Maybe.
I close my eyes and let myself feel it—the exhaustion, the fear, the hope, all of it tangled together.
Tomorrow, I'll probably panic again. Tomorrow, the impossible logistics of this situation will feel crushing. Tomorrow, I'll remember all the reasons why trusting Grant is dangerous.
But right now, in this moment, I let myself believe him.
I'm not alone.
And maybe—just maybe—that's a good thing.
Chapter 9
Emma
Ishouldn’t have worn this dress.
I know it the moment Grant's driver opens the car door and Grant's eyes sweep over me with an intensity that makes my skin flush. It's the nicest thing I own—a navy wrap dress that Poppy insisted I buy even though I knew it was too clingy, too revealing. She’d said I’d need it one day for a hot date.
I'd told myself I was wearing it tonight because we're going to a nice restaurant—to discuss practical matters like doctor's appointments and parental responsibilities.
Not because I wanted him to look at me the way he's looking at me right now.
"Hi," I manage, sliding into the leather seat beside him.
"Hi." His deep low voice makes me want to lean in closer to him. He's in a dark suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. Professional enough for a nice restaurant, casual enough that I can see the hollow of his throat. "You look beautiful."
"Thanks." I smooth the dress over my thighs, hyperaware of every inch of bare skin. "You said we were going somewhere nice."
"I did." He's still looking at me like I'm something he wants to unwrap slowly. "I just wasn't prepared for—" He stops, his jaw tightening. "Never mind. How are you feeling?"
The shift to practical concern should be a relief. Instead, it makes something twist in my chest. This is what we're doing now—pretending we can have a normal conversation while the air between us crackles with everything we're not saying.
"Fine. The nausea is better in the evenings."
"Good. That's good." He settles back in his seat, putting a careful foot of space between us. Like he doesn't trust himself to sit closer. "I made a reservation at Eleven Madison Park. I know it's formal, but they have a private dining room where we can talk without?—"
"Without being overheard," I finish. "Smart."
The car pulls into traffic, and I stare out the window. The silence stretches, thick and a little uncomfortable. We're two people who spent an entire transatlantic flight talking easily about everything and nothing, and now we can barely string sentences together.
Because everything is different now. The stakes are so much higher. We're not old family friends reconnecting on a plane. We're two people about to become parents. Together. To twins.
The impossibility of it hits me again, and I press my hand against my stomach without thinking. It’s still flat, of course. No visible sign of the babies growing inside me.
"I think I mentioned before the OB practice that specializes in high-risk pregnancies," Grant says, breaking the silence. "They have excellent doctors, and they're affiliated with Mount Sinai. I can send you the information, or if you'd prefer to choose your own doctor?—"
"Grant."
"I'm doing it again, aren't I?" He runs a hand through his hair nervously. "Solving problems."
"A little." I turn to look at him. "But I appreciate the recommendation. Can you send me the information? I'll look it over."
Relief crosses his face. "Of course."
“I do have another doctor and I’ve only seen her once so far, but I really liked her. She seemed totally competent.”
“Of course. You should go with whoever you’re comfortable with.”
