Halfway through, his hand drifts to my stomach again. It’s like he's constantly checking in, making sure everything is okay.
"Have you thought about any more names recently?" he asks during a break in the action.
"A little. Have you?"
"Some. Though I keep getting stuck on whether we're having boys, girls, or one of each."
"We could find out. Dr. Martelle said we can do the anatomy scan at twenty weeks."
He's quiet for a moment. "Do you want to know?"
I consider the question carefully. "I think so. It would make planning easier. And honestly, I'm not sure I can handle many more surprises."
"Fair point." He takes a sip of his bourbon. "So which names are top on your list right now?"
"If we have a girl, I like Clara. Or maybe Iris."
"Iris." He repeats, trying it on.
"Yeah, it means rainbow. Hope after the storm."
His arms tighten around me. "I love that."
"What about you? Any contenders?"
"For a boy, maybe James. After my grandfather. He was the one who believed I could be anything I wanted to be."
The emotion in his voice makes my heart ache. "James is perfect. I actually like that for a boy or a girl."
We fall silent, both lost in the magnitude of naming actual human beings. The concept still feels surreal to me, like something happening to someone else.
The movie ends, and Grant suggests we get ready for bed. It's barely nine-thirty, but exhaustion is pulling at me. The first trimester fatigue has faded, but I'm still more tired than I used to be.
In Grant's bathroom—which is roughly the size of my entire studio—I brush my teeth and wash my face. My reflection stares back at me, and for once, I don't look anxious or overwhelmed. I look... content. Happy, even.
When I emerge, Grant's already in bed, reading something on his phone. He sets it aside when he sees me, lifting the covers in invitation.
I slide in beside him, and he immediately pulls me close, my back to his warm chest, his hand finding its now-familiar resting place on my stomach.
"You're going to kill it tomorrow," Grant says, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.
"You think so?"
"I know so." His hand splays across my stomach. "Lawrence Vance is going to see exactly what I see—someone with vision, passion, and the drive to make it happen. He'd be an idiot not to back you."
The faith in his voice undoes me completely. I turn in his arms, needing to see his face.
"Thank you," I say.
"For what?"
"For believing in me. For letting me do this my own way."
His expression softens. "Emma, watching you build Essence—watching you fight for your dream—it's one of my favorite things. I wouldn't interfere with that for anything."
I kiss him, slow and deep. When we break apart, he holds me close, and I let myself sink into the safety of his arms.
"Get some sleep," he murmurs. "Tomorrow, you're going to change your life."
