Despite everything, I smile. "I'll tie them for you."
She looks at me, something soft in her expression. "Do you really mean that?"
"I'm all in." I set my water down and take her hands. "Emma, I need you to understand something. Those heartbeats—seeing them, hearing them—that changed me. I thought I was prepared for this. Thought I could approach it rationally but it's not rational. It's?—"
"So much more," she says.
"Yeah. Everything." I look at our joined hands, then back at her face. "And I know that scares you. I know you're afraid of needing me, afraid of losing yourself. But I swear to you, I'm not interested in taking over your life. I just want to be part of it. Whatever that looks like.”
"I'm so scared of screwing this up."
"Me too."
"But I'm also—" She stops, searching for words. "I'm starting to think maybe we can actually do this.”
I pull her into my arms, and she tucks herself against me. We sit like that for a long time, not talking, just being. The afternoon sun streams through the windows, painting everything gold.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably work. Probably important.
But I ignore it.
Because Emma is here, our babies' heartbeats are still echoing in my ears, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I know exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Right here. Everything else can wait.
I look at Emma and I know, with a certainty that shakes me to my core, that I would burn down the world to protect her and the two tiny babies she’s carrying.
Chapter 11
Emma
Three days after the ultrasound, I'm still floating.
It's a strange feeling—this lightness in my chest that coexists with the constant nausea and bone-deep exhaustion. I wake up in Grant's bed with his arm draped over my waist, his hand resting protectively on my stomach, and I think to myself again that maybe this is going to be okay.
Later on, I'm at my apartment, attempting to work on my signature scent, when Grant calls.
"How's your day going, baby?" he asks, and I can hear street noise in the background. He's walking somewhere, probably between meetings.
"Quiet. I'm trying to finalize the base notes, but I keep getting distracted."
"Good distracted or bad distracted?"
I smile, even though he can't see it. "Good. I keep thinking about last night. You totally blew my mind. Yet again…"
His voice softens. "Yeah, that was totally amazing. I’ll definitely add that into the rotation."
I giggle and think about how hard he made me come last night—I didn’t even think that was possible.
"So," he continues. "I can’t wait until tonight to see you and I’m hoping you’ll have lunch with me. Can you swing it?”
I laugh again. "I totally shouldn’t. I really need to figure this formula out. But, then again, a girl’s gotta eat."
"Yes, she does—especially when she’s eating for three,” he jokes. “Does one o'clock work? There's a place in SoHo you'll like—farm-to-table, very Brooklyn-chic."
"Perfect. Text me the address."
The restaurant is exactly as advertised—exposed brick, Edison bulbs, a menu featuring things like "locally sourced heirloom tomatoes" and "artisanal sourdough." The kind of place where a salad costs twenty-eight dollars and everyone looks like they're dressed casually but they’ve carefully curated every piece of clothing.
