Page 129 of Babies for the Big Shot

For a second, I think it’s Sara. Then I hear a tiny grunt.

Ah. There it is. The duet.

I crack an eye open, and the problem presents itself in high definition.

Sara’s curled against me, one leg tangled over mine, her arm draped across my stomach, her curls a mess. There’s drool on her lip. She looks angelic.

And then there’s Meatball.

The world’s most judgmental bulldog is pancaked between us, his squashed face buried in the comforter, his ass pointed directly at me. He lets out a particularly aggressive snuffle, his jowls flapping, then twitches his back leg.

If that dog dreams of anything other than hot dogs and general destruction, I’ll eat my tie.

I try to shift without disturbing anyone, but Meatball lets out a sound that can only be described as a huff—how dare I movewhen he’s clearly in REM? One of his eyes cracks open to glare at me, then shuts again with dramatic finality.

Right.

I stare at the two of them, Sara, soft and sleep-wrecked, one hand resting on her belly, and Meatball, dead to the world, smelling vaguely of peanut butter and betrayal. Something in my chest tightens.

This is my bed.

My home.

And they’re here. They’ve always been here. They belong.

Which, frankly, is alarming.

Except for the part where I’m dangerously close to Googling how to make waffles from scratch and signing us up for a couples’ pottery class.

I rub a hand over my face and check the time.

6:03 a.m.

Of course it is. My circadian rhythm is a cruel, type-A dictator with no regard for cuddles or bulldogs.

Still, I stay for a moment.

Just watching.

Sara’s brow furrows slightly in her sleep. Even unconscious, she’s expecting the next crisis to arrive by express delivery. Her hand tightens a little over her belly.

Three babies. Three Ashfords in utero. That’s not a pregnancy, that’s a corporate takeover.

And yet, somehow, I’m not panicking.

I should be. The old me, the one with spreadsheets for feelings and a ten-year plan that didn’t include sticky hands or nursery themes, he’d be halfway to the airport by now.

But I don’t want to run.

I want this.

I want her.

Which is inconvenient, to say the least.

Carefully, I extract myself from the tangle of limbs and dog. Sara shifts with a sleepy mumble but doesn’t wake. Meatball lets out a death sigh and stretches further into my pillow… the smug little dictator he is.

I jot down a note on the hotel stationery from the nightstand drawer.