Page 42 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

Again.

The room isn’t extravagant by the standards of the rest of the apartment. Comfortable, yes. Thoughtfully designed. Neutral without being impersonal.

She turns in a slow circle. “This is bigger than my entire apartment was.”

I set the luggage just inside. “That’s not unusual in Chicago.”

She gives me a look over her shoulder. “You know, some people hear a sentence like that and become class-conscious on the spot.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her gaze shifts to the bed, the dresser, the small vase of white flowers near the window, which I suspect she notices last.

For some reason, that detail bothers me.

“The bathroom is through there,” I say. “Closet on the left. If you need anything additional, let me know.”

She turns back to me fully this time. “Thank you.”

The words are straightforward enough, but there’s an unguarded look in them.

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a beat.

Then, predictably, “This still feels like a bad idea.”

I meet her gaze. “And yet you accepted.”

“I must enjoy making things difficult for myself.”

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve noticed.”

That gets a sharper reaction. Her eyes flash, and for half a second, the room is no longer a guest room in my home, but the narrow electric space between us on that flight, where every word carried challenge under its surface, and every silence meant something worse.

I end that line of thought immediately.

“This arrangement works,” I say, more evenly than I feel. “Provided it remains structured.”

Her expression shifts. Less heat, more caution. “Right.”

“Your role is clearly defined.”

“I understand that.”

“Good.”

She folds her arms, leaning one shoulder against the dresser in a posture that's far too casual for someone trying to convince me she’s taking this seriously. “Do you always speak in corporate policy statements when you’re uncomfortable?”

I look at her.

She lifts her chin slightly.

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

“Sure.”

I should leave the room.