Page 18 of The Firefighter’s Forever

“Harmony.”

“What?”

I hold her gaze and make myself keep my voice even. “You look really good.”

Her lips part slightly, and I know she hears the restraint because I see the color rise in her cheeks. Meanwhile, the rest of the sentence sits behind my teeth. You look gorgeous. You look so beautiful it makes it hard to think.

I don’t say it. And she looks away, adjusting her purse strap as if it’s necessary for her to do in that exact moment. “I still need clothes.”

“I’ll come with you,” I say.

She blinks. “You want to go maternity shopping?”

“Sure.”

“Lucas.”

“What?”

“You’re a firefighter. A captain. A grown man with presumably better things to do than sit in a maternity boutique while I try on elastic-waist jeans.”

“I’ve got the afternoon off, and elastic-waist jeans sound riveting.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Maybe.” I open the passenger door of her car, then lean my forearm against the roof. “But I’m still coming.”

Her smile curves slowly. “You’re weirdly willing to suffer through things.”

I grin and gesture for her to get in. “C’mon. Let’s go shopping, Harmony.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she climbs into the car. “Fine. But if you complain once, I’m leaving you there.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

That’s also a lie. I would complain about a thousand things if it kept her smiling at me like that.

Harmony walks into the maternity shop ahead of me, then immediately slows down as if the sight of all the clothes makes the entire situation too real. There are dresses, stretchy jeans, nursing tops, bras, and rows of tiny pastel signs dividing sections. Her fingers absentmindedly fiddle with the strap of her purse, and I fight the urge to reach for her hand.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She lets out a small breath. “Just having one of those moments.”

“What moments?”

“The kind where I remember I’m shopping for clothes because my body is being slowly taken over by a baby.”

“Our baby,” I say.

Her eyes flick to mine.

I cough. “But yeah. I can see how that would be a moment.”

She looks like she’s going to say something more, but doesn’t. The clerk, an older woman with short hair and bright glasses, greets us from behind the counter and tells Harmony to let her know if she needs help. Harmony thanks her, then starts moving through the racks.

I follow behind, holding whatever she hands me. She passes me a pair of jeans, then a dress, then three shirts draped over one hanger. I take every piece without comment.

“Still having fun?” she asks.