"Absolutely not."
Dad had positioned himself between Brynn and the kitchen like a goalie defending the net. "You are growing a human being. The dishwater chemicals alone?—"
"John, it's just soap."
"It's endocrine disruptors, Brynn. I've read studies."
West appeared behind his wife, hands on her shoulders. "Come on. Let's go sit. You know he's not going to let this go."
"I feel fine?—"
"You feel finenow. But unnecessary exertion in the first trimester—" Dad was already steering them toward the living room. "Karalyn, bring her some water. Filtered. And a pillow for her lower back."
Emmy watched them go, biting back a smile. Brynn caught her eye and mouthedhelp mebefore disappearing around the corner.
"Well." Emmy turned to the mountain of dishes on the counter—Serle had been firmly sent home, Dad probably wanting to interrogate Brynn without witnesses. "Guess it's us."
Grant was already rolling up his sleeves. "Wash or dry?"
"I'll wash. You just spent three hours throwing missiles."
He held up his hands, flexing his fingers. "These hands can handle anything you throw at them."
Heat crept up Emmy's neck. She turned to the sink before he could see it. "Just dry the plates, Grant."
He didn't argue. Just took the towel she handed him and positioned himself at her elbow, close enough that she could smell soap and something warm underneath that she was not going to think about.
"So." Emmy scrubbed at a serving dish. "West is going to be a dad."
"Yeah."
"Did you know?"
"No." Grant dried a plate, set it aside. "He's terrible at secrets, but he kept that one."
They worked in silence for a moment. The clink of dishes, the rush of water.
"Are you really playing in the golf tournament?"
"The team sends a group every year. Big fundraiser for the children's hospital." He shrugged. "And I like golf."
"How magnanimous of you."
"I contain multitudes." He took another plate from her. "You nervous?"
"Should I be?"
"Lot of big names at those things. Big egos." He dried the plate carefully. "Just watch yourself."
"I can handle a golf tournament, Grant."
"I know you can."
He set the plate down.
"But you don't have to do it alone, Em."
The warmth of the water, his body close enough to smell, the clink of her mother's good china—something tightened low in Emmy's chest. Standing at this sink doing dishes with Grant while her family's noise drifted in from the living room. Like trying on someone else's life and finding it fit.
