Chapter 8 #2
Despite everything, I feel myself smile. "Do you really think it’s going to be that bad?"
"Your dad has a temper. And access to construction equipment."
"He does love a good excavator."
"See? I'm a dead man."
The absurdity of it—of standing in a park discussing my father's potential violence—breaks something loose in my me. I laugh. It comes out shaky and a little unhinged, but it's real.
Grant's expression softens. "There she is."
"Who?"
"The woman from the plane. The one who made me actually care about sustainable fragrance sourcing."
The memory hits me with unexpected force. The flight to Florence. The way Grant listened to me ramble about perfume like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever heard. The way I'd felt safe enough to be completely myself.
"That was before," I say quietly.
"Before what?"
"Before everything got complicated."
"It was always going to get complicated, Emma.
" He takes a step closer, and I can smell his cologne, and I have to fight hard not to breathe the intoxicating scent in.
"The moment I sat down next to you on that plane, I knew it was going to get complicated.
Because you're David's daughter, and I'm twice your age, and I was already half in love with you before we even landed in Florence. "
The words steal my breath.
"You—what?"
"I know." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes him look younger.
More vulnerable. "Trust me, I know how that sounds.
But sitting next to you, listening to you talk about your dreams with so much passion and determination—Emma, you reminded me what it feels like to actually care about something.
Not just the next acquisition or the next deal, but something real. "
My heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised he can't hear it. "Grant—"
"I'm not saying that to pressure you." He holds up his hands.
"I'm saying it because you need to know that this isn't just about doing the right thing or being a good father to these babies.
I care about you. I want to be part of your life.
And yes, I'm terrified I'm going to screw it up, but I'm willing to try if you are. "
The vulnerability in his voice is almost too much. I've spent so much energy building walls and protecting myself. The idea of letting someone in—really in—feels like stepping off a cliff.
But the alternative is doing this completely alone. And standing here, looking at Grant's face, I realize I don't want to be alone.
I just don’t want to think about what that might cost me.
"I don't know how to do this," I say finally. "I don't know how to let someone help without losing myself."
"Then we'll figure it out as we go." He says it with such certainty, like the fact that neither of us knows what we're doing is just a detail to work through. "One day at a time. And if at any point you feel like I'm taking over, you tell me. Deal?"
It's not a perfect solution. But it's something. A starting point.
"Deal," I whisper.
The relief that crosses Grant's face is so obvious it makes my throat tight. He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. His hand is warm and solid, and I hate how good it feels. How safe.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"For what?"
"For trusting me. For telling me about the babies. For giving me a chance to be part of this."
The gratitude in his voice undoes me completely. Tears prick my eyes, and I blink rapidly, trying to keep them at bay.
"I should probably get home," I say, my voice thick with lack of sleep. "I'm exhausted."
"Let me drive you."
"Grant—"
"I know, I know. You can take the subway yourself. You're perfectly capable." His lips quirk. "But humor me. Please. My driver is two blocks away, and you look like you're about to fall over."
I should refuse. But my feet hurt, and I'm so tired I could cry, and the idea of the subway right now makes me want to curl up on this park bench and never move again.
"Okay," I say.
We walk back to where his car is waiting—a sleek silver Mercedes. The driver opens the door without a word, and I slide onto the butter-soft leather seat.
Grant settles beside me and gives the driver my address. Then we're moving through the city, and I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes.
"Are you feeling okay?" Grant asks, taking my hand again. "Got any nausea?"
"It's better later in the day. Mornings are absolute hell."
"Do you need to stop to get anything? Ginger tea, crackers, those wristband things—"
I open my eyes and look at him. "You know about morning sickness remedies?"
He looks slightly uncomfortable. "Victoria had horrible morning sickness when she was pregnant with Samantha."
Despite everything, I smile. "I’m sure you tried to help."
"I did my best."
The car pulls up outside my building—a shabby walk-up in a neighborhood that's "up and coming" which really means it's still affordable. Grant looks at it like he's evaluating it for structural integrity, and I brace myself for comments about my living situation.
But he doesn't say anything. Just gets out and offers me his hand.
I let him help me out and we stand on the sidewalk together. I look up at him and have that feeling of awe I’ve always had around him. He’s just so damn gorgeous.
"Get some rest," he says, flashing me his patented Grant Cross smile.
"I will."
"And Emma?" He waits until I meet his eyes. "We're going to be okay. All of us. I promise."
I want to believe him. Want to trust that somehow, despite all the impossible logistics and complicated feelings and explosive family drama waiting in our future, we'll find a way through this.
But standing here, exhausted and pregnant and more uncertain than I've ever been, all I can manage is a nod.
He walks me to my door, and before I can retreat inside, he frames my face with his hands. His touch is gentle, careful, like I'm something precious.
"You are not alone in this, Emma," he says, his gaze intense. "Get some rest. I'll call you tomorrow."
He leans down and gives me a soft kiss on the lips. Then he's gone, heading back to the waiting car, and I'm left standing in my doorway with my heart doing gymnastics in my chest.
I open the door and relock it behind me. I drop my bag and immediately sink into the couch.
I’m finally a little hungry and I’m just about to get up to warm up a bowl of soup when my phone buzzes. A text from Grant.
Grant: Thank you for today. For trusting me with this. Sleep well.
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Me: Thank you for not running.
His response is immediate.
Grant: I'm not going anywhere.
I set the phone down and press my hand against my stomach.
Two babies. Grant's babies. Growing inside me right now, completely oblivious to the chaos their existence has caused.
The terror is still there. The fear of losing myself.
But alongside it, fragile and terrifying and impossible to ignore, is something else.
Hope.
Maybe Grant means it. Maybe he really will try to be a partner instead of a savior. Maybe I can have help without losing myself.
Maybe.
I close my eyes and let myself feel it—the exhaustion, the fear, the hope, all of it tangled together.
Tomorrow, I'll probably panic again. Tomorrow, the impossible logistics of this situation will feel crushing. Tomorrow, I'll remember all the reasons why trusting Grant is dangerous.
But right now, in this moment, I let myself believe him.
I'm not alone.
And maybe—just maybe—that's a good thing.