The kitchen smells of roasted garlic and rosemary, under it the faint sweetness that means Miranda’s made her mother’s potato dish, the one she’s only just gotten brave enough to attempt without checking the recipe card every thirty seconds. She’s at the stove with her back to me, stirring something in a pan, one hand pressed absently to her stomach. We’re three months along this time, the curve just starting to show under her shirt.
I cross to her on quiet feet and slide my arms around her from behind. My palms find the warm rise of her belly over hers. She tips her head back against my shoulder without turning.
“You scared me.”
“You knew I was coming.”
“I knew you were going to put your cold hands on my stomach.”
I press my mouth to the side of her neck where the mating mark sits, the four-point curve that hasn’t faded in three years and never will. Her pulse leaps under my lips. The bond between us hums low and warm at the contact, the private current that’s run between my chest and hers since the night I marked her.
“What do you think this one is?” I murmur against her skin.
She gives a quiet laugh. “Ethan’s decided he wants another sister.”
“Has he?”
“He says Anna needs a partner in crime, and his plan to bond with her over hockey hasn’t worked out.”
“She’s fourteen months old.”
“He says she’s shown a real lack of commitment to the sport.”
I laugh into her hair, my hand spreading over the curve of her stomach. There’s no movement yet, too early, but the warmth of her under my palm is enough.
“What do you want?”
She’s quiet a moment. Then her voice drops.
“I’d like a boy this time.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, Grayson.” Her hand finds mine over her stomach. “I’d like a boy this time, and I’d like to name him Gabriel. Gabe. After your brother.”
I don’t move for a second.
I wasn’t ready for that. Bracing for a girl has been easy, or another little tyrant with Ethan’s coloring, or some joke about needing balance in the house. What she actually handed me was my brother’s name, and I have nothing ready for it.
My throat tightens around words that won’t come.
She tips her head against my shoulder so she can see my face. Her eyes have gone careful. “Is that all right?”
“Sweetheart.”
“Grayson.”
“Yes.” My voice has scraped low. “Yes. It’s more than all right. He’d have loved it, loved you for thinking of it.”
“You’re sure?”
“I want our son to have his uncle’s name running around this house.”
She turns in my arms and presses her face into my chest. My arms come up around her, careful of the bump, my mouth against the top of her head. We stand there a long moment. The pan on the stove starts up a low, worried hiss that means whatever’s in it is about to scorch, and neither of us moves.
She finally lifts her head. “The pan.”
“Let it burn.”
