And in this moment, I believe him. My gut says he’s right. It’s as simple as that.
I look up at him as a mix of hope and fear washes through me. I wish I knew what he was planning. One minute he’s telling me that the six-month expiration date of our marriage is almost up, and the next he’s reassuring me about “our” family, as if I’m a part of it. But maybe that’s just some seriously wishful thinking. Maybe I’m just lying to myself, pretending Armani could possibly be including me when he talks about the future.
“I’ll call one of the guards and get an update on how your friend is doing,” he says suddenly. “There’s nothing stopping you from visiting her. Your phone stays with me, though.”
My eyes sting with tears. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You didn’t hear the things she said to me. She told me I broke our friendship. She doesn’t want anything to do with me. But yes, it would be good to get a status report from the guards.”
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Armani gently moves me off his chest and gets out of bed. As he bends to collect his clothes and then starts getting dressed, I prop my chin on my fist and openly admire the view.
“Are you going back to work?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I figured we could spend the rest of the afternoon working on the baby’s room. Maybe decide on the paint options so I can get started on the walls.”
“Oh. I actually decided already.”
Eyeing me, he says, “The green.”
“How did you know?”
“Easy. It’s your favorite color.”
“It is, but that’s not why I chose it. I thought it matched perfectly with the mobile we got with the woodland motif.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, grabbing my clothes off the floor and tossing them to me. “Get dressed and we’ll go downstairs and have lunch.”
He’s ordering me around, and yet…dammit, I like it. And Iamstarving. So I do as he says. I’m expecting him to order around the staff, but instead he takes me into the kitchen, pulls out a stool for me to sit on, and then puts together a few thick Italian sandwiches made with layers of cold cuts and olive salad. Before I can even ask, he brews some hot ginger tea for my stomach. Looks like my Model Husband is back. I do my best not to second-guess his motives.
We eat right there at the island, Armani sitting close enough that our elbows touch.
Afterward, we go upstairs to the future nursery. He stands in the center of the room surveying the curtains I put up, the mobile hanging from the end of the rod, the variety of paint swatches we’d put on the wall. Then he nods and turns to me.
“Green is definitely the right choice. No question. Nice job on the curtains, by the way. And it looks like you started on the crib?”
I blush at his casual compliment. “Ah, the crib. Right. I didn’t really make it past separating all the pieces, but yeah, I started.”
“Why don’t we finish it together?”
To my surprise, we actually make a good team. Some of the pieces are heavy—they’re solid French oak, after all—so I get to stand there holding the corners flush while Armani handles the screws. Both of us work up a sweat; I’m glad I didn’t try to do the assembly by myself. More than that, I’m glad that building the crib is something he and I did together for the baby. It feels meaningful, and nothing short of momentous.
The finished product is stunning. There’s hand-carved woodwork on the headboard and rails, fluted legs, and an ingenious hidden storage drawer underneath. I can easily see this piece of furniture becoming a family heirloom. It makes me slightly less ashamed about the fact that it cost as much as a mortgage payment on a house.
Once we get it positioned against the wall, Armani gets the woodland mobile hung so the little animals dangle right above the crib. Then he rummages around in the shopping bags until he finds a crocheted blanket, which he drapes over the front rail of the crib. The finishing touch is a plush bunny rabbit. As I watch him gently set the rabbit against the headboard, his motions as tender as if he was handling a real baby, my eyes start to brim with tears.
“It looks great,” Armani says, standing back with his hands on his hips.
All I can do is nod, a little sniffle escaping me. He looks over, sees how emotional I’m getting, and immediately comes over to pull me against his chest for a hug.
“Do you not like it? We can take it back and get something else,” he says.
“No. It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “It’s perfect.”
“Don’t worry. The rest of the room will come together in plenty of time before the little one arrives, I promise. We’ll get everything settled and put into place.”
Tucking my head under his chin, I close my eyes and pray that his words come true.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, we will.”
24
