who’d had a long week. We wanted Jane to then come in and shop for a birthday gift for her mother.
Over the past month, we’d rearranged the shop. The tables had a better configuration to showcase not only the floral arrangements, but also the houseplants and knickknacks and gifts. The shabby-chic style had been toned down, the clutter cleared and the lights brightened to give the shop a clean and open look.
It still had charm and character. But individual pieces were given space so they could breathe. The layout didn’t overwhelm the eye, but showcased items so customers could appreciate the beauty of a clay planter or a lawn ornament or a succulent terrarium.
The door dinged, and when I made a move to stand, Marty held up a hand. “Sit. I’ve got the shop.”
“Thanks.” I smiled at his back as he disappeared from the workroom. Then I rubbed my belly. I might have gone too far with lunch. I was stretched tight. “Ready?”
Brody inched closer, putting both hands on my rounded stomach. After every meal, the baby would kick for a few minutes, sometimes longer. Brody was on a mission to feel as many as he could.
The black-and-white-striped tank top I’d worn this morning stretched tight across my abdomen. I’d finally had to give in and buy maternity jeans. Today I’d rolled up a dove-gray sweater and knotted it at my ribs, over the bump.