Page 211 of Josephine and Clay

Clay huffs out a laugh beside me, and because I’ve spent most of the drive tracking every change in his breathing, every wince from his leg, every time his thumb moved over my knuckles, I feel the sound all the way through my chest.

Rose notices too. Her smile warms before she climbs out.

Clay keeps hold of my hand even after the engine dies.

I look down at our joined fingers, then over at him. “You have to get out eventually.”

“I know.”

“You also have a bad leg, so sitting here won’t improve your mobility.”

His mouth tilts. “I was having a moment.”

“You can have one upright.”

“Bossy already,” he murmurs. “Motherhood suits you.”

The word catches between us.

Motherhood.

I should probably be used to it by now. I’ve known about the twins for weeks. I’ve seen them on an ultrasound screen, heard their heartbeats, built budgets and contingency plans upon contingency plans because apparently pregnancy has turned my brain into an overachieving project manager.

But hearing Clay say it makes the whole thing shift.

His expression changes the second he realizes what slipped out. “Sorry,” he says. “Was that weird?”

“Yes.”

His face falls a little.

I squeeze his hand before he can pull away. “But not bad weird.”

Relief moves across his face so openly that it almost hurts to look at.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Good.”

Outside, Boone knocks once on the truck window. “You two planning to raise those babies in the backseat, or are we going inside?”

Clay rolls his eyes but doesn’t stop looking at me. “He’s been waiting his whole life to say things like that.”

“He’s very gifted at eldest brother harassment.”

“It’s his spiritual calling.”

I laugh, and Clay smiles at me as if the sound does something to him.

That’s the problem with tonight. Every time I try to get my feet back under me, he looks at me as if I’m not the complication that ended his freedom, but the answer to a question he’s been carrying for years.

I don’t know what to do with that.

Inside the house, Maggie is waiting in the kitchen.

She must’ve been pretending not to wait, because there’s a dish towel twisted in both hands and a kettle sitting untouched on the stove. The second Clay steps through the doorway, relief washes across her face so openly I have to look away.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she whispers.

Clay barely has time to brace himself before she crosses the kitchen and wraps him in a hug. He goes still long enough to look startled, but then one arm comes around her shoulders, and his head dips as if the weight of the day has finally found somewhere to land.