Page 153 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

“Who?”

“Maeve’s sister.”

“Poor woman.”

“Lucky woman,” Presley corrected. Then her smile turned wicked. “Speaking of Maeve, has she told you about the turkey baster?”

I lowered my mug. “I beg your pardon.”

“Oh, she hasn’t.”

“No.”

“Excellent. I’d prefer to tell you here than over dinner.” Presley settled deeper into the sofa, as if preparing to ruin my sister’s dignity with the respect it deserved. “When I first met my pack, Maeve gave me a turkey baster.”

“Why?”

“Apparently she thought they were gay and just needed a baby, and I needed to get in first and break the ice.”

I stared at her. “I’m confused.”

“They needed a surrogate.”

“And you thought using a turkey baster was the way to go.”

“Maeve did.”

“Obviously,” I said.

Presley arched an eyebrow. “And they were never going to use a turkey baster.”

I put the mug down because my hands were no longer reliable.

“I can’t believe she’s been walking around with this information unpunished.”

“She was under a lot of stress.”

“Presley, she armed you with kitchen equipment.”

“It was new.”

“That doesn’t help.”

Presley laughed so hard she had to wipe under one eye.

I laughed too, properly, until my stomach pulled and I had to press a hand there.

“Careful,” Presley said, still smiling.

“I’m fine.”

“I know. I’m contractually obliged by motherhood to say careful when pregnant women laugh, bend, stand, sit, or look at stairs.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“You get used to it.”

The laughter faded slowly as we sat with the sunshine moving softly over the cottage roof and the muffled sounds of Presley’s house behind us. Children, a grandmother, a life full enough to spill out of rooms.