Page 141 of Married to the Scottish Player
Not that I’m not happy—I am! But. Hello, pink?
He grins into my neck. “We can still put him in it.”
“Stop it.” I choke out a laugh, then immediately burst into tears. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“Because you’re hormonal and beautiful,” he whispers. “And we’re having a son.”
A son.
Holy crap. I’m going to be a boy mom.
A few hours later, I’m curled up on the bed with my feet elevated, a huge glass of ginger ale in one hand and my phone in the other, FaceTiming Lucy, who is staying at a nearby luxury hotel with Harris.
She’s got a clay mask on, hair piled on top of her head, a robe—and a very full glass of red wine cradled in her palm. Lucy loves hotels and room service and plush, white robes.
“So. You’re having a boy. A mini Callum. A munchkin Maverick.”
“Please stop.” I press a finger to my temple. “I’m too tired for this.”
She laughs. “Fine. Tell me everything. How’s the name list coming? Are you going with a classic name or, like, celebrity weird? Because I saw a baby named Crouton on Instagram yesterday and honestly? He was adorable.”
“Yes, I love the name MacGyver.”
Her eyes get wide. “Are you serious?”
“No, Lucy! I’m not serious!” But the look on her face is worth it. “My parents—and his—would kill us.”
“Okay, but imagine a baby named MacGyver.” She laughs again. “That’s a child who comes out fixing broken toys with duct tape and a stick of gum.”
We giggle.
I sigh, letting my head flop back against the cushions. “We had a short list of serious names, until Callum decided he wanted the baby to have a ‘strong quarterback name.’”
“Oh no.”
“Yeah. He said something about ‘legacy’ and ‘branding.’ Like our baby’s going to be born with a recruiting profile.”
Lucy gasps. “Please tell me he didn’t suggest Maverick Junior.”
“Oh, he did. He one hundred percent did.”
She howls with laughter. “You are a saint.”
“Honestly, I haven’t given much thought to it. You know how busy I’ve been planning that wedding.”
She freezes, one clay-covered brow rising like a judgmental arch. “Hold the phone—you’re planninganotherwedding? How many do you need?!”
“Not for me!” I defend quickly. “It’s for this couple I met through the wellness studio. They’re eloping but want a lakeside picnic slash ceremony thing with their dog as the ring bearer.”
She relaxes. “Jeez, you scared the crap out of me. Not that I don’t support more parties ...” There’s a pause. “But I kind of don’t care about the wedding. I want to know about the nursery. What theme are we talking? Are you doing one of those rooms where the stuffed animals match the walls?”
I grin, sipping my water. “Callum’s been obsessively researching paint colors like he’s remodeling the Vatican. There’s a paint swatch taped to every wall.”
“What color?”
“Beige. ‘Cappuccino Mist,’” I say, doing air quotes. “He’s so into it, it’s not even funny.”
And I’m letting him do his thing because to me, the color of the walls doesn’t matter as much as all the other things: like the way he measured the closet four times to make sure the changing table would fit.
