“He’s a chef, Aunt Phee,” Meg said.

“I worked at Eric’s restaurant in New York,” I said. “Gusto.”

She ignored us. “And what brings you to North Carolina?” she asked Eric.

“Soccer tournament,” I said at the same moment he said, “Jo.”

My heart jolted.

“I’m with Jo,” he repeated, holding my gaze. His eyes crinkled in that way he had of smiling without smiling, and something moved in my chest.

I grabbed his hand again. “Let me show you around.”

Phee raised her eyebrows. “I would think the tour of the farm can wait.”

“It actually can’t,” I said. I can’t.

“Well, really, I . . .”

“Let the girl go, Phee,” my mother said.

Whatever Aunt Phee replied was lost as I pulled Eric back outside, dragging him off the porch and out to the barn. Not that he took much dragging.

The barn was cold and smelled of hay. My heart hammered as I turned to face Eric. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

The creases by his eyes deepened in amusement. “Alone is good,” he agreed.

My knees turned to custard. I straightened my spine. “I’m pregnant.”

His face stilled. Before I could decipher his expression, he hauled me into his arms and against him. His body was as hard as oak. His arms were so strong and he felt so good against me, solid and strong and right. I sagged against him, giddy with relief. For a long moment, we just stood there, holding on to each other, his warmth surrounding me. With me. “I’m with Jo.”

He pulled back, his big hands gripping my shoulders. “But . . . How?”

“The usual way. The first night, probably.” My smile twisted. “Apparently I should have checked the date on the condom box.”

His gaze was dark and intense on my face. “How do you feel?”

“I feel fine. I’m seeing the doctor on Thursday.” His expression did not change. I realized suddenly what he was asking. “I want this baby. And I want you to be part of his life. Our lives. If that’s what you want,” I added.

His hands tightened almost painfully. “That’s what I am here for. To ask you. If you will be with me.”

My heart stuttered. “Where?”

He smoothed my hair back from my face, his touch lingering in my short curls. “Does it matter?”

I shook my head. “No. Not if we’re together.”

“You can do better.”

“I am doing better,” I protested. “Telling my story, like you said. I’m writing a book.”

“I cannot wait to read it. But, Jo . . . I do not care what you do. No.” He frowned. “I mean, whatever you do, I respect you. I admire you. To me, you are perfect. You can do better than me.”

“There isn’t anybody better,” I said, my voice husky. “Not for me.”

“Then . . . Jo, will you marry me?”

My mouth dropped open. My courage had taken me only as far as telling him. My imagination hadn’t taken me much beyond that. “I . . . It’s a little early to be making plans.”