So yeah. I’m happy.
Mostly.
And the little starter library I put together for her baby? That’s my way of proving it.
I grunt as I wrestle the oversized gift box out of the back of my SUV.
It’s adorable—objectively.
A custom-decorated floor shelf, hand-painted in soft pastels, with wooden blocks along the bottom that spell out Baby’s First Book Nook.
Inside? A carefully curated collection of board books, classics, and a few sneaky early reader romances because it’s never too early to set expectations.
It also weighs approximately one thousand pounds.
“Shit,” I mutter, halfway bent into the trunk, my sandals slipping on the pavement as I try to get a better grip.
This was a mistake.
A very cute, very thoughtful, extremely heavy mistake.
I shift my weight—and immediately regret it.
My foot slides.
My balance goes.
And now I am fully hanging out of my trunk like some kind of human yard sale display, legs kicking slightly behind me while I try not to faceplant into a pile of baby books.
Also—and this is important—my dress?
Riding. Up.
Like, up up.
As in, hello world, enjoy the full view of my fully licensed Berenstain Bears underwear because apparently I’m making excellent life choices this morning.
Fantastic.
“You need a hand, linda?”
The deep, slightly amused voice comes from right behind me.
I freeze.
Okay.
First of all—my name is not Linda.
Second of all—this guy is way too close.
I can feel the heat of him at my backside, solid and warm and very much there, and when I push myself up and straighten, my entire plus-size ass brushes against him—and can I just say—whoa.
Like whoa.
Oh wow.
That is a man.