When we break apart, he reaches for the tablet again. "So. Cribs. Let's find something we both like."
We spend the next hour scrolling through options, our debate shifting from cribs to strollers to the ongoing question of car seats. Grant pulls up spreadsheets comparing safety ratings. I counter with articles about toxic chemicals in baby products.By the time we've added half a dozen items to a shared list, my stomach is growling.
"Apparently, I'm starving," I announce.
"You're always starving lately." But he's already standing, offering me a hand up. "What sounds good?"
"Something with protein. And a lot of carbs. With a veggie or two thrown in."
"Thai?"
"Perfect."
While Grant orders takeout, I wander to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city spread below us. Manhattan at dusk, all golden light and lengthening shadows. From up here, it looks manageable. Beautiful, even.
Tomorrow, I'll be down there somewhere, walking into the most important meeting of my life.
The thought sends a jolt of adrenaline through me, equal parts excitement and fear.
"Food will be here in thirty minutes," Grant says, coming up behind me. His arms circle my waist, hands settling on my stomach. "You're tense. What's wrong?"
"Nothing’s wrong. I’m just nervous." I lean back against his chest. "Tomorrow's the pitch meeting."
"I know." His voice rumbles against my back. "You're going to be incredible."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually. I've heard your presentation three times now. It's compelling and thorough. Any investor would be lucky to back you."
The vote of confidence should help. Instead, it makes my anxiety spike. Because Grant sees Essence through the lens of someone who's built empires, who understands how to scale businesses and navigate corporate structures. But what if the investor tomorrow sees what I actually am—a pregnant twenty-four-year-old with more passion than experience, trying to break into an oversaturated market?
"Hey." Grant turns me to face him, his expression concerned. "What are you worried about?"
"I'm just—what if I screw this up? What if my numbers don't make sense, or my market analysis is too optimistic, or he takes one look at me and realizes I have no idea what I'm actually doing?"
"Emma." He wraps his strong arms around me. "Listen to me. You’ve spent eighteen months building Essence from nothing. You've sourced sustainable suppliers, developed original formulas, and built a damn good brand identity. You didn't do that by accident. You did it because you're smart and determined as hell."
"But—"
"No buts. Yes, you're young. Yes, you're going up against established companies with bigger budgets. But you have something they don't—a genuine vision and the talent to execute it." His eyes hold mine. "I've seen a lot of pitches, Emma. Heard hundreds of presentations from people trying to get my money. And your plan? It's good. Really good. You don't need me to tell you that, but I'm going to anyway, because you need to believe it when you walk into that room tomorrow."
My throat feels tight. "You really think I can do this?"
"I know you can."
"Without your help? Without your money or connections or influence?"
Something flickers in his expression—hurt, maybe, or frustration—but when he speaks, his voice is steady. "Yes. Without any of that. This is yours, Emma. You built it all by yourself from the beginning. You're going to succeed because you're brilliant, not because of anything I do or don't contribute."
The certainty in his voice breaks something loose in my chest. I stretch up and kiss him, pouring everything I can't articulate into the contact.
He responds immediately, one hand sliding into my hair while the other stays protectively on my lower back. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, and I press closer, craving the connection.
We're interrupted by the buzzer announcing the food delivery.
Grant pulls back with a groan. "Terrible timing."
"Terrible," I agree, though I'm breathless and smiling.
