CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The first crisp winds of November had officially swept over the Rhode Island coast, turning the sky a pale, icy blue.
Inside the sleek, private examination room of Boston’s premier obstetric specialist, the air was warm, smelling faintly of medical-grade antiseptic and expensive lavender diffuser oil.
It had been six weeks since Kennedy had walked into Grayson’s office to deliver the news, bringing her to exactly twelve weeks along.
Over the past month and a half, Grayson Ashford-Wale had proven to be an astonishingly devoted father-to-be.
No one, not even a fiercely protective Spencer Lockhart, could fault the man’s dedication.
Grayson had practically moved his schedule around her existence.
He made sure she was comfortable, arranging for her favorite meals to be prepared, sending over specialized pregnancy pillows, and ensuring the Lockhart kitchen was stocked with anything she might possibly want.
Yet, despite his constant presence, he maintained a rigid, respectful distance.
He never pushed her boundaries. He never brought up the past, never asked for a relationship, and never demanded forgiveness.
He simply showed up, absorbed her polite, icy indifference, and did whatever he could to make her life easier.
When the twelve-week ultrasound was scheduled, there was absolutely no question of his attendance. Missing it was not an option for him.
Kennedy lay back on the crinkling paper of the examination table, her cashmere sweater pushed up to expose her stomach. Dr. Evans, a quietly confident woman with warm eyes, squeezed a generous dollop of clear, freezing gel onto Kennedy’s skin.
Grayson sat in the low chair beside the head of the table. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, having driven straight from a board meeting, but his eyes were focused on Kennedy.
"Alright, let's take a look," Dr. Evans murmured, pressing the smooth plastic transducer against Kennedy’s abdomen.
The large, flat-screen monitor mounted on the wall flickered. For a few seconds, there was only a chaotic swirl of black, white, and gray static. And then, the image sharpened.
A tiny, perfectly formed profile appeared in the center of the screen.
Kennedy stopped breathing.
Up until this exact second, the pregnancy had felt like a clinical diagnosis.
It had been blood tests, morning sickness, and shifting logistics.
But looking at the screen, seeing the distinct curve of a head, the tiny buds of arms and legs, the undeniable reality of it crashed into her with the force of a freight train.
There was a human being inside of her. A fragile, living life that would depend on her for its entire existence.
A sudden, suffocating wave of pure terror seized Kennedy’s chest. Her heart began to hammer frantically against her ribs. The room felt too small. What if she did something wrong? What if she wasn't ready?
Grayson saw it instantly. He wasn't watching the monitor; he was watching her face. He saw the color drain from her cheeks, saw the wide, terrified panic flare in her hazel eyes, and his response was instinctual.
He leaned forward, reaching out to cover her small, trembling hand with his large, warm one. He didn't say a word. He just laced his fingers through hers and squeezed gently, offering a solid, immovable anchor in the middle of her sudden storm.
Kennedy froze. Her immediate instinct was to pull her hand away, to maintain the impenetrable wall she had built between them.
She did not want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his touch grounded her.
But the warmth of his palm, the steady, reassuring weight of his grip, was exactly what she needed.
She didn't pull away. She allowed her fingers to curl slightly, holding onto him, and she hated herself a little for how much better it made her feel.
"There it is," Dr. Evans smiled, tapping a few keys on her machine.
A rapid, rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh filled the quiet room, echoing off the walls like the beating of a tiny drum.
Grayson’s breath caught in his throat. His gaze snapped to the monitor, his eyes widening in unadulterated awe. He stared at the flickering pulse on the screen, his thumb unconsciously stroking the back of Kennedy’s knuckles.
"Heart rate is a hundred and sixty beats per minute," Dr. Evans announced cheerfully. "Strong, steady, and absolutely perfect. You have a very healthy baby in there."
"It's perfect," Grayson whispered, his voice thick with such intense emotion, it cracked down the middle. He looked back down at Kennedy, a beautiful, tentative smile breaking across his face.
Kennedy looked away, staring firmly at the ceiling tiles. She felt the tears pricking the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She felt the overwhelming love for the child on the screen, but she was determined not to blur the lines of her reality.
He is doing this for the baby, Kennedy reminded herself, building the walls back up, brick by brick.
He is holding my hand because he is overwhelmed by the child.
We are just co-parents. We can treat each other with kindness and respect, and we can raise this baby together, but that is it.
We do not need anything more complicated than that.
As long as they could maintain this arrangement, as long as they could provide the baby with everything it needed, she was content.
***
By the time they reached the fourteen-week mark, Kennedy’s delicate morning sickness had vanished, violently replaced by a series of hormonal cravings so absurd they defied all culinary logic.
It was nearly eleven o'clock on a Friday night in the Lockhart estate’s, marble-clad kitchen.
Spencer and Ryder were leaning against the expansive center island, nursing bottles of imported beer, watching the spectacle unfolding before them with immense, unconcealed entertainment.
Kennedy was sitting on a barstool, wearing silk pajamas, looking profoundly irritated.
Grayson was standing in front of the open, double-door industrial refrigerator, looking out of his depth.
"I don't understand why this is so difficult, Grayson," Kennedy snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "I just asked for a simple snack."
"Kennedy, you asked for dill pickles wrapped in severely burnt bacon, dipped in strawberry yogurt," Grayson said, turning around to face her, holding a jar of pickles in one hand and a carton of yogurt in the other.
"I am trying to accommodate you, but I am fairly certain mixing these three things will actually kill you. "
Spencer let out a loud snort, taking a sip of his beer. "Just burn the bacon, Ashford. The woman wants what she wants."
"I am not making her a biohazard," Grayson shot back, though there was no real heat in his voice.
He set the jars on the marble counter, rolling up the sleeves of his expensive dress shirt to his elbows.
He pulled a frying pan out of the copper rack hanging above the stove.
"I am going to make you a proper sandwich. With protein."
"I do not want a proper sandwich!" Kennedy argued, her voice pitching higher, driven by the chaotic cocktail of hormones flooding her system. "I want the pickles! If you don't burn the bacon right now, I am going to call a taxi and go to a diner."
Ryder leaned his elbows on the counter, grinning broadly. "I’ll pay you fifty bucks to let her take the taxi, Grayson. I want to see you try and stop her."
Grayson ignored his brother. He turned the stove burner on, laying several strips of thick-cut bacon into the pan.
He watched them sizzle, unbothered by her demands, unbothered by the late hour, and unbothered by the fact that the CEO of a global empire was currently operating as a late-night short-order cook.
He glanced over his shoulder at Kennedy. She was glaring at him, her arms crossed, her hair falling in a messy wave over her shoulder. She was being unreasonable, demanding, and unhinged.
And Grayson found it endearing.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face as he watched her pout.
He couldn't help it. For months, she had treated him like a piece of polite furniture.
Seeing her actually express emotion toward him, even if it was hormone-induced rage over pork products, felt like sunshine breaking through a fog.
Kennedy’s eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits. "Why are you smiling? Stop smiling at me."
"I'm not smiling," Grayson lied, the grin only growing wider as he flipped the bacon, deliberately letting it stay in the pan long enough to char the edges just the way she demanded.
"You are smiling," Kennedy hissed, shifting uncomfortably on her stool.
She hated it. She hated that he wasn't complaining.
She hated that he was indulging her ridiculous behavior without a single sigh of frustration, and she absolutely hated the way he was looking at her—like she was the most fascinating, beautiful creature on the planet.
"I am not cute, Grayson. I am a hostage to my own hormones, and I am severely agitated. Wipe that look off your face."
"You look like a whipped golden retriever, Grayson," Spencer chimed in, tossing a peanut at him.
Grayson caught the peanut mid-air, setting it on the counter. He plated the burnt bacon, arranged the pickles beside a small bowl of strawberry yogurt, and carried the profoundly disgusting combination over to Kennedy.
"Here you go," Grayson said softly, setting the plate in front of her. His eyes met hers, warm and impossibly patient. "Anything else you need?"
Kennedy stared at the plate, her irritation mounting simply because he was being so flawlessly accommodating. She picked up a strip of burnt bacon, dipped it aggressively into the pink yogurt, and took a bite.
"No," Kennedy mumbled around the bacon. "This is adequate."