“Alright, since you’re the true artist here,” Russo mused, squeezing my waist gently after wrapping his arm around me, “what do you think?”
Smiling to myself, I nodded my head in approval. “I love it,” I finally announced. “I love the way the colors go together and I especially love the way you made use of some old picture frames,” I noted, making a gesture towards the framed letters hanging above the crib. “I believe your goddaughter is going to be a very lucky and spoiled little girl,” I added before standing on my tip-toes to plant a soft kiss on Russo’s nose.
“You mean our daughter?” Russo correctly, gently tucking a strand of my electric-indigo hair behind my ear.
To be completely honest, I still had a hard time seeing things from Russo’s point of view. I mean, technically speaking, the three month old infant who we would pick up later in the evening was his daughter who I agreed to assist in raising, but I couldn’t help looking at things from a literal standpoint. Iris was the biological daughter of Andre and Delena, two of Russo’s late buds who declared my boyfriend as the legal guardian of their little bundle of joy long before she was born. Granted, Russo was proud of the title, but I, playing the role of Pessimistic Penny, prayed to the heavens above that nothing would happen to the duo before or after Iris became of age. God knows Russo was already having a hard time being a father to the two girls he actually fathered. Did he honestly need another child to add to the stress?