At Carter, who looked like a man offering her his whole heart.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Yes. Let’s do this.”
PART FOUR – HOME, A DAUGHTER, AND HAPPILY EVER AFTER
Moving into Carter’s penthouse was like stepping into a different universe.
Her entire Brooklyn apartment could fit inside the master bedroom. The guest room closet was bigger than her old bedroom. The kitchen had appliances she’d never seen in real life.
“This is insane,” she muttered on her third morning there, staring at the espresso machine. “Who needs a coffee maker that costs more than a used car?”
“Someone who drinks a lot of coffee,” Carter said, coming up behind her and pressing a series of buttons.
The machine whirred to life.
“Also, it makes excellent hot chocolate. Which you like.”
“I like the hot chocolate from the bodega on the corner,” she said.
“This is better,” he said. “Trust me.”
He handed her a mug topped with foam.
She took a cautious sip.
“I hate that you’re right,” she muttered.
“Get used to it,” he said. “I’m right about most things.”
“And so humble,” she replied.
He grinned.
They were still figuring out how to live together. Still learning each other’s rhythms. Still navigating the weird space between “we’re having a baby” and “we’re a couple.”
Some things were easy.
Like the way she started falling asleep on the couch halfway through movies and waking up with a blanket over her and Carter’s arm around her waist.
Or the way he reflexively reached for her hand in elevators.
Or how he started talking to her belly the moment the books told him the baby could hear.
“Hey, little one,” he would murmur, crouching down. “It’s your dad. We had a board meeting today. It was terrible. Don’t worry, I survived.”
Her favorite new memory came one evening when she was trying—and failing—to cook her grandmother’s Portuguese chicken stew.
“This doesn’t look right,” she said, frowning into the pot.
“Is it supposed to be that color?” Carter asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Maybe I added too much paprika.”
“How much did the recipe call for?” he asked.
“A teaspoon,” she said.
“How much did you add?” he asked.
“Two tablespoons,” she said.
He stared.
“That’s not ‘a little more,’” he said. “That’s six times more.”
“Well, the recipe should be clearer,” she said.
He started laughing.
“You just can’t measure,” he said.
