She shakes her head just slightly. “Just wish you would have told me the removal process before putting it in.”

“You’re making a big deal out of nothing. We’re even in the water, so any mess will wash off on the way out.”

“Oh, gross.” She gets up, looking at me like I’ve sprouted a third arm or something.

“What’s wrong now?”

“I’m not going to sit in poop soup!” She climbs out of the tub, wrapping a bath sheet around her body and securing it between her boobs, while looking at me expectantly. “Get out.”

“Of the tub or the bathroom?” I lift the built-in drain stopper then step out onto the drenched floor and grab myself a towel.

“Both.” Her hand flattens to my back, and she gives a little push toward the door before shooing me away. “I’m gonna keep what little dignity I have left and shit this thing out in private.”

“Okay,” I agree, pausing in the door to press a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Thank you for allowing me to take my little willie to your chocolate factory.”

She presses her lips into a flat line, trying like hell not to laugh as she shoves me the rest of the way through. “Out!”

The door slams shut.

Laughing, I make my way to bed with my cup overflowing.

My heart is full.

My balls are empty.

Life is good…

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Hey, Li’l Momma…” Lyle peeks his head into the nursery where I’m humming “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and rocking baby bean.

I do this a lot now—sit in here and dream of what life will be like in two months when he’s finally here. Eight more weeks seems like a lifetime; then I remind myself thirty-two have already passed and reason that it’s actually not so bad.

Smoothing my hands over my enormous bump, I smile up at the man who’s made this incredible life possible. “Hi.”

“Can I show you something?” He’s still standing in the doorway, and his excitement over whatever he wants me to see is palpable. My heart rate picks up without knowing a single detail.

“What is it?” I ask, gripping the arms of the chair to lift myself out of it, but before I have my butt off the seat, he’s in front of me, offering me a hand.

“So, I was in the studio messing around this morning and recorded a lullaby for baby George.” His smile is dazzling.

“His name is not George,” I huff as he leads me through the house to his studio, only recently completed.

“I want to play it for you.” He brings me into the room where there’s a table filled with art supplies. “On your stomach,” he adds, reading the confusion on my face.

“Huh?” His explanation does nothing to clear up what he wants.