Page 117 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

“Not cream.”

“Practical,” Hudson said.

“Babies leak from everywhere. I’ve met Mila. Cream is dangerous.”

The shop assistant, a polished beta woman in black pants, smiled from behind the counter.

“Sage is very popular for gender-neutral nurseries.”

Mary’s hand stilled on the cloth and I smelled the change in her scent before her face altered. Blackberry pulling back. Violet turning careful.

Too early, I thought. Too early to know if we were having boys or girls, too early to be decorating anything, or assuming she was staying for good.

“And Sage hides sick better,” Mary said.

The assistant laughed politely.

Hudson placed the stroller card back in its holder. “We’ll take twenty in sage and twenty in yellow.”

Mary turned to him. “Forty?”

“We’re shopping for two babies.”

“They’ll be small. Not octopuses.”

“I bet Mila can go through three in an hour,” I said.

“Mila is unique.”

“Our children may inherit the same traits. They will be related.”

Mary blinked at the word our, then whispered, “I’m sure her messiness is from the Russian side of the family.”

“Perhaps,” Hudson muttered.

Mary looked down at the muslins. “Fine. But if they grow up with a muslin addiction, that’s on you.”

“We’ll start a fund,” Hudson said.

“A recovery fund?” she quipped.

“A textile fund.”

She stared at him and I laughed before I could stop myself.

Mary pointed at me. “Don’t encourage him. He already has the confidence of a man who thinks showing me his forearms is foreplay.”

Hudson’s mouth lifted at one corner as he pushed up his sleeve. “You hate them, don’t you?”

The assistant made a small noise and busied herself with the register.

Mary’s cheeks went pink.

I stepped closer, letting my hand settle at the back of her neck for one brief second, my thumb brushing beneath her hair.

Her scent opened again. Sugared blackberry, the warmth of whiskey, and fresh rain, and underneath it all was violet.

Hudson’s head came up on the other side of the aisle. He smelled it too.