Page 81 of Halo

Leah

Icould’ve sworn I didn’t have any expectations. I told Nick I had none. But it's been nineteen days, fifteen hours, and approximately— oh … twenty-two minutes since giving him my number in what was objectively, a Hallmark heroine's fever dream, and I'm saddened to report that my stupid heart never got the memo.

What was I thinking?

I interrogated the man about his intentions, tucked my phone number inside a deck of playing cards, and basically said, call me whenever. I have all the restraint of a homeschooled Bible-thumper who's already monogrammed the wedding towels after one side hug.

The thing is, I see him all the time. Since Halloween, he's become a regular at both drop-off and pickup at the school. He even helped with the annual Pinehurst Thanksgiving Food Drive. The members of the PTA think he hung the moon.

I mean, he kinda does.

The really confusing part? I've never felt this way before. Not even with Declan. The butterflies back then came from the excitement of being wanted, of imagining a husband and a future. These butterflies don't care about any of that. They show up simply because Nick Crawford gave me that crooked grin with that kissable dimple.

We still engage in small talk in the car line, and like clockwork, he’s there when Skye and I lock up.

And that's it.

My beautiful little enigma.

My hot doctor who will almost certainly never be mine.

Okay, that one’s a little dramatic.

I keep reminding myself he's busy. He's figuring out fatherhood. An entire little human suddenly needs him in ways he never imagined. I should be rooting for every second he spends with Grady.

But a text only takes, like, twelve seconds.

Not that I've timed it.

“Okay …” Rachel’s voice drifts over the refreshment table. “Who's got you smiling like that?”

I blink. “What?”

She points a deviled egg at me. “You’ve been standing there with the sappiest grin on your face for, like, thirty seconds.”

My cheeks heat, my hand flying to my mouth. “I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was thinking.”

She snorts. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Ha ha, good one.” I roll my eyes.

She plucks a petit four from the tray before I can stop her. “You’re deflecting.”

I sigh dramatically and return my attention to arranging the desserts on a three-tiered tray.

My parents’ house has been transformed into baby shower central, and the Noah’s Ark theme is en pointe. That is, Noah’s Ark as imagined by Pinterest—not the actual biblical account where the entire world drowned, a floating zoo spent forty days at sea, and Noah celebrated dry land by getting blackout drunk.

Soft shades of mint and blush gingham drape every table beneath a matching balloon arch. Hand-carved wooden animals nestle among baby's breath and silk ribbon while the dessert table groans beneath iced sugar cookies, macarons, cake pops, lemon bars, and petit fours. Rachel couldn't decide what she wanted, so my mom helped me make one of everything.

And by helped, I mean she let me measure out ingredients while she worked her magic as the baker in the family.

“I don't know who made these,” Rachel mumbles around a chicken salad sandwich, “but she's my favorite person.”

“Hey—” I chuckle—“I actually made those.”