Page 121 of Dr. Bad Boy

“But she has a gift.” My gaze drifts back to a basinette in the window. It’s the third time I’ve looked at it.

It’s way too early to think about baby furniture to go with that giant teddy bear.

And it’s possible that living with Max might be a temporary thing. I can’t set up a full nursery. That tiny cradle, though…

This is how, when I get to the cash register, and the sales person says they have a gift with purchase—a basinette for anyone who buys five hundred dollars of clothes—I get Sasha to hustle back for two more pairs of pants and some truly hideous maternity underwear.

And that’s why Max finds me on the floor next to Bob the Bear, cursing a blue streak two hours later.

“What are you doing?” he asks from the doorway, and I jump at the unexpected question, shrieking a little.

I press my hand to my chest and stare at him. “Putting together a basinette.”

And maybe doing a mental spiral of doubt thing about why this still feels weirdly temporary.

“Let me do that.”

Not in a million years. “I’m fine.”

He glowers at me at the brush-off, but he stays in the doorway. Good. I’m feeling prickly.

“What are you doing back so soon?”

“Finished early. Is it a problem that I came home?”

“No…” I sigh and brush my hair out of my eyes. “You just freaked me out a bit. Damn it. I thought I could hear the door up here. I’m not used to the space.”

“You also forgot to lock the front door when you came back from shopping.”

Shit. Hot, stressed tears press against the back of my eyelids. “I’m used to my apartment door just always being locked.”

“Hey…” he crosses the empty room and crouches beside me, his hand sweeping across the back of my neck before he squeezes the muscles there. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. A lunatic just let himself into my house,” I mutter, and he laughs gently.

“You’re wound tight.”

“Maybe.”

“I could help with that.” The way his voice drops tells me he’s offering more than a neck rub.

“I need a screwdriver.” I ignore the elephant in the room and focus on the instructions in front of me instead. I pick up the screw and frown at it, then reach for the toolbox just on the other side of him. “Excuse me…”

He circles his fingers around my wrist. “What do you need?”

“A screwdriver. I just told you.”

“Which one?” His fingers rub back and forth, back and forth along the soft, delicate skin at the inside of my wrist. I find myself starting to squirm.

Not helpful, traitorous pregnant body.

“The cross one.”

“Cross-slot or Phillips?” He tries to sneak a peek at the screw in my hand.

“I’m really not sure, but I’d probably be done this step if you’d just shoved the toolbox over,” I snap.

He chuckles and pushes it further away. “Or I could teach you.”

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