A moan. A sigh. A moan-y sigh.

The kind she’d make when I’d play with her pussy. Splaying her lips wide with my fingers. Rolling my thumb over her clit, gentle but insistent, her hips curling in time to my strokes.

My cock twitches. Does she know she’s making those noises as she eats?

Does she know she’s making me summon Satan and David Bowie and whoever else will listen because I’m on the verge of tackling her? Taking her right here on this table?

Where the fuck is that exorcist when you need him?

I clear my throat. “You’re a very…vocal eater.”

Julia grins, turning to her pork chop. “When I like something, you’ll know it. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No.” I meet her gaze. “Maybe.”

She grins, her blue eyes lighting up with mischief.

Chapter Ten

Greyson

It’s the first time I’ve seen Julia’s eyes come alive like this since she told me she was pregnant.

Makes me light up too. My chest lights up with satisfaction, even as the heaviness in my groin continues to demand attention.

I look away. Eyes catching on the bookshelf behind Julia. I didn’t really pay much attention to her place last time I was here. Too distracted by the news that I’d knocked her up, most likely in the back of my Yukon.

The apartment is tiny, less than a thousand square feet I’d say, and most of the furniture she’s got is diminutive in scale. This bookcase, however, is massive. Looks roughed up, antique. It’s painted bright white, and the towering shelves are artfully crowded with stuff. Books, mostly. Hardbacks—I have to squint to see the authors—Betty Friedan and Virginia Woolf, shoulder to shoulder with a sizable collection of paperback romances. Pages yellowed. Spines creased.

They’re styled in such a way that each shelf almost looks like an art exhibit. Picture frames, plates, and small, antique looking canvases completing the look.

“You really do like your romance,” I say.

“Love it,” she replies. “Romance novels are many things to me. They challenge me. Make me more open minded. But right now, they’re comfort reads. So I amend my statement. I hate everything except TV, food, and historicals. Olivia’s historicals in particular.”

I notice the same guy—older, with a nose and eyes that match Julia’s—is in a lot of the pictures. The two of them in front of the Acropolis in Athens. On a wide, glossy porch that overlooks the Battery here in town. One where Julia is in a Harry Potter get-up, black robes and all, smiling wide beside what looks to be Hogwarts castle. The man is with her. Beaming with pride.

“My dad.” Julia turns around to look at the pictures, resting her forearm on the back of her chair. She sighs. “He was pretty fucking awesome. Amazing architect and even better father.”

“Was?”

She meets my eyes from the corner of hers. “Yeah. He passed away a year ago. Miss him like crazy, if you can’t tell by this, like, Princess Di style shrine I have set up to him. I miss her like crazy too. But my obsession with the royals is neither here nor there.” She motions to the Hogwarts picture. “I really wish my dad was here. For a lot of reasons. But I could really use his advice on this whole parenthood situation right now. I mean, I have a great group of friends who have been nothing but supportive. Family is different, though.”