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"Well!" I say, still panting, recovering from my own release. "I've never seen that before!"
Remi blushes like raspberry chocolate. He falls forward onto the counter and hides his face in his elbow.
I know one of the things they've been working on with Doc Miller is Remi voicing his wants and needs and Justin not simply doing what he assumes is best for us. I think today's example was a rousing success!
“Looks like therapy is doing you good.”
He hisses when Justin pulls out.
Justin smirks his cocky, king-of-the-universe smile and shoves his hair out of his eyes. They're both covered in sweat, both still heaving.
"Who’s your daddy now?" Justin croons.
The bastard drops me a wink.
Remi groans in embarrassment.
They catch me before I fall off the counter, collapsing in a peal of laughter.
My breasts don't hurt for the rest of the day.
23
JULIA
“Istill don’t understand why we’re having the baby shower so early,” I say to no one as we pull into the lazy, upper-crust neighborhood of Justin’s mother’s friend’s house.
That’s a mouthful.
I don’t know why we’re having a baby shower at all, to be honest. Baby showers are so you can get baby gifts. If we get one more present, the apartment is going to explode. Between the boys, who single-handedly bought out the baby section of Target, Justin’s family, and Mrs. Jones?
Forget about it.
Especially Mrs. Jones.
She’s turned into one of those Nannies you read about in historical novels or see in period dramas that live forever with the sole purpose of caring for the next generation of some titled family or other. Justin keeps poking at her, asking her if she wants to be called nana or grammie. She, in turn, replies with a sharp “oh hush, you,” while trying to fight the grin taking over her face.
It’s a losing battle. Both the one she’s fighting with herself and the one she’s fighting with Justin. His mom is already called grandma from Bri’s kids, and he told me he’s leaning on nana. Mrs. Jones looks like a nana to him.
So long as they don’t call her Mrs. Jones.
The nursery is set up. The apartment has been baby proofed, even though it’ll be at least a year until there’s a little human crawling through the rooms, and that’s if she’s crawling at eight months. Once dedicated to my art supplies and easel, the corner of our bedroom has been repurposed with a secondary crib and rocking chair, so I can nurse the baby without walking more than five feet from the bed.
Frankly, if our friends and family are so determined to spend money, I’d rather they buy supplies for local women’s shelters or donate diapers to daycares.
But Mrs. Jones told me gently that a baby shower wasn’t really about me. It’s about all of the other people who are celebrating the impending birth of the most important person in all of our lives, which…fair enough. If Justin’s mother wants to throw a party and invite all her friends to preen under the attention afforded to her by impending Grandmotherhood, then who am I to tell her no?
But why, in God’s name, are we in the Hamptons?
“Thirty weeks isn’t that early,” Justin insists for the dozenth time.
He would know better. My life, though wonderful, wasn’t exactly filled with social events to mark the passage of time. I have friends now. Good friends. Meeting Justin and Remi opened up a whole new world for me. But I still have a pretty strong social deficit. Everyone knows I prefer to be at home with the boys.
Justin is our social butterfly.
This means Ebony’s, including the number of baby showers I’ve been to is two. Mine, tomorrow, included.
We slow to a crawl onto the gravel driveway.
