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“That’s it,” I say, bringing one hand between us to rub her slick flesh. “Come for me.”
A few moments more and she does, her body clenching wildly around mine until I groan and follow her over the edge.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ryleigh
I change my outfit four times.
Which is ridiculous, because it’s a preschool, not a runway, and the dress code is literally “comfortable clothes you don’t mind getting paint on.” But I’m standing in front of the closet in my underwear at 6:15 a.m., holding up a pair of jeans and a striped sweater like they’re going to determine the entire trajectory of my new life.
“The sweater,” Alexei says from the doorway, coffee mug in hand. He’s shirtless, leaning against the frame, watching me spiral with an expression that’s equal parts amused and gentle.
“You think?”
“I think you’d look good in a trash bag, so my opinion is useless. But yeah. The sweater.”
I pull it on. Check the mirror. It’s fine. It’s a sweater. I’m a person in a sweater going to work at a normal job where I will be fully clothed the entire time, and somehow that thought makes my eyes sting.
“Hey.” He crosses the room and sets his mug down, then puts both hands on my shoulders. “You’re going to be great.”
“What if I’m terrible?”
“You’re not going to be terrible.”
“What if the kids hate me?”
“Kids don’t hate people. They hate naps and vegetables. You’ll be fine. And I’m betting they’ll love you.”
“What if I cry?”
“Then you cry. That’s allowed.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Ry. You’ve kept a baby alive for two months with zero training. You can handle a room full of four-year-olds.”
I take a breath. He’s right. Probably. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He kisses my forehead—lingering, warm—and then goes to get Ella.
She’s in the nursery, awake and kicking, wearing the outfit I picked out last night, a tiny floral-print onesie. Today is her first day in the infant program at the school. She’ll be down the hall from me. In a room with trained professionals who actually know what they’re doing with babies.
I should feel relieved about that. Instead, my stomach is in a knot the size of a fist.
Alexei carries her to the kitchen while I finish getting ready. By the time I come out, he’s got her in the high chair, feeding her cereal with one hand and drinking coffee with the other. There’s a travel mug already filled and waiting for me on the counter, plus a granola bar and my keys, arranged in a neat little line.
He prepared a launch sequence for me. Like I’m a rocket and he’s mission control.
“Thank you,” I say, grabbing the mug.
“There’s also a sandwich.” He motions to a brown bag. “Turkey and Swiss. And an extra bottle for Ella. And a change of clothes for her in case she has a situation.”
“You packed all that?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like getting up an hour early to prep a diaper bag and make me a sandwich on my first day of real work is just something that happens. Just a Tuesday.
I look at him — bedhead, bare chest, baby cereal on his forearm — and I think, not for the first time, how much trouble I’m in.
Dropping Ella off at the infant room is fine. It’s totally fine.
The room is bright and cheerful — soft mats on the floor, a wall of cubbies, two women in matching polo shirts who smile warmly and introduce themselves as Miss Tammy and Miss Joanne. There are three other babies already there, doing various baby things — one sleeping, one gnawing on a block, one babbling happily at the ceiling.
