Chapter 9
Emma
Ishouldn’t have worn this dress.
I know it the moment Grant's driver opens the car door and Grant's eyes sweep over me with an intensity that makes my skin flush. It's the nicest thing I own—a navy wrap dress that Poppy insisted I buy even though I knew it was too clingy, too revealing. She’d said I’d need it one day for a hot date.
I'd told myself I was wearing it tonight because we're going to a nice restaurant—to discuss practical matters like doctor's appointments and parental responsibilities.
Not because I wanted him to look at me the way he's looking at me right now.
"Hi," I manage, sliding into the leather seat beside him.
"Hi." His deep low voice makes me want to lean in closer to him. He's in a dark suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. Professional enough for a nice restaurant, casual enough that I can see the hollow of his throat. "You look beautiful."
"Thanks." I smooth the dress over my thighs, hyperaware of every inch of bare skin. "You said we were going somewhere nice."
"I did." He's still looking at me like I'm something he wants to unwrap slowly. "I just wasn't prepared for—" He stops, his jaw tightening. "Never mind. How are you feeling?"
The shift to practical concern should be a relief. Instead, it makes something twist in my chest. This is what we're doing now—pretending we can have a normal conversation while the air between us crackles with everything we're not saying.
"Fine. The nausea is better in the evenings."
"Good. That's good." He settles back in his seat, putting a careful foot of space between us. Like he doesn't trust himself to sit closer. "I made a reservation at Eleven Madison Park. I know it's formal, but they have a private dining room where we can talk without—"
"Without being overheard," I finish. "Smart."
The car pulls into traffic, and I stare out the window. The silence stretches, thick and a little uncomfortable. We're two people who spent an entire transatlantic flight talking easily about everything and nothing, and now we can barely string sentences together.
Because everything is different now. The stakes are so much higher. We're not old family friends reconnecting on a plane. We're two people about to become parents. Together. To twins.
The impossibility of it hits me again, and I press my hand against my stomach without thinking. It’s still flat, of course. No visible sign of the babies growing inside me.
"I think I mentioned before the OB practice that specializes in high-risk pregnancies," Grant says, breaking the silence. "They have excellent doctors, and they're affiliated with Mount Sinai. I can send you the information, or if you'd prefer to choose your own doctor—"
"Grant."
"I'm doing it again, aren't I?" He runs a hand through his hair nervously. "Solving problems."
"A little." I turn to look at him. "But I appreciate the recommendation. Can you send me the information? I'll look it over."
Relief crosses his face. "Of course."
“I do have another doctor and I’ve only seen her once so far, but I really liked her. She seemed totally competent.”
“Of course. You should go with whoever you’re comfortable with.”
More silence. I watch his hands—those talented hands that touched me in Florence in ways that now make my thighs clench. He's gripping his knees slightly, like he needs something to hold onto.
"This is weird," I say finally.
"What is?"
"This. Us. Trying to have a mature conversation about OB-GYNs when—" I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence. When I can't stop thinking about the way you felt inside me? When every time you look at me, I remember Florence?
"When we can barely look at each other without remembering?" He says it quietly, his eyes finding mine in the dim interior of the car.
My breath catches. "Exactly."
"I know." His gaze drops to my mouth, then away. "I'm trying very hard to be respectful. To give you space. But Emma—" His voice roughens. "You're making it very difficult in that dress."
Heat floods through me. "I didn't wear it for—I mean, I just thought—"
"I know what you thought." He shifts in his seat, still maintaining that careful distance. "And you're right. We should be having mature, practical conversations about doctor's appointments and living arrangements. We should be planning, strategizing, making rational decisions."
"We should," I agree.
"But all I can think about is how badly I want to touch you."
His admission steals the air from my lungs. I should say something sensible. Should remind him—remind both of us—that we need to keep things chill for now. That sex just complicates an already complicated situation. I mean… sex is how we got into this predicament to begin with.
Instead, I hear myself whisper, "Me too."
His hand finds mine on the seat between us. His fingers thread through mine, and the simple contact sends electricity up my arm.
"It makes sense to do this the right way," he says, still looking at our joined hands. "Take things slow. Build a foundation of trust before we—"
"I know."
"But I don't think I can sit through an entire dinner pretending I don't want you."
My heart hammers. "What are you suggesting?"
He finally looks at me, and the heat in his eyes nearly undoes me. "I'm suggesting we have dinner. We talk about the practical things we need to talk about. And then—" He pauses. "And then maybe we stop pretending."
I should say no. Should tell him we need to keep boundaries, maintain distance, and not let physical attraction cloud our judgment about the very serious decisions we need to make.
But my body is already leaning toward him, drawn like a magnet.
"Okay," I breathe.
His grip on my hand tightens and the air feels charged now, heavy with promise.
The restaurant is as formal as he indicated—white linen tablecloths, hushed conversations, impeccable service, the kind of place where the menu doesn't list prices.
We're led to a private room in the back, all dark wood and soft lighting, and the moment the door closes behind the host, I feel like I can breathe again.
"This is a gorgeous room," I say, looking around as I settle into my chair.
"I thought you might prefer privacy." Grant sits across from me, and even with a table between us, I can feel the pull. "Given that we're about to discuss some fairly personal matters."
A server appears with a bottle of fancy Italian sparkling water and wine menus. Grant orders mocktails for both of us without asking, and I try not to find it sweet that he isn’t drinking in solidarity with me.
I order the salmon on top of… something. Quinoa, maybe? It doesn't matter. I'm too nervous to eat.
Once we're alone again, Grant pulls out his phone. "I sent you the information about the OB practice. I’d like to join you at your next appointment."
"I already have an appointment with Dr. Byers," I say. "I think I’d like to stay with her unless there’s a reason to move to a different practice.”
"Right. Of course." He sets his phone down. "Is she experienced with multiples?"
"As far as I know." I twist my napkin in my lap. "I didn’t ask her a lot of questions about it. I was… well, I was in shock."
Grant's eyes narrow slightly, like he knows I'm uncomfortable, so he doesn't push. "Well, I’d really like to be there with you at the next appointment, so please send me the date. If you're comfortable with that."
The request is casual, but I can hear the weight beneath it. He wants to be involved. Present. And I’m guessing he’s going to have a lot of questions for Dr. Byers.
"Sure," I say quietly, pulling out my phone and texting him the date and time.
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or hope.
Our food arrives, and we eat in silence for a few minutes. Or rather, I push salmon around my plate while Grant does the same with his filet. Neither of us is actually eating very much.
"We should talk about living arrangements," he says finally.
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. "What about them?"
"Your apartment is—" He chooses his words carefully. "Small you mentioned before. For one person, I’m sure it's fine. But with two infants—"
"I know." I set my fork down. "I've been thinking about it. I'll need to move. Find something with at least two bedrooms. Maybe three, if I want to keep working from home."
"The market right now is brutal," Grant says. "Especially for anything affordable with enough space for twins. Have you started looking yet?"
"I've looked at listings online." Which is technically true. I've scrolled through apartment listings while lying awake at three a.m., watching the prices climb higher and higher until the panic makes me close the browser. "Everything in my budget is either too small or too far from the city."
"What if you didn't have to worry about the money part?"
There it is. The offer I've been dreading.
"Grant—"
"I'm not trying to take over. I promise." He leans forward, his voice earnest. "But there's a building I own in Tribeca with a vacant three-bedroom that would be perfect—a nice little layout, near parks, safe neighborhood. You could live there. Rent free."
"You want me to live in one of your buildings. For free."
"I want my children to have a safe, comfortable home," he says carefully. "And I want their mother to have space to work and live without financial stress."
It's a reasonable offer. More than reasonable. And the fact that it makes my skin crawl with a familiar panic doesn’t escape me.
"I appreciate the offer," I say, keeping my voice level. "But I need to think about it."
Disappointment flickers across his face, but he nods. "Of course. Take your time."
We fall back into silence and I try to choke some salmon down but my throat feels tight and unusually dry.
The server eventually appears to clear our barely-touched plates, asking if we want dessert. We both decline.
"This isn't working," Grant says once we're alone again.
"What isn't?"