Page 147 of Unmanageable

I shake my head, trying to step back, but he reaches out and catches both of my hands, pulling them against his chest.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that,” he says, squeezing my fingers tight. “Because bad parents don’t lose sleep over being bad parents. They don’t pace the floor at ten o’clock at night worrying about hypothetical trauma ten years down the line. Look at what you did for my dad. Look at how you handled that hospital room. You didn’t just ‘manage’ that, Scottie. You protected us.”

He pulls me a step closer, his hands sliding up my arms to my shoulders, drawing me into his body heat.

“You show up for Ivy when she’s drowning. You handle the team’s disasters like they’re your own family. And you apologize when you’re a brat—eventually, and usually with an expensive bottle of scotch. You grow, Scottie-girl. You’re the most intentional person I’ve ever met.”

My ribs ache with a sudden pressure, like my heart is trying to smash through the lock I’ve kept it behind my whole life.

“You would be an incredible mom,” he says, leaning down so we’re eye-to-eye. “Not a perfect one. You’d probably try to negotiate their bedtime like a corporate merger, and you’d definitely lose your mind when they draw on the walls with markers. But you’d be real. You’d be safe.”

Safe.

The word hits me like a physical blow. It’s the one thing I never felt growing up, and the one thing I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to buy with professional success.

“I’m scared I won’t know how to just… be,” I whisper, leaning my forehead against his chest.

“You don’t have to know everything,” he says, his voice a steady hum against my skin. “We’ll learn. It’ll be a total disaster. I’ll probably drop the first one—don’t look at me like that, I have giant hands, things happen. We’ll fix it together. That’s how a family works, Scottie.”

“What if I fail anyway?” I ask, my voice muffled. “What if I try my hardest and I still ruin them?”

He smiles, a low rumble in his chest that I can feel vibrate through me. “Then we’ll fail together. We’ll be an absolute disaster as a team.”

I let out a watery laugh into his shoulder. “That is literally not reassuring at all, Cash. You’re terrible at pep talks.”

“It’s reassuring to me,” he says, wrapping his large arm around my shoulders and pulling me fully against his side. “Besides,” he continues, and I can hear the grin returning, “if our kid ends up with your stubborn attitude and my total lack of impulse control, we’re doomed from the start anyway. It won’t even be your fault.”

I snort, hitting his chest weakly with my fist. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The stupid joke. I knew it was coming.”

“I was worried you missed it,” he chuckles, his fingers tangled in my hair, holding me tight against him. “I have to keep my brand consistent.”

I let out a shaky, wet laugh into his shirt. “You really want this? With the screaming and the mess and the high probability of them being as difficult as I am?”

He pulls back to look at me, his expression earnest and devoid of any teasing. “Scottie, I’ve wanted this since I was a child. I want kids who steal my fries and think you’re the coolest person on earth. I want the noise.”

He kisses the top of my head, holding me tight. “And I want it with you. Only you. I’m already prepared to be the fun parent while you make them do homework and cite the sub-sections of the household rules.”

The tightness in my chest finally dissolves. I wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face into the crook of his collarbone, clutching the fabric of his shirt like he might disappear if I let go.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter against his skin, feeling my tears soaking into his cotton shirt.

“For what?”

“For being a mess. For dragging you through a mental crisis while you were just trying to watch a documentary about penguins.”

He laughs out loud. “Sweetheart, you can drag me anywhere. Being scared just means you know how much this matters. You’re the Shark, Scottie. You don’t do anything halfway. Why would this be any different?”

We stand there in the middle of our living room for a long time.

The fear doesn’t completely disappear—I don’t think it ever will—but it feels smaller now, blocked out by the man holding me.

“Okay,” I say, pulling back just enough to wipe my face with the back of my hand. “But if they have my hair, I’m choosing all their outfits. No flannels until they’re at least ten. And they aren’t allowed to date until they’ve passed the bar exam.”