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I hope they don’t. I like that I can see her in him. I like that it’s undeniable.
“How’s she doing?” I rumble.
“You should ask her yourself.”
“You don’t think I’ve tried?” I snap. “She refuses to talk to me. Any question I ask is met with a one-word response or just straight-up silence. Then she makes like the wind and disappears as soon as she’s handed over the baby.”
“You’ve gotta get creative.”
“I promised her space. I can’t go back on that promise by invading her space every chance I get.”
“She’s hormonal and she’s hurt. But she’ll soften up the moment you make a grand gesture.”
I feign enthusiasm. “Great suggestion. Why don’t I make the grand gesture of giving her an apartment? Or maybe I should get her the job of her dreams? Or perhaps I should propose to her with a giant ring? Oh, wait…”
Bee throws up her hands sardonically. “Okay, okay, so you’re running short on grand gestures. Maybe it doesn’t have to be grand? Go the other route with it, you know? Maybe it has to be simple.”
I gently free the bottle from Mischa’s lips and hand it over to Bee while I burp him. He whines and fusses for a moment until it comes free and he can settle back into place, reunited with the bottle again. His eyelids are getting heavier and heavier with every passing second, though. Sleep isn’t far away.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I point out as I lean back into the chair.
Bee sighs. “She’s doing well, all things considered. The breastfeeding wears her out. She’s already lost so much weight from it. But she never complains. And she’s so hands-on with everything. If it were me, I’d have, like, three nannies on call around the clock.”
“That’s not Wren’s way.”
“No,” Bee agrees, “it’s not. I think she’s also trying to keep herself distracted.” She looks over her shoulder towards the rooms and lowers her voice. “She misses you.”
“Did she?—”
“Of course not. She’d never admit that out loud. But I can tell. I know her well enough to read those forlorn, lovesick sighs she does when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She misses you, Dmitri. Just because she’s pissed at you doesn’t mean she’s stopped loving you.”
I despise how eagerly my heart leaps at those simple, offhand words.
“She probably hates being cooped up in the apartment,” I venture.
Bee chuckles. “That’s a definite yes. No mind-reading required to confirm that one. She goes stir-crazy every now and again—but honestly? I don’t think she wants to go out on her own. And she doesn’t want to expose me, so she just kinda deals with it. And by that I mean, we eat a bunch of ice cream and gossip about who’s who on The Masked Singer.”
“Take her out,” I blurt before I can think better of it. “A mother’s class, maybe, if she needs an excuse. And lunch. Somewhere nice. You’d have to take care not to be recognized, of course, but I…” I sigh heavily. “I don’t want her to feel like she’s trapped. I think an outing might do her some good.”
Bee’s staring out at the view now and I’m pretty sure she’s not listening to a word I’m saying. “We’ll go to Les Freres Halles … oh, their duck with the beurre blanc sauce… I’ve had dreams about it… and the lamb with the red wine jus… and the creamed lobster in those buttery vol-au-vent pastry shells… God, I’m horny just thinking about it.” She twists to face me with an ear-to-ear grin. “We’re gonna rack up a big bill, okay? Fair warning.”
I suppress my own smile. “Order whatever you want. Sky’s the limit.”
“Music to my ears,” she murmurs dreamily. “For the record, if I were Wren, I’d take you back.”
“You’re talking with your stomach now.” I swap to a sterner expression. “Just make sure the security detail is strong. Subtle, but strong. I don’t want either those Italian fucks or the Irish scum picking up on the fact that my wife and son are out and about without me.”
“Got it, boss,” Bee says, saluting me.
Mischa hiccups off the bottle and I put it aside. He’s nearly finished his four ounces, which means he’s got one good burp left in him before he sleeps for the next few hours.
I raise him upright and run my hand down his soft little back. It always amazes me just how small and breakable he feels. I want to cradle him in my arms so anyone who wants to hurt him would have to burrow through all of me first.
And his smell. He smells of powder, warm milk—and her.
After he gives me another satisfying burp, he starts mewling softly, tired but unable to sleep. “It’s okay, little man,” I say softly, cradling him against the crook of my arm. “I’m here. You’ll be back with Mama in the morning.”
When I look up, I catch Bee staring at the two of us with an awed glaze in her eyes.
