Page 135

“Oof. This one. This is it.”

Wes stands nearby, arms folded. “You said that about the last three.”

“Yeah, but this one’s got heft, Wes. This couch could hold secrets.”

“I hate that I know what you mean.”

I slide off and jog to the next one, sprawling out like I’m fainting in a Victorian novel. “This one’s too hard.”

“You’re scaring the employees.”

“You should see how I test mattresses.”

That gets a smile.

“Pervert,” I mumble under my breath.

I pop up again and beeline for the next option—a big, overstuffed, glorious L-shaped couch that looks like it belongs under my ass.

I drop onto it like it’s calling to my soul. “This. Is. It.”

“Are you sure?”

I’m never sure about anything. “Nope.”

He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Grant me patience.”

“Okay, Mister Tasteful, show me what you like.”

He points to a sleek, modern, angular white couch with the personality of an Apple store. “That one.”

“You have a toddler. You want her crawling across that thing with Nutella fingers and leaky sippy cups? It’ll be brown in a week.”

“She’s clean,” he argues weakly.

“She tried to brush Milo’s teeth with barbecue sauce yesterday.”

He throws his head back with a groan. “Damn it.”

We compromise on a dark gray L-shaped sectional that hits the sweet spot between functional and not hideous. I bounce on it one last time for good measure.

Wes sighs. “You’re the reason furniture stores have security cameras.”

∞∞∞

Rosie’s officially over it. She’s been making weird throat noises for ten minutes straight. It’s her way of telling us that she’s two minutes away from an epic meltdown, and she wants out of this furniture store.

The cashier—a woman named Denise, according to her name tag—rings up the order as I try to distract Rosie with funny faces.

Denise beams down at us, and God bless her, doesn’t comment on how Rosie’s chewing on a paint swatch, and I appreciate that. “Oh my goodness, look at that little face.”

Wes steps closer, setting the tins of paint on the counter. “She’s trouble. Don’t let the cheeks fool you.”

“She’s all her mama,” Denise says sweetly, glancing at me. “Looks just like you.”

My breath catches just a fraction, and Wes goes completely still beside me, but neither of us corrects her.

We don’t say,Actually, she’s not mine.