Her blue eyes dance. “You don’t fuck around, do you, Greyson?”

“Not when it comes to the women I knock up.”

She laughs. The sound making butterflies take flight inside my torso.

Fu-uuuck. Fuck.

Should not.

But Lord help me, I’m in it now.

“All right,” she says. “That sounds great. What can I bring?”

“Just your stretchy pants.”

“Stretchy pants?”

“Yeah. Stretchy pants time is my favorite time. Bring yours. And the ultrasound pictures.” I nod at the folder Julia holds in the crook of her arm. “I’d like to make some copies on my printer.”

“Done.” Her eyes rove over my body. “No offense. But I’m surprised you own stretchy pants. Hell, I’m surprised you own any pants that aren’t perfectly tailored, custom made slacks.”

My lips twitch. “You noticed my pants.”

“I’ve stroked many things of yours. I’m sorry to say your ego will never be one of them.”

I laugh. Flutters erupting inside me.

Fuck these butterflies for life.

I’ve missed them.

My mom picks up on the first ring when I call her as I dash from one meeting to the next. I haven’t told her about Julia or the baby yet—timing hasn’t felt right—but that doesn’t mean she’s not excited to hear from me.

“Grey,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Hey, baby. How you doing?”

Not okay. Excited. Relieved.

Terrified.

Yeah, I’d say mostly terrified.

“I’m all right. What about you? Sorry to be a bother.”

“You’re never a bother. Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine.” I clear my throat. “That chicken and rice recipe you make. You know, with the sausage and onions and celery and everything? Tell me about it. I’ve made it before, but it’s been a while.”

“Chicken Bog. Your grandmother’s recipe,” Mom replies. “It’s a keeper. Lots of work, but that’s never stopped you. Having some company over this weekend? Someone special, maybe?”

My heart clenches. Mom sounds hopeful.

Guarded.

But hopeful nonetheless.

Unlike Ford, my parents have never explicitly encouraged me to start dating again. They’ve never been pushy. Never forced an agenda on me. One of the five thousand things I love and admire about them.

I know they want me to be happy again. And even though they don’t say it, I can tell they’d love more grandchildren.

That, I can help with. The happiness bit—

Not so much.

“A friend. Julia.” I take a sharp breath. I don’t know why I just shared her name. It’s almost like I want my mother to ask me about her. “She hasn’t—uh—been feeling so great, so I thought I’d make her some comfort food. Your specialty.”

Mom pauses. I can see her in my head: eyes and smile lighting up with curiosity.

“Bless your heart. That’s very sweet of you. I can’t remember the last time you had a friend over for dinner.”

I swallow. Hard. “So, the meat. I remember you said to have the butcher cut up a whole fryer chicken—split the breasts so the pieces are all the same size and cook evenly.”