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”I am not giving any baby my genetics,” Joly insisted. “I’m fairly certain that under the right circumstances the drop of a hat really could make me sick.”
“So you’d rather our child have the genetics of a man who started going bald at twenty-three?” Bossuet asked, amused. “Not to mention one with the worst luck in the world who is fondly- and sometimes not-so-fondly- called a walking disaster?”
This gave Joly pause and a small frown, both of which made Musichetta and Bossuet laugh.
“If you are going to worry about this the entire time I simply won’t have a child at all,” Musichetta declared airily.
“Maybe that’s best,” Joly said anxiously. “I mean…” He peered at Musichetta’s hips. The look was not lost on Musichetta, who raised one eyebrow slowly.
“Are you honestly doubting the ability of my hips to do the job?” she asked, following his gaze down. Then, grinning, she swung her ample hips from side to side and abruptly sat on Joly’s lap, eliciting a little squeak as she ground down lightly.
“No,” he conceded at last, face red.
“Good,” she said primly, standing up again and sharing a grin with Bossuet.
“What if we all just… you know, get to work… and see what happens? If the baby comes out with an irrational fear of chicken pox, then we’ll know it’s Joly’s; if it comes out and the building falls down around us, we’ll know it’s mine,” Bossuet said reasonably.
“Or we won’t ever know whose it is and really, I think I’d like that best,” Musichetta agreed, smiling. “Shall we start now?”
Bossuet leaned in to kiss the right corner of her mouth, and after a moment’s hesitation, Joly tucked his head into her neck and kissed the underside of her jaw.
“I suppose that could be fine,” Joly murmured.
“More than fine.” Musichetta grinned mischievously and tugged both of her boys by the hand down to the bedroom.