Chapter 14
Emma
"That one looks like a spaceship."
Grant glances up from the tablet, his expression mock-offended. "It's modern. Minimalist. Plus the reviews are excellent."
"It's a spaceship." I’m lying on the couch next to him and raise my head, squinting at the curved white crib on the screen. "Our babies are not going to sleep in something that looks like it belongs on the International Space Station."
"As opposed to your choice?" He scrolls back to the option I favorited earlier. "Which appears to be made entirely of wicker and good intentions."
I laugh, the sound surprising me with its ease. "It's sustainable. Handcrafted by artisans in—"
"Vermont, I know. You've mentioned it three times." His hand finds my stomach, thumb tracing circles over the soft cotton of my shirt. "We need cribs that will actually hold up, not fall apart because they're held together with organic twine and hopes."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being practical." But he's smiling, and the warmth in his eyes makes my insides melt. "How about this—we get one of each. See which one the babies prefer."
"That's ridiculous. We can't just buy extras in everything because we can't decide."
"Why not?"
Because normal people don't do that. Because that's exactly the kind of solution that proves once again how different we are. Because—
His hand continues its gentle path across my belly, and I lose my train of thought. At sixteen weeks, I'm definitely showing. Not dramatically—I can still hide it under loose clothing—but here, lying on Grant's sofa in leggings and one of his t-shirts, the small swell is unmistakable.
"You're doing it again," Grant says softly.
"Doing what?"
"Overthinking." He sets the tablet aside and shifts to face me fully, his hand still resting on my stomach. "We were having fun looking at baby gear, and then I saw you disappear into your head. What happened?"
I could deflect. Make a joke. But we promised to be honest with each other, even when it's uncomfortable.
"You said 'why not' like buying too many cribs is a completely normal thing," I say.
"And for you, maybe it is. But Grant, I've been saving for eighteen months just to afford the supplies I need for my next batch of perfume.
The idea of casually buying more than two of everything because we can't decide—it's so far outside my reality that it makes my head spin. "
He's quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "You're right. I'm sorry. I forget sometimes that what feels normal to me might feel—"
"Excessive? Wasteful? Like you're trying to solve a problem by throwing money at it?"
"Ouch." But there's no heat in his voice. "Fair. Though in my defense, I genuinely didn't think about the cost. I was just trying to avoid the decision-making."
Despite myself, I smile. "That's even worse. You know that, right?"
"Sorry, I’m a slow learner." His hand moves to my hip, pulling me closer. "So. Back to cribs. What if we look at options that aren't either space stations or held together with artisanal twine? There has to be a middle ground."
"There is. I'm just being difficult."
"Oh, I've noticed." He says it with total affection but I still have to give him a dirty look.
This is what the past few weeks have been like. Easy. Comfortable. The kind of domestic normalcy I didn't know I was capable of having with someone.
After the disaster with Samantha and Victoria's calculated ambush, I half-expected everything to fall apart. For Grant to realize that all this was too much work, too complicated.
Instead, he's been... patient. Present. When I push back against his instinct to fix things, he listens. When I need space, he gives it. And when I show up at his place after a long day at the restaurant or at my workbench, exhausted and craving connection, he's there.
We haven't told my father yet. That shadow still looms, heavy and threatening. But for now, in this stolen stretch of time, we're just enjoying each other and watching my stomach grow a little bit every day.
I’ve talked to my parents on the phone several times but luckily they haven’t asked to see me and I certainly don’t want to bring it up until I’m ready… as if I’m ever really going to be ready.
"What are you thinking about?" Grant asks.
"How surprisingly good this is." I gesture vaguely between us. I leave out the part about worries over my parents reactions. "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"What if it doesn't?"
"Then I'll be pleasantly surprised." I shift, propping myself up on one elbow to look at him properly.
"But Grant, you have to admit, the odds aren't exactly in our favor.
Your ex-wife hates me. Your daughter thinks I'm just with you for your money.
My father is going to lose his mind when he finds out.
And we're having twins in—" I do the mental math.
"Twenty-four weeks. That's barely enough time to figure out how to be a couple, let alone parents. "
"You're catastrophizing again."
"I'm being realistic."
"You're borrowing trouble." His hand slides up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone.
"I know there are battles ahead, baby. I know Victoria isn't going to be easy to deal with, and Samantha isn't going to magically accept us overnight, and your father is going to be—well, David.
But right now, in this moment, we're okay. Can't that be enough?"
I want to argue. Want to point out all the ways this fragile peace could shatter. But lying here with his hand warm against my skin, his eyes steady on mine, I find myself nodding instead.
"Okay," I whisper. "Right now is enough."
He kisses me, slow and sweet, and I let myself sink into it. Into him. Into the dangerous hope that maybe we can actually make this work.
When we break apart, he reaches for the tablet again. "So. Cribs. Let's find something we both like."
We spend the next hour scrolling through options, our debate shifting from cribs to strollers to the ongoing question of car seats.
Grant pulls up spreadsheets comparing safety ratings.
I counter with articles about toxic chemicals in baby products.
By the time we've added half a dozen items to a shared list, my stomach is growling.
"Apparently, I'm starving," I announce.
"You're always starving lately." But he's already standing, offering me a hand up. "What sounds good?"
"Something with protein. And a lot of carbs. With a veggie or two thrown in."
"Thai?"
"Perfect."
While Grant orders takeout, I wander to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city spread below us. Manhattan at dusk, all golden light and lengthening shadows. From up here, it looks manageable. Beautiful, even.
Tomorrow, I'll be down there somewhere, walking into the most important meeting of my life.
The thought sends a jolt of adrenaline through me, equal parts excitement and fear.
"Food will be here in thirty minutes," Grant says, coming up behind me. His arms circle my waist, hands settling on my stomach. "You're tense. What's wrong?"
"Nothing’s wrong. I’m just nervous." I lean back against his chest. "Tomorrow's the pitch meeting."
"I know." His voice rumbles against my back. "You're going to be incredible."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually. I've heard your presentation three times now. It's compelling and thorough. Any investor would be lucky to back you."
The vote of confidence should help. Instead, it makes my anxiety spike.
Because Grant sees Essence through the lens of someone who's built empires, who understands how to scale businesses and navigate corporate structures.
But what if the investor tomorrow sees what I actually am—a pregnant twenty-four-year-old with more passion than experience, trying to break into an oversaturated market?
"Hey." Grant turns me to face him, his expression concerned. "What are you worried about?"
"I'm just—what if I screw this up? What if my numbers don't make sense, or my market analysis is too optimistic, or he takes one look at me and realizes I have no idea what I'm actually doing?"
"Emma." He wraps his strong arms around me.
"Listen to me. You’ve spent eighteen months building Essence from nothing.
You've sourced sustainable suppliers, developed original formulas, and built a damn good brand identity.
You didn't do that by accident. You did it because you're smart and determined as hell. "
"But—"
"No buts. Yes, you're young. Yes, you're going up against established companies with bigger budgets.
But you have something they don't—a genuine vision and the talent to execute it.
" His eyes hold mine. "I've seen a lot of pitches, Emma.
Heard hundreds of presentations from people trying to get my money.
And your plan? It's good. Really good. You don't need me to tell you that, but I'm going to anyway, because you need to believe it when you walk into that room tomorrow. "
My throat feels tight. "You really think I can do this?"
"I know you can."
"Without your help? Without your money or connections or influence?"
Something flickers in his expression—hurt, maybe, or frustration—but when he speaks, his voice is steady.
"Yes. Without any of that. This is yours, Emma.
You built it all by yourself from the beginning.
You're going to succeed because you're brilliant, not because of anything I do or don't contribute. "
The certainty in his voice breaks something loose in my chest. I stretch up and kiss him, pouring everything I can't articulate into the contact.
He responds immediately, one hand sliding into my hair while the other stays protectively on my lower back. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, and I press closer, craving the connection.
We're interrupted by the buzzer announcing the food delivery.
Grant pulls back with a groan. "Terrible timing."
"Terrible," I agree, though I'm breathless and smiling.