Page 78 of The Flirty Forward

“Um, I feel like this is a trick question that I shouldn’t answer. Like when my sister would ask me if she looked fat in a pair of jeans?”

“Are you saying I look fat?” I ask with a completely straight face.

He scoffs. “You are not fat; you’re gorgeous.” His words are so effortless and easy; I can’t help my response.

“You probably say that all the time. Anyway,” wanting to move on from this conversation, I continue, “I’m fine with it. I’m just not the barefoot and pregnant kind of girl. Never have been; never will be.” He groans low. “What?”

“Now, I can’t get that image out of my mind. You in our kitchen, barefoot, your stomach round with my baby.” He blows out a breath. “Stephanie.” His voice sounds pained.

I laugh. “Dramatic much? And I literally just said that’s not me.”

He puts a hand over his heart. “Way to kill my fantasy, Baby.”

“You’ll be fine,” I say dryly.

He puts some chicken into the skillet, and it sizzles. “You don’t want to have kids?” He asks the question in a casual voice, but I know the question is anything but casual.

“Never planned on it.” My voice is non-emotional. This is an easy issue for me—cut and dry. “I wouldn’t make a good mom.”

“Why?” There’s no judgment in his voice, only curiosity.

“I just don’t have that nurturing side. My parents...well, you met them. They’re not nurturing, especially my mom. I wouldn’t want to do that to my kids. I wouldn’t want them to endure what I did growing up. So it’s just better I don’t have kids.” There’s only the sound of the chicken sizzling and the cut of my knife on the cutting board for a few minutes. “You’re not saying anything.”

He glances my way and turns and leans against the stove, his long legs crossed at the ankles. “I think you’re entitled to your own opinion.”

“You disagree?”

“I do. I’ve seen you with my nieces and nephews. I have that picture on my phone of you sitting on the floor playing with them and smiling. And Tina texted me that her girls had so much fun with you. So, yeah, I don’t agree with you. But when things go forward with us, I hope you know I would never push you to do something you don’t want to do. If you don’t want kids, we won’t have kids.”

I take a breath, willing my heart to slow down. “First of all, you’re certainly confident things are going to go forward with us,” I start.

“I am.”

“And,” I interject. “Youlovekids.”

“I do, but I love you more.”

My eyes widen, and he grimaces and runs a hand over his head. “Sorry. I wasn’t planning on letting you know that way.”

I stare at him, unable to say absolutely anything. Then reality smacks me in the face. “No, you don’t.”

He frowns. “Excuse me?”

I laugh, but it’s not humorous. “You don’t love me.” His frown deepens. “You may think you do, but you can’t.”

“Why not?”

I wave him off and turn back to the greens. “So many reasons, the first being it’s way too soon to say something like that.” I wave my knife in the air. “Second, I’m not the kind of person you say those kind of declarations to. I’m not capable of that kind of...” I wave the knife again. “Emotion or whatever.” I’m busy chopping away and don’t see him move. But I feel when he comes up behind me. I freeze when he leans his body against me. He puts his hand over my hand holding the knife and pushes it down gently and coaxes me to release my hold on the knife.

“I will give you all the time in the world to get used to this, Baby.” His words are right against the shell of my ear, and I fight the urge to shudder for reasons that I won’t let myself consider.But it’s not in repulsion; I know that much for sure. “But hear me when I say it’s not too soon for me to say those words. It may be too soon for you to hear them, but not for me to say them. Second,” he puts his hands on my upper arms and gently turns me around to face him. I can’t help but look up at him. He’s so serious, so at odds with his usual easy-going smile. “I believe you are totally capable of emotion. I’ve seen it.” He tucks my hair behind my ear and trails his thumb down my cheek. “I’m sorry you grew up the way you did.” His words are soft. “I hate that you didn’t feel love. I grew up knowing nothing but love; I was surrounded by it. Every child should grow up that way, and I want our kids to grow up that way if we have them.” He continues before I can say anything. “If we have kids, great; if not, that’s okay too. But I never want you to think that it’s because you won’t be a good mom or that you’re incapable of loving because that is so far from the truth.”

“It’s not,” I argue.

“Do you love your parents?”

“I do, but—”

“Do you love Brielle?”

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