“Don’t you dare,” I say, my throat thickening. I wish I didn’t cry when I get angry, but I usually do. My haywire hormones certainly aren’t helping. “Don’t you dare do this right now. You have no idea how terrible I feel about cancelling the meeting, but this pregnancy is kicking my ass. I can’t sleep, so I’m a barely functioning narcoleptic during the day. And the fact that they call it morning sickness is a joke. I have it all day, every day, and I spend most of my time offering to sell my soul to whoever’ll take it just so I can keep down what I eat. And did I mention the depression? That’s been a fun little cherry on top of this shit sundae. I’m dealing with all of that, plus teaching a full course load while also juggling the Rodgers’ Farms project. I am trying my best, Greyson. I really am. But I just don’t feel well enough to drive all the way out to the farm tonight. I had no idea I’d be this sick or this tired. But I rescheduled the meeting with Ken and Luke for first thing Monday morning, and I had Gracie send me some pictures of the progress to make sure there were no glaring issues that needed to be addressed. I have it under control. Just like I always do. So back the fuck off.”

A pause.

Hot, rage-y tears leak out of my eyes left and right.

“I was calling to ask how the hell you’re feeling,” he says at last. “I know you wouldn’t cancel a meeting unless something was seriously wrong. I called because I’m worried about you, Julia.”

My stomach dips. Hard.

Hard enough for me to jump to my feet and scurry to the sink, afraid I’m going to puke.

Greyson called not to be a dick, but to check in on me?

To make sure I’m okay?

The idea makes my eyes fill with tears all over again.

A different kind.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he continues. “About the depression? And the sickness? I had no fucking idea.”

It’s my turn to pause.

“Because. You haven’t asked. And because we decided we’d be co-parents. We said nothing about being friends. Or confidants. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d care.”

He growls, but this one is different. Anguished, almost.

“Of course I care. I…”

I blink.

“Where are you now?” he asks, letting out a breath.

I blink again. “What?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at home. Why?”

“Have you eaten?”

Another stomach dip.

“I haven’t,” I say carefully.

My eyes catch on the cute little lemon tree on the counter beside the sink.

“Would dinner make you feel worse or better right now?”

My eyes move to my narrow pantry door. I was planning on saltines slathered in Skippy—chunky, not smooth—for dinner.

Real food would probably be better.

Yeah. Much better.

“Better. I think.”

“I’ll be there in an hour. Craving anything in particular?”