Chapter 14 #2
He goes to get the food while I set the table—a routine we've developed over the past few weeks.
Over pad Thai and spring rolls, we shift away from baby gear and tomorrow's pitch to lighter topics.
Grant tells me about a property acquisition that's hitting unexpected zoning complications.
I tell him about Poppy's latest band drama—apparently, their bassist has developed an inconvenient crush on their lead guitarist, who is unfortunately dating someone else.
"That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen," Grant says.
"Oh, it absolutely is. Poppy's already planning intervention scenarios."
"Is an intervention really the right move? Seems like something they need to figure out themselves."
"That's what I said! But according to Poppy, if she doesn't mediate, the whole band is going to implode before their big gig next month."
Grant shakes his head, amused. "I don't miss being in my twenties."
The comment lands with a thud. Another reminder of the age gap that Samantha threw in my face, and that Victoria leveraged so expertly. I set down my fork.
"Does it bother you?" I ask. "That I'm twenty-four?"
He considers the question seriously, not deflecting.
"Sometimes. Not because of you—because of how other people see us.
They judge us, and I hate that." He reaches across the table, finding my hand.
"But the actual age difference? No. You're more emotionally mature than most people I know at any age. "
"I don't feel mature. I feel like I'm playing at being an adult half the time."
"That feeling doesn't go away as you get older. You just get better at faking it."
I laugh. "That's weirdly comforting."
"Good." He squeezes my hand. "For what it's worth, being with you makes me feel—I don't know. More alive than I have in years. Everything feels more precious to me."
I turn my hand over, threading our fingers together.
"You make me feel like maybe I don't have to do everything alone," I say quietly. "Like accepting help doesn't mean I'm weak or dependent. That's—that's huge for me."
"I know." His thumb strokes over my knuckles. "And I'm trying really hard not to make you regret trusting me with that."
After dinner Grant insists on cleaning up while I review my presentation notes one more time. But when I pull out my laptop, he takes it gently from my hands.
"Alright, I’m not going to let you do this," he says firmly. "You've practiced enough. You know this material inside and out. What you need now is to relax."
"I can't relax. The meeting is in fourteen hours."
"Which is exactly why you need to step away." He closes the laptop decisively. "Come on. Let's do something completely unrelated to work or babies or any of the stress we're carrying."
"Like what?"
He considers. "When's the last time you just... watched something mindless on TV?"
"I don't even remember."
"Perfect. We're watching a movie. Your choice. Even if it’s something girly."
I want to argue. So badly.
But Grant's right. I'm as prepared as I'm going to be. And the anxiety coiling in my stomach isn't going to disappear by staring at spreadsheets.
"Okay," I finally say. "And I get to pick anything I want?"
"Absolutely."
We end up on the sofa, my back against Grant's chest, his arms wrapped around me.
I choose a romantic comedy I've seen a dozen times—something light and predictable to take my mind off everything else.
Grant makes ridiculous commentary throughout, and I find myself laughing more than I have in weeks.
Halfway through, his hand drifts to my stomach again. It’s like he's constantly checking in, making sure everything is okay.
"Have you thought about any more names recently?" he asks during a break in the action.
"A little. Have you?"
"Some. Though I keep getting stuck on whether we're having boys, girls, or one of each."
"We could find out. Dr. Martelle said we can do the anatomy scan at twenty weeks."
He's quiet for a moment. "Do you want to know?"
I consider the question carefully. "I think so. It would make planning easier. And honestly, I'm not sure I can handle many more surprises."
"Fair point." He takes a sip of his bourbon. "So which names are top on your list right now?"
"If we have a girl, I like Clara. Or maybe Iris."
"Iris." He repeats, trying it on.
"Yeah, it means rainbow. Hope after the storm."
His arms tighten around me. "I love that."
"What about you? Any contenders?"
"For a boy, maybe James. After my grandfather. He was the one who believed I could be anything I wanted to be."
The emotion in his voice makes my heart ache. "James is perfect. I actually like that for a boy or a girl."
We fall silent, both lost in the magnitude of naming actual human beings. The concept still feels surreal to me, like something happening to someone else.
The movie ends, and Grant suggests we get ready for bed. It's barely nine-thirty, but exhaustion is pulling at me. The first trimester fatigue has faded, but I'm still more tired than I used to be.
In Grant's bathroom—which is roughly the size of my entire studio—I brush my teeth and wash my face. My reflection stares back at me, and for once, I don't look anxious or overwhelmed. I look... content. Happy, even.
When I emerge, Grant's already in bed, reading something on his phone. He sets it aside when he sees me, lifting the covers in invitation.
I slide in beside him, and he immediately pulls me close, my back to his warm chest, his hand finding its now-familiar resting place on my stomach.
"You're going to kill it tomorrow," Grant says, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.
"You think so?"
"I know so." His hand splays across my stomach. "Lawrence Vance is going to see exactly what I see—someone with vision, passion, and the drive to make it happen. He'd be an idiot not to back you."
The faith in his voice undoes me completely. I turn in his arms, needing to see his face.
"Thank you," I say.
"For what?"
"For believing in me. For letting me do this my own way."
His expression softens. "Emma, watching you build Essence—watching you fight for your dream—it's one of my favorite things. I wouldn't interfere with that for anything."
I kiss him, slow and deep. When we break apart, he holds me close, and I let myself sink into the safety of his arms.
"Get some sleep," he murmurs. "Tomorrow, you're going to change your life."
I close my eyes, his words echoing in my head. Tomorrow, I'm going to walk into that meeting and prove I can do this. That I can build something meaningful without compromising who I am or becoming dependent on anyone else.
And Grant will be here when I get back, proud of me no matter what happens, ready to celebrate or comfort as needed.
For the first time in weeks—maybe ever—the competing pieces of my life feel like they might actually fit together. The business I'm building. The man I love. The family we're creating.
Maybe I don't have to choose. Maybe I can have it all.
The thought is intoxicating. Everything I've ever wanted crystallized into one beautiful possibility.
Grant's breathing evens out, his arm still wrapped around me. I lie awake a little longer, fighting sleep and looking out at the city lights.
I think about tomorrow—the pitch, the potential yes that could change everything. The future that's finally within reach.
I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.
Tomorrow, everything changes.