Page 17

Chapter One

Abby

The baby was crying.

Again .

Groaning, she tossed the covers back, pushed herself out of bed, and blearily stood up.

Then promptly tripped over some sort of Lego creation and fell to the carpet.

“Abbs?” came Jordan’s groggy voice. “I’ll bring Emma to you.”

“I’m okay. Go back to sleep,” she said, knowing he would do so, and immediately at that. It was almost annoying how quickly the man could slip into unconsciousness.

And he needed it.

Emma had decided it was her tiny six-week-old’s task to ensure the entire household was running on fumes—of the energy sense.

Or perhaps the diaper fumes sense.

Snort.

Rolling her eyes at herself, Abby pushed up to her feet, Emma’s cries growing in volume with each second that passed.

She stepped over Carter’s rendition of a Duplo house this time, snagged her robe from the chair by the door, and slipped out into the hall, still somewhat in awe of how dramatically her life had changed in just a few years.

She had a daughter.

And two sons.

She finally had a family after she’d always felt so lost about her place in the world.

She wouldn’t say that her identity was solely based on being a wife and mother, but it had given her the confidence to live out her dreams.

So she could add boss, businesswoman, and partner to her list of attributes.

Along with sleep-deprived.

Pushing into Emma’s bedroom, she saw that her daughter was red-faced and squalling—well, she’d heard that last part already, but now she could see the squished-up unhappiness of her expression.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, sweeping over and scooping her up. “I’ve got you.”

The swaddle had come loose, and since Emma’s diaper felt full, Abby took her to the changing table and completed the dirty end—literally—of the business. Then re-swaddled her and sat down in the rocker.

Emma had quieted, as she always did once she was picked up, though it was punctuated by tiny cries that told Abby her daughter was hungry.

She unsnapped her nightgown and lifted Emma to her breast, rocking her softly and humming a nursery rhyme she didn’t know all the words to.

Which was okay. Her daughter seemed to like the melody even without the words.

Eventually, Emma finished and lay drowsily in Abby’s arms while she tried to summon the energy to cover herself and begin the careful task of setting the baby in the crib without waking her.

Maybe arduous was more like it.

“Here, sweetheart.” The soft words had her looking up at her husband, Jordan, who was wearing just a pair of boxer briefs and looking all too much like Thor when she was feeling very blah and stretched out and saggy.

He slipped her nightgown back up, buckling the snap with practiced hands. Then he lifted Emma out of her arms.

“I told you to sleep.”

“And I told you I’d bring the baby to you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You’re exhausted.”

“You’ve got a membership to that club yourself.”

He smiled, and she felt that quirk of his lips like a physical caress, a heat blooming within her that reminded her why they had three small children—though she’d only birthed two of them.

The third, Hunter, they’d adopted. Biologically, he was Jordan’s nephew, but in all ways that truly mattered, he was their son.

A son that would need to be driven to school in—she glanced at the clock—three hours.

Dear God.

There was a reason sleep deprivation was considered torture.

She hadn’t even realized that her eyes had slipped closed or that Jordan had successfully made the baby-to-the-crib transition until she felt the rocker move, until she felt herself being swept up into his arms.

“Wh—?”

“Hush,” he whispered. “The little beast is finally asleep.”

She dropped her voice to barely audible. “I’m too heavy.”

Flashing blue eyes had her hiding her face in his chest. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud, hadn’t meant to let the insecurities that were building in her mind outside her brain. She’d just given birth six weeks before. Of course, her body had changed.

“Bull. Shit,” he hissed.

She didn’t reply, knowing that there wasn’t much she could say. She was putting up a good front, but two babies in three years meant that she was feeling more than a little insecure.

Things—skin, breasts, hair—hung differently. Her stomach was . . . well, it might as well be a roadmap for how many lines crisscrossed it.

And she’d lost track of the last time she’d showered or worn a shirt without crumbs or spit-up or poop on it.

Hell, her hair probably had poop in it right now.

A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye.

“Abbs?” Jordan asked softly, navigating the mess of toys like a professional. No Godzilla-esque Duplo destruction for him, that was for sure.

Meanwhile, she—

“Sweetheart,” he said, setting her on the bed and wiping the tear—okay tears —away. “What is it?”

She shook her head, knowing the inner voice was fueled by exhaustion and hormones. It would pass, and she’d feel more like herself.

Eventually.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, hoping eventually would come sooner rather than later.

“You’re not,” Jordan argued. “But you’re also too tired to argue about it now.” He swept the covers up and over her, tucking them tightly around her. “Sleep, my love.”

“But—”

He slid in next to her, pulled her against his chest. “Sleep.”

And truly too exhausted to argue, she did as he ordered.