Page 151 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

“They only come in here if I invite them,” she said.

“Really?”

“Really. It was the first thing Fritz said. They wanted me everywhere in the big house, but they knew I needed somewhere the world stopped asking. Somewhere for me to feel safe and mine.”

I touched the back of the sofa. The fabric was soft beneath my fingers. “That’s...” I swallowed. “That’s lovely.”

“It is.” Presley set a tray down on the low table. “Also useful when children, three alphas, Fritz’s mother, Etienne’s grandmother, and a cat with opinions all exist in the same house.”

“Sounds hectic.”

“It is.” She dropped onto the sofa and patted the seat beside her.

I sat carefully. “Do you like it? Motherhood.”

“Yes.” Presley’s whole face changed. “I love it. I want more children.” The humor was still there, but it had gone soft at the edges. “Not every minute, because I’m not a masochist. Anyone who loves every minute of motherhood is either lying, medicated, or has staff doing the worst bits. But I love them. I love the noise, the questions, and the way they become people right in front of you like magic but with jam on its face.”

My hand moved to my stomach.

Presley’s eyes followed it. “You’ll love it too.”

“You sound very sure.”

“I am,” Presley said. “We’re born for it.”

“I don’t know if I’m the maternal sort.”

“No one is the maternal sort before someone hands them a person who can’t hold up its own head and expects them to know what to do, but then it’s like magic.”

I stared at her.

She shrugged. “It’s true.”

“Maeve is a good mother.”

Presley laughed, loudly. “Maeve is a terrifyingly good mother for someone who is terrifying.”

She continued. “She’s wonderful with Mac and Mila because she loves like a siege weapon. Once she’s decided you’re hers, God help the person who disagrees. But she didn’t float into motherhood on a cloud of serenity. She rang me once because Mac had sneezed twice, said something about needing the hospital, and she wanted to know if children could be dramatic genetically. Your name may have risen during that conversation.”

“Me.” I plonked my hand over my heart. “Maybe I’m a little dramatic. But can they? Be dramatic genetically?”

She just looked at me.

I laughed and took the tea she handed me. “I dread to think what my sister told you about me.”

The mug was yellow and said World’s Okayest Adult.

I looked at it.

Presley grinned. “Fritz bought me that after I cried because I’d put baby wipes in the fridge and milk in the cupboard.”

“I love him for that.”

“Everyone does. It’s irritating.”

The door opened behind us and a huge ginger cat wandered in, tail high, face sour.

Presley sighed. “Mr. Cheddar, we discussed manners.”