I close my eyes and snuggle into Roman’s embrace, listening to the beating of his heart. Sometimes the construction of the human body amazes me. The steady rhythm of this organ is keeping the man I love most alive and is also the sound that lulls me to sleep most nights. It’s a sound I pray I hear every night for the rest of my life.
“I’m fine, Roman,” I say in my most convincing voice. “Trust me, I would tell you if I was drowning.”
“Interesting that you use that word.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said that you’re drowning.”
“I said I would tell you if I was,” I annunciate my consonants to make a stronger point.
“Quiet,” he says, holding me tighter. “Just rest.”
My body curls into his, but my brain is moving a mile a minute. I can’t stop it if I wanted to. There are several more things I need to do before I can just rest, but I don’t feel like hearing any disapproving remarks about it. I need to pump my breasts, make some bottles for tomorrow with the milk, check some emails, wash off my makeup. Oh God, now that I think about it, I’ll be up for another two hours at this rate. He’ll be furious with me.
“Let’s get dinner this Friday.” Roman’s voice rumbles through his chest. “We haven’t had a date night in a while and Jade can book us something over at the new Italian place on Spring Avenue. It’s family friendly so we can take the little monster with us and then maybe take him to see our bench in the park afterward?”
Roman’s family date night suggestion reminds me of why I am in love with this man. He knows me so well and takes such good care of me. I’d love a night out that includes both of my favorite guys. I lean back so I can look at him in the eyes when I tell him just how much I love his idea, but he holds me, continues to hold me firmly by my torso to his chest.
“Don’t move.”
He pivots and lounges back on the sofa and pulls me down with him. As I lie on top of him, he runs his hands up and down my back. The beating of his heart sounds even stronger in this position and is almost hypnotic.
“Mmm.”
My eyelids flutter shut as Roman lightly massages me into a deep, relaxed state. Maybe some things I was going to do tonight can wait. There’s always tomorrow.
“Let’s hire a full-time nanny,” Roman says.
My eyes pop immediately back open.
“We have a sitter.”
“You use her sparingly. Let’s get someone full time.”
“You know I don’t want to do that. It’s bad enough we have a cleaning lady too.”
“But we can afford it, Duchess.”
Sometimes it bothers me when Roman uses the word we about his money. I never thought I’d be so sensitive about our financial situation, but I guess I want financial independence more than I thought I would. It’s not that Roman ever makes me feel that I have less of a say because he makes most of the money, but I am naturally prone to letting him have his way with buying decisions because it is his money. It drives me crazy that I feel this way, which is the very reason why I need to rectify it by generating my own income.
“You can afford to buy a private jet too, but that doesn’t mean you should buy one.”
There’s a brief and uncomfortable silence between us. Hiring someone full time has been a long-standing point of contention since my pregnancy that we will never see eye to eye on. He thinks it’s ridiculous that I won’t accept any help with Knox, and I think it would admit weakness if I do. I don’t need or want someone else raising my child. I can raise Knox and grow a business without full-time help. Women all over the globe do it every day, so why can’t I?
“If I thought buying a jet would be a wise investment, freeing up some of my time, improving my overall health, then I would buy one.”
“Then you’d be an idiot,” I say. “It’s an unnecessary extravagance that only speaks to your privilege.”
I roll myself off of Roman’s body and he releases his arms, allowing me to do so. The turn in the conversation ruined the mood for both of us. Calling him an idiot is tantamount to calling him stupid, which is something he’s never much cared for.
I leave the room and go check on Knox. He’s lying in the crib wide awake playing with one of his crib toys, and when he notices me leaning over the railing a smile brightens his face.
“Hey, peanut.”
I pick him up and we sit together in the glider that my parents gifted us. The chair didn’t exactly match the natural colors of the nursery decor, but Sloan recovered the cushions to make it work and now it’s my favorite piece in the room.
I’m grateful that Knox is hungry because my breasts are swollen with milk and I need to relieve them. As I nurse him, I close my eyes and attempt to hum a song from my childhood, but it ends up turning into the theme song of a television show.
Sing me a song.
Of a lass, that is gone.
Say could that lass be, aye.
I’m a mess. I can’t even get a lullaby right. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m so bad at this or the fact that Roman and I just had a disagreement, but a feeling of sadness overwhelms me and tears roll down the side of my face.
I don’t actually see when he approaches the room, but I can feel his presence just the same. Roman is standing in the doorway, looking pensively down at the two of us.
“I’m sorry,” I say without looking up at him. “You’re not an idiot.”
“You’re crying,” he observes.
“I hate it when we argue.”
“Then don’t argue with me, Duchess.”
“I’m not getting a nanny and that’s my last word on it.”
He watches the two of us for another quiet moment.
“Get some sleep,” he says.
The next thing I hear is the front door slamming shut.
5
ROMAN
I scoop a forkful of Juliette’s homemade pot pie inside of my mouth and revel in the taste as I bite into a tender piece of chicken. Joseph must have saved humanity in a past life, because in this life his beautiful wife cooks him extraordinary dinners from scratch almost every night. Tonight it’s comfort food. Another night it might be a lobster boil. The old man has always been a lucky bastard.
“How’s the crust, sweetie?” Juliette asks, as if there was any other answer but damn good.
“Delicious.”
My woman is many things, but a wizard in the kitchen is not one of them. That’s why I occasionally sneak back here around seven in the evening, because I’m almost guaranteed something delicious is cooking inside or on top of the stainless-steel Viking Range I bought Juliette for Christmas three years ago.
“I should teach you how to make it. Have you ever thought about learning how to cook?”
Imagine me cooking a pot pie from scratch. Not even Mr. Tibbs would want to taste a scoop of that disaster.
“This is becoming a dangerous habit,” Joseph comments as he walks into the kitchen.
“Be nice, Joseph.” Juliette glides her hand along Joseph’s chest and then steps out of the room.
“What’s become a dangerous habit?” I ask as I continue to chew.