Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
His eyes heat, victory and desire flashing in equal measure. “Okay,” he echoes, voice seductive.
I’m not sure if I’ve just made the best decision of my life or the one that’ll ruin me completely.
But the one thing I know for sure is that I can’t give him up. And having this is better than having nothing.
CHAPTER 20
Atlas
Grayce announces our arrival with a shriek that ricochets off the glass storefront door like a puck clanging off the top crossbar of the net.
Heads turn and a bell chimes overhead, delicate and pretty, and it feels like we’ve skated into a different rink, one where everything is soft, small and costs triple what you think.
The boutique smells like cotton candy. A chalkboard sign by the door reads Welcome, Tiny Humans in looping script. Racks bloom in every direction—petal-pink dresses like cupcakes, tiny denim jackets with sherpa collars, a wall of miniature shoes that look like someone shrunk down grown-up styles with a ray gun. There’s even a display of absurdly small hockey jerseys emblazoned with Titans’ logos, but Grayce already has three of them.
Maddie leans over the stroller to tug Grayce’s floppy bow straight, murmuring, “Too much?” and then answering herself, “Nah. Own it,” before she catches me grinning. “What?” she asks.
“Nothing.” I steer the stroller around a table stacked with knit blankets that probably come with a mortgage. “Just enjoying how seriously you consult the headband.”
She snorts but her cheeks go pink. “The headband has opinions.”
“Clearly, but so do I.” I lower my voice and tip my head toward Grayce. “Tell your mother we want the dinosaur pajamas, not the florals.”
Maddie shoots me a look, but I see it—she wants to smile. She pretends to examine a rack of footie sleepers. “You’re both outvoted. We’re here for basics.”
“Basics,” I echo, eyeing a tiny leather bomber jacket on a mannequin no taller than my thigh. “Right.”
She takes the stroller from me toward a section labeled Everyday Essentials. The metal hangers make a light clink as she thumbs through them, stopping to pinch fabric between her fingers. Practical, and I love that side of her.
When she finds something she likes, she holds it up to Grayce’s chest and tips her head to the side to picture it on her.
I stand and watch the way she moves. There’s nothing performative about it. Just the patient attention of someone who has decided, over and over, that this tiny person matters most in the room.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.
“Observing.” I pick a pack of onesies with little moons and stars. “These feel like a trap. I buy six and she fits in them for six days.”
“That’s because she’s a weed.” Maddie’s mouth curves. “A delicious, adorable weed. Thank God you make millions.” She reaches to take the pack from me, our fingers brush, and her blush deepens as fast as she jerks her hand back.
I grin, because I’m an idiot who enjoys poke-the-bear, and I lean toward her just enough to murmur, “You blush so easily when I touch you.”
“Atlas.” A warning, but so breathless I can’t take it seriously.
“What?” I hold out my arms innocently. “Just cataloging data. You know, for science.”
She tries so hard not to smile, she looks pained. “Science is canceled.”
“Tragic.” I pick up an absurdly tiny beanie with bear ears. “What about this?”
“We’re not doing animal ears,” she says automatically, then softens when Grayce squeals and kicks. “Okay. Maybe one animal ear item. But not if it’s scratchy.”
I rub the beanie against my jaw, theatrically evaluating. “Soft. Also, this would look killer with her new sneakers.”
“We didn’t buy sneakers yet.” But she’s already steering toward the wall of baby shoes like her feet had the thought before her brain did.
The shoes are absolutely ridiculous—little high-tops with Velcro lightning bolts, tiny slip-on canvas pairs patterned with whales, and miniature penny loafers that make me wheeze-laugh. Maddie crouches, scanning, one hand braced on the stroller handle, and Grayce leans forward like she’s helping shop. I squat beside them and point at a pair of baby-size high-tops in white with a thin gold stripe.
“We need those. She’ll be running faster than any other kid.”
“You are not turning our child into a walking endorsement,” she says, then blinks like she didn’t mean to say our out loud. She ducks her head deeper into the shoes. “What about these?” She lifts a pair of soft-soled sneakers with colorful confetti speckles.
“They look like parade shoes.”
“That’s a compliment.”
“Every day with you is a parade,” I say lightly, because if I say it with too much weight it’ll scare her, and I’m a man who has learned the hard way to keep his weight balanced. “Try them,” I say to Grayce, who obliges by grabbing one and attempting to eat it.
Maddie laughs under her breath, the sound low and warm, and I file it, because I’m greedy about every version of her I get to keep.