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Chapter Three

Abby

She was a mess. An absolute mess.

She was running away from her husband, had jumped like a cat trying to escape a bath when he’d touched her.

Stupid, she knew that.

He’d said time and again she was beautiful . . . but when he’d put his hands on hers, when it had felt different—

She’d just not been able to handle it.

Hustling into the closet, she wrestled her way into her maternity jeans, the stretchy top making her feel like she was trying to squirm into leather leggings for how difficult it was.

Not that she’d ever worn leather leggings.

That was more Seraphina’s style.

Her buxom best friend would probably bounce back from pregnancy and slip right into her jeans—or leather leggings.

Meanwhile, Abby was wearing stretch-top clothes and hiding the post-partum bump that still wouldn’t go away. Sagging skin, a speed bump, and a husband who looked like a god.

What was she going to do?

The monitor lit up, Carter talking to himself in bed.

She watched him, his little feet in the air, kicking back and forth as he chattered.

Soon Emma would be awake and hungry, and Abby wouldn’t have time for this train of thought, for the nasty thoughts she couldn’t seem to stifle in the quiet moments.

She knew they were too harsh, knew she shouldn’t think of herself like that.

But she couldn’t seem to stop the thoughts from coming.

Especially when Jordan was being so wonderful.

The damned man was being too wonderful—taking over the nighttime feeding, bringing her food, doing the laundry and most of the cooking, calling her beautiful, and driving Hunter to school—

With a groan, she yanked a T-shirt out of a drawer and tugged it over her head. Abby knew she was being silly. What sane person complained their partner was doing too much?

The online groups she was part of were filled with posts of men shirking their duties, leaving their wives to fend for themselves with a newborn.

And she was complaining that Jordan was being an actual partner—stepping in when something needed to be done, taking charge of the kids or schedule, not constantly asking her if she needed help.

Instead he was just doing it.

Plates and cups overflowing in the sink? They got washed and put in the dishwasher.

Laundry hampers filled to the brim and then some? They were empty, washed, folded, and put away—more neatly than she could probably do it in her state.

The fridge empty? He got groceries.

The kids were hungry? He cooked.

She’d gotten the fucking Holy Grail of husbands.

And she was absolutely miserable.

Because somehow him being nice and understanding and responsible, him stepping up without a word from her, made her feel like she wasn’t pulling her weight.

She didn’t look the same for him any longer and she wasn’t doing enough.

Double, double, toil and trouble.

“And great,” she muttered, hurrying out of the closet and down to Carter’s room, “now I’m going as mad as Macbeth and company.”

“Mama!” he called, lifting his arms up.

She went over to him, hugging him close. “Hi, my lovely boy,” she whispered. “Good morning. You hungry?”

“’Gry!” he exclaimed.

“Should we have bananas and oatmeal?” she asked, grabbing him a set of fresh clothes and getting him ready for the day.

“Yes!”

Emma had begun fussing by the time they emerged into the hall, making animal sounds—“A dog goes woof!”—so they detoured to grab her and then made their way down to the kitchen.

Jordan was on the phone when they came in, and he slipped out with one finger raised, but he’d already prepped the oatmeal with a side of bananas and put her nursing pillow on the table beside her chair.

And her heart squeezed again, guilt sliding through her.

The man was doing too much.

How in the hell was she ever going to make things even between them again?