"Yes?"
He reaches up. His fingers brush my jaw. The touch sends electricity cascading through my entire body.
"I'm still angry at you," he says.
"I know."
"And I'm terrified of what happens next."
"So am I."
His hand slides to the back of my neck. He pulls me down.
The kiss is soft and tentative. It's a question, not a demand, and I answer it as gently as I know how.
His belly presses between us—our daughter, impossibly present—and I feel her move. A flutter against my stomach. A kick.
I break the kiss with a gasp.
"Did you feel that?" Jamie asks. He's almost smiling. Almost.
"Was that—"
"She's been active today." He takes my hand, presses it to the swell of his stomach. "Wait."
I wait. The fabric of his sweater is soft under my palm. Underneath, I feel the warmth and taut curve of stretched skin.
There’s another kick. Stronger this time. A tiny foot or fist, pressing against my hand like a greeting.
My daughter.
I didn't know it was possible to feel this much joy and terror and desperate, overwhelming love, all tangled together until I can't tell where one ends and another begins.
"She knows you're here," Jamie says quietly.
I can't speak. My throat has closed completely.
Jamie's hand covers mine. We stand there in his tiny bedroom, his belly between us, our daughter making her presence known.
Georgia calls back seven minutes later. "You up for David Glass again?”
“I thought he’s not on until Friday.”
“Oh, he wants to make an exception. The network is even going to bump their regular segment when I told them what it was about," she says. "Apparently, rumors about you two never really died down. The network's been sitting on that footage of you on Point of Contention for months, waiting for a follow-up. Give me the address and I’ll arrange a car for you."
"Yes, we’ll do it. Thank you, Georgia."
"Don't thank me yet. You're about to walk into a lion's den."
"I know."
"And Carter?" Her voice softens. "For what it's worth, I hope it works out. You sound happier than I've ever heard you."
The call ends. I look at Jamie.
"We should go."
The car arrives a few minutes later. It’s a black sedan with tinted windows, a driver who doesn't ask questions. Georgia's arrangement.
