I take the shot glass he holds out to me, swallowing the lump that’s suddenly formed in my throat.

I don’t cook. But I do know about chicken and rice. It’s a classic low country dish that’s been around as long as anyone can remember. You simmer a bunch of veggies, rice, and chicken together in a huge pot. Sounds simple, but if you do it right, it actually requires a lot of effort. As evidenced by the countertop beside the range: it’s littered with cutting boards, measuring cups, the crispy skins of onions.

Greyson put real work into this. And thought. And care.

It’s his grandmother’s recipe.

Also, he poured me wine. Granted, a teeny tiny bit of it. Two sips at most. But he’s not being judge-y about me having some, and I appreciate that. So damn much.

In his own way, Grey is being supportive. Being there for me. And look how much better I feel. I need to take Olivia’s advice and go to that prenatal yoga class already. Build a support system there, too.

Greyson taps his glass against mine. “Cheers, Julia. I’m really glad everything went well today.”

“Me too. Thanks again for having me. And for knocking me up, I guess. Who would’ve thought we’d make such an A-plus fetus?”

He laughs. “Not me, that’s for damn sure.”

His eyes stay on mine as we sip the wine.

“Wow,” I say, smacking my lips. “That’s good.”

“Better than an Old Fashioned?”

I grin. “Yeah. You were right. I’m not typically a red person, but this is delicious.”

“Are you just saying that because it’s the first alcohol you’ve had in two months?”

My turn to laugh. God I like it when he gets flirty.

“Probably. Either way, it’s still delicious.”

“Because you can only have a little bit of it, I wanted to pour the best. I’m picky when it comes to blends, but this Pinot Noir one is exceptional. Made by a small winemaker in Napa Valley.”

The lump in my throat returns. Wrong that I’m insanely touched he opened a really good bottle of wine just for me? Even though I can only have half an ounce of the stuff?

“Of course you’re a wine snob,” I tease. Because if I don’t make a stab at some humor I’m worried I’ll start to tear up.

“It’s the Satanist in me. Even Lucifer appreciates good grapes. Here.” He pulls out a stool at the island. “Sit. Dinner is almost ready. Can I get you some water? Topo Chico? I grabbed some the other day. You got me addicted to the stuff.”

I sit, the soft parts of my chest swelling.

“That would be great, thanks.”

He sets a bottle in front of me, then gets to work at the range. Greyson is usually so tightly wound. But here, in his kitchen, he’s…relaxed, almost. Doesn’t hurry, moving from the fridge to a drawer to a bowl on the counter with measured, easy movements. Whisking oil into the bowl, he takes his time, telling me how his mom taught him to make salad dressing from scratch as he whisks and whisks.