Page 13 of Harts & Hurts

“My bedroom.”

“Nah. I was thinking that you should take the primary bedroom. I mean, it’s big enough to accommodate the furniture from Melrose’s nursery, and you’re probably gonna want her with you.”

I did want her with me, so I nodded again.

He moved a few feet down the hallway. He pointed to another door on the left side. “That’s the laundry closet.”

“Laundry closet?”

He chuckled. “It’s literally a closet. It’s nowhere near big enough to be considered a laundry room. And straight ahead is the primary bedroom. You should check it out before they start bringing in the furniture.”

I did. I walked into the room, patting Melrose’s little back to comfort both her and me. The room was spacious and sparsely decorated with just a king-sized bed and two nightstands—one on each side of the bed. He was right. It could definitely accommodate a crib, changing table, dresser, and any other furniture she had. I could hear the movers talking and giving each other instructions, so I left the bedroom, rejoining Griffin in the hallway.

Melrose started to stir, wiggling against my body. “She’s trying to wake up,” I whispered. “After the four-hour drive, she probably needs a diaper change and a bottle. Where did I leave her diaper bag?”

The day was hectic. After changing and feeding baby girl, I strapped her to my chest in the baby carrier my mother somehow had handy in the junk closet at her house. Then I went about the task of directing the movers on where to position the baby furniture in the primary bedroom. While I did that, Griffin directed the movers from Fort Jackson on how to position the items from my apartment into the guesthouse’s garage.

“I need to eat.” Griffin plopped down on the sofa next to me hours later. Melrose was at our feet, doing tummy time on a little blanket.

“Me too.” I watched the frown form on our niece’s pretty face. Her forehead scrunched, and her eyes narrowed before she bellowed.

“She can’t stand tummy time.”

“She hates it with her whole heart.” I snatched her up from the floor, cradling her to me, and the light howling instantly stopped.

“What do you want to eat?”

“Something quick and easy.” I looked down at my watch. “The newborn specialist will be here in about an hour and a half. Burgers and fries?”

“I know the perfect place. Let’s go.”

Griffin drove us in one of his trucks. I noticed that he had several. As we made our way to the restaurant, I took in Jackson Island. I’d never been there before, and I couldn’t help but acknowledge that it was a beautiful place. It was much more developed and cosmopolitan than Fort Jackson. While both were located right on the coast, kissing the Atlantic Ocean, Fort Jackson was a total small-town with an insular community and a very “who are your people?” vibe. Jackson Island was vibrant, youthful, and clearly looking to grow both its population and its economic stability.

We ended up at a restaurant called Marshmallow & Biscuit. It was a casual place with upscale vibes and huge windows that offered views of the ocean. They sat us, and Griffin placed Melrose’s car seat on the booth bench next to him while I took the chair across from him.

“It smells good here,” I told him, opening the menu I’d picked up from the table.

“They have good food. I come here a lot.”

“Do you normally get noticed?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Sometimes I do. I mean, I played for the Cyclones for eleven years. Not to sound arrogant, but I was a fan favorite. People come up sometimes.” He paused. “If somebody comes up and asks for a picture, I’ll make sure that they don’t get Melrose in the shot.”

“Okay.” I agreed, thinking that it was thoughtful of him to want to protect Melrose’s identity. “What’s good?”

“What do you like?”

“Crab cakes.”

He nodded his head. “The crab cakes are fye. Get ’em.”

When our waitress came by, we placed our orders and handed her the menus. I stood up and made my way to Melrose’s car seat. Once I freed her from the straps, I went back to my seat and sat down with her in my lap.

Griffin watched us contemplatively before speaking. “So the newborn care specialist, she’s starting today. The chef’ll be by tomorrow, and⁠—”

“There’s a chef?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I can cook.” He said it in a way that made me believe his idea of cooking was heating up frozen pizza or making a grilled cheese. “But I don’t really cook. During the season, it’s not even really possible. I’m at the studio, I’m in meetings, . . . I have one hundred balls in the air. During the off-season, I just . . . don’t.”