My chest tightens. I can’t imagine how badly I’d be wigging out about the baby if I didn’t have Ford to go to for advice, or to my parents for moral support.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still wigging out. But I’d be an absolute fucking mess without my family.

“I’m sorry, Julia. I had no idea. Do you not have any other family around?”

“Not really. My mom died a couple years back. I don’t have any siblings, and my cousins live kind of all over the place.”

“That’s tough,” I say, and I mean it. Not only is Julia sick as a dog. She also has no family to go to. No parents to help her, no siblings to share the exciting news with.

She’s got a full life. That much is obvious. Jobs, friends, travel. But to not have any family—family she was clearly really close to—

I honestly can’t imagine.

“This is so good, by the way,” she says, taking another bite of pork chop. “What about you? I know you said your family lives close, but are you actually close with them?”

I nod, swallowing a bite of steak. “I am. I bitch about them sometimes, but I really did luck out. They’re great.”

Julia smiles. The kind that makes the skin around her eyes crinkle. “The gentleman Satanist loves his family? I almost don’t believe it.”

“They’re the only thing that’s kept me going since—” I clear my throat for what feels like the hundredth time. We are so not going there right now. Or ever. “Suffice it to say I’d be much growlier without them.”

Julia’s brows go up. “That’s saying something. Any growlier and you’d be a werewolf. Not the sexy Twilight kind, either.”

“Please.” I furrow my brow in mock consternation. “I’d make the best werewolf. And the sexiest.”

“Because you’d make biting peoples’ heads off look good?”

“Because I’d make a great bad guy. I am one in real life.”

Julia turns back to face me. Her gaze moves over the food on the table before landing on mine. She looks at me for a full beat. Eyes narrowed with a question I do not want to answer.

Sweat breaks out along the back of my collar.

“You’re not all bad.” Her voice is kind. “Just mostly.”

“Bad enough,” I say gruffly.

I get back to my plate. Wolf down (pun intended) what’s left of my collards and finish off my steak.

“You done?” she asks.

I stand, reaching for her plate. “I’ll clean up.”

“I got it.”

“Don’t make me growl, Julia. Sit.”

Julia smiles and stands, gently removing her plate from my hands. “Growl all you want. Cleaning up was always my job. How about you clear the table and I do the dishes?”

“You sure you’re up to it?”

“After that meal? Absolutely. If Elijah’s grits and pimiento cheese don’t revive you, then you’re past saving.”

Julia gets to work at the sink while I refill the take-out bag with our empty boxes. Gathering our silverware and glasses, I turn to the kitchen to see Julia shimmying her hips. Little, barely noticeable movements that are perfectly in time to the beat of the song that’s playing—“Rebel Rebel.”