Page 36 of The Game Plan
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t say anything, just follows beside me.
Pushing the cart, I nudge her shoulder. She nudges me back, smiling up at me. As we pass by the baby section, I pull the cart into the girl aisle.
“Grant?”
“Let’s pick out some clothes for our girl.”
Shit, did I just sayourgirl? My eyes land on Savannah’s, but she doesn’t look mad that I calledherbabyourbaby. I mean,of course, I know she’s not mine. Neither of them is. But I want to spoil Savannah. And if that means buying something for her daughter, then goddamn, I’ll buy the whole fucking store to see her happy.
Sav’s eyebrow quirks as she looks at me. “Our girl?”
Clearing my throat, I rub the back of my head. “Your girl. Your girl, Peach.” I gesture at the rows of clothes. “Let’s get her something pretty.”
Rows of pastel onesies and impossibly tiny shoes stretch out in front of us. Her fingers skim a pink sleeper with ruffled sleeves, then a cotton dress covered in flowers in shades of pink, with a pink cardigan.
Reaching for the first onesie I see, I stare at the tiny scrap of fabric. Her baby is going to be this small? How can something so tiny feel so overwhelming? Hanging back at first, I let Sav explore the aisles. I watch the way her whole body softens. Then I veer off to do my own shopping. My eyes catch on a lemon-patterned outfit set—the kind that comes as one piece, but this bodysuit has ruffles across the bum. It’s weirdly adorable, and I find myself questioning when I started to think baby clothes were cute. I toss it into the cart without a second thought.
Down another aisle, a pack of bows catches my eye. Shades of yellow, creams, pinks. Everything that makes up Sav. Bright. Sunny.Her. I toss them in too.
On the endcap, there’s a stuffed calico cat labeled ‘Warmies.’ I have no idea what the hell aWarmieis, but it reminds me of a cat my mom used to have when my sister and I were younger. I pick it up, flipping the tag. It says you microwave it? Weird, but that’s kind of cool. It’s soft as hell, too. I imagine a mini-Savannah curling around it in a crib and decide, yeah, she needs it.
I find Savannah two rows down, eyes bouncing between a set of muslin blankets and these weird Velcro contraption things. Ireally need to do more research on babies. A few pajamas and a pack of towels are pressed between her arm and her belly.
“What’s that?” she asks when she sees the stuffed animal in the cart.
I shrug. “Some kind of stuffed thing you warm up. It’s supposed to help babies sleep or something.”
She actually swoons. Physically. Her shoulders dip, lips part, hand goes to her chest like she’s trying to wrangle in her emotions.
And I don’t miss the way her eyes soften as she looks at me, the kind of look that makes my chest ache. When I kissed her today, it was because of the moment we shared in the doctor’s office—hearing the news about her baby’s gender. But maybe it wasn’t as dumb a decision as I thought.
Maybe this time, we can make it work.
She glances down at the cart, spots the bows, and then the lemon outfit. And the few other things I grabbed on my way to find her.
“You’re getting too much,” she murmurs, even as her fingers trail across the bows.
“You’re not getting enough.” I wink before giving her a look that saysdrop it. And she does. Smart girl.
But then she grabs the lemon set and holds it up. “Why lemons?”
I grin. “Are you kidding?”
Confusion lines her pretty face, and I can’t help the chuckle that escapes. “I’ve seen the wrappers, Peach. My girl has a craving for lemons. Lemon muffins, lemon bars, lemon scones. You’re basically made of lemon at this point.”
Her mouth falls open with a soft gasp. “You noticed?”
I laugh, nudging the cart forward. “Kind of hard not to when I’m taking out the trash.”
She gasps. “It’s notthatbad.”
“Whatever you say, Peach. Whatever you say.”
We wind down a few more aisles. Savannah tosses in more outfits, a pack of pacifiers, and a blanket she claims is too soft to leave behind. By the time we’re heading toward the front of the store, the cart’s at least halfway full. My chest warms at getting to do this for her. For once, someone can take care of her, and I’m glad it’s me.
She loops her arm through mine and rests her head on my shoulder.
“Take me home,” she says softly, “and feed me.”
