1
WREN
Five days before Christmas
I wake up slowly, the low hum of conversation rousing me. My eyes pop open and I glance to my left to see Crew’s side of the bed is empty.
Huh.
Reaching out, I touch the sheets to find they’re cold, which means he’s been up for a while. He’s not the early bird in this relationship—that would be me, especially these last few months.
Rolling over toward the nightstand, I reach out and grab my phone and see it’s past eight in the morning.
I sit up straight, pushing the hair out of my face, trying to ignore the sudden ache in my breasts. Climbing out of bed, I hurriedly slip on an old Lancaster Prep sweatshirt that I still wear because it’s so soft and warm, and exit our bedroom, heading toward that conversation I still hear.
It’s all one-sided, a deep male voice that makes me go warm inside. I know exactly who’s talking, and I know exactly who he’s talking to. I even linger just outside of the kitchen so I can spy on them, a smile curling my lips.
“Your mommy is a lazy bird, isn’t she? Well, she deserves it. You keep her up half the night because you’re so hungry all the time.”
A coo sounds, as if in answer to him and I can’t help it. Tears spring to my eyes. I’ve been so emotional this last year. I feel like I’m always crying.
“Aww, you’re so cute. You look just like her right now. The most beautiful baby in the city. Maybe the entire state? The world? You’re the sweetest little bird. Though you’re more like a tree, though that’s not as great of a nickname, huh? Maybe we should change your name. I think I’m going to start calling you Robin. Blue Jay? How about Pigeon?”
Unable to take it anymore, I enter our tiny kitchen to put a stop to this nonsense.
“Pigeon is the worst nickname in the world and you can quote me on that,” I announce.
My husband and our baby both swivel their heads in my direction, the both of them smiling while I’m left breathless. Crew is sitting at our kitchen table in just a pair of dark green checked pajama bottoms and our daughter leans her cheek against his chest like she can’t help herself.
I don’t blame her. I love pressing my face right in that particular spot where his neck meets his shoulder. He smells good there.
He smells good everywhere.
“Look, there’s your mommy,” Crew croons at her before flashing a smile in my direction. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“Good morning.” I smile at the both of them. “It’s so late.”
“Not really. You never get to sleep in thanks to this little bundle.” He lifts Willow up, his hand curved around her tiny butt and she kicks out her legs. “She started to fuss and you were still asleep so I thought I’d help out.”
“How long have you two been awake?” I move further into the kitchen, my fingers itching to grab hold of our daughter and cradle her close. She’s a snuggle bug. We shower her with so much love I sometimes worry she’ll end up spoiled rotten, but Crew reassures me she’ll be spoiled no matter what, thanks to her being a Lancaster.
But a Lancaster spoiled by love? That’s a rarity. Love won’t hurt our daughter. It’ll only make her stronger.
“Over an hour.” He starts sweet talking our daughter. “We’ve had some daddy/daughter bonding time, right, Will? Right?”
I roll my eyes. “Will? That’s a boy’s name.”
“I like it. And I think she does too. Huh, Will?”
Willow gurgles, her eyes sparkling as she smiles at her daddy.
“Hand her over.” I wiggle my fingers at him in the universal gimme signal and he deposits her into my arms. I hold her close, her little face pressed against my neck and I breathe deep her sweet baby scent. “Mommy missed you this morning.”
“Mommy was snoring so I’m pretty sure you didn’t miss her at all.” Crew is already grinning when I send him an evil glare that I don’t mean. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.” I’ve been breastfeeding for the last five months and I’m always hungry. This child wants to eat all the time, and while I love being able to provide for my baby, I also feel like I’m nothing but a feeding machine most of the time.
“I’ll make you breakfast. French toast?”
I shake my head. He knows that’s my favorite but… “I need to still lose a few pounds.”
He rises from the chair and comes to me, wrapping his arms around me so the two of us are surrounding Willow. “I like you curvy.”
“I was already curvy. Now my boobs are enormous.” I am softly wailing, but I only complain to him.
“You’re feeding our child. Of course, they are.” His gaze drops to my chest, which is straining the front of my sweatshirt that used to fit perfectly fine before I was pregnant. “Stop being so hard on yourself. And it’s almost your birthday. You deserve French toast.”
“Fine.” I give in because arguing with Crew about things like this is pointless. He always gets his way. Not that I don’t benefit from it.
I settle at our table and hold Willow while Crew moves about the kitchen, making us breakfast. I never would’ve imagined this would be our life, but it is. The two of us married with our first child, living in a small apartment on the Upper West Side. And when I say small, I’m referring to Lancaster standards, because his family owns some of the biggest apartments I’ve ever seen in the city. Their real estate holdings are vast and impressive.
One of Crew’s great aunts who never had children died a few years ago, right after our wedding, and she left her apartment to us. It was an unexpected and wonderful gesture, and while Crew’s brothers—who are both in real estate—tried their best to get us to sell the place, thanks to the prices in the neighborhood being the highest they’ve ever been, we refused.
Instead, we had it gently renovated, bringing it up to modern standards without taking away any of its charm. It was built in the late 1800s, and the moment I entered the apartment, I turned to my husband with so much hope in my gaze, he began to laugh.
“You want to keep it.” He didn’t even bother asking. He just knew.
Nodding, I went to him and threw my arms around his neck, kissing him soundly on the lips. “Yes, please.”
We’ve made it ours. His brothers think we’re crazy for wanting to stay in such a small apartment, but I love it. It’s cozy and warm and every time I walk through the front door, it just feels so right. There are three bedrooms, which is plenty of room for us but someday, we’re going to have more children. We’ll eventually run out of room.
I can’t bear the idea of moving from here.
I’m so lost in my thoughts it takes my daughter to grab hold of a strand of hair and yank it hard to pull me from my reverie. I yelp and the naughty little girl laughs.
Actually laughs.
“She’s more Lancaster than I thought,” I murmur to my husband, who only flashes me a helpless grin over his shoulder before he resumes his cooking duties.
Wouldn’t the girls—and the guys—of Lancaster Prep fall out of their chairs if they knew the all-mighty leader of our class had become completely domesticated? I don’t take full responsibility for this change. My husband enjoys spending time in our home. Renovating it. Finding art to hang on the walls…