Dante is pacing behind me, reading the directions like he’s decoding a bomb. “You’re holding it upside down.” “No, I’m holding it like it deserves to be held. With violence,” I grumble, turning the piece around. Ari snorts and leans back on her hands. “Maybe we should’ve just paid the extra fifty dollars to have them build it.” I glance over my shoulder, and the sight of her—glowing, relaxed, belly full of our kid—makes something tight in my chest loosen all at once. “Absolutely not,” I say. “My son is sleeping in a bed built by my own two hands if it kills me.” Dante grunts. “It might.”
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