He chuckles. “That’s what fathers are for.” As soon as he’s said the words, I can see that he wants to take them back. He is my father, but we’ve never really gone there. And in this one conversation, I’ve had a fatherly hug and this paternal support. Obviously, he’s thinking that maybe he’s taken it a step too far.

But he hasn’t. Just the opposite, in fact. And when I say, “Yeah, that’s exactly what dads are for,” I hope he understands.

He clears his throat. “So, ah, I know you don’t need me right here—you did just fine over the years without me—but I’m wondering if now, well, with you being pregnant and all—” He pauses to take a deep breath. “Well, I was just wondering if I should postpone my trip.”

“Oh!” I hadn’t even thought of that. He’s leaving for Ireland tomorrow morning, and from there, he’s going to the Cotswolds and then Paris and Prague and a bunch of different destinations in Germany and Italy. It’s a six-month-long itinerary, and he’s not just traveling to shoot stock, he also has some specific gigs lined up.

“No,” I say. “You should go. I mean, I want you here, of course, but it’s not like anything much is going to happen for a while. And you’ll be back before I’m due.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“I do,” I say. “This is your livelihood. I’m not going to stop working. You don’t need to either.”

His mouth thins and he nods. “All right. If you’re sure.”

I nod, but part of me isn’t sure. Part of me wants him here. Part of me thinks that’s what parents do.

And part of me wonders how I can actually be a parent without understanding the nuances at all, having never really experienced them.

“I’m sure,” I repeat, and then nod, because I know it’s the right decision. “And thanks, Grandpa.”

14

I spend the rest of the afternoon tweaking Frank’s app because I want it to be fully functional before he leaves the country. Fortunately, I finish it at the office, because by the time I get home and am ready to settle in with Damien, I’m pulled under by exhaustion again. I end up dozing on the couch with my feet on his lap while he alternates between reading science journals and financial reports.

“This is tops of my list,” I murmur when I manage to peel open my eyes.

“What’s that, baby?”

“Questions for the doctor. This one is at the top. When does it end? I feel like I’m only living half a life.”

“Ah, but it’s a half with foot massages,” he says, putting down his magazine and rubbing my swollen feet and ankles in a way that makes me think I’ve discovered heaven. “And I looked it up. It gets better after the first trimester.”

“I’m not sure this massage can get any better.”

“I meant the exhaustion,” he says with a laugh.

“How about the swelling in my ankles and feet?” I’ve switched to flats, but it’s still uncomfortable. “It’ll get better after the first trimester, too, right?”

“Actually, it’s usually worse later. Apparently, swelling is normal early in a pregnancy, just not common.”

“Great.” I frown as I prop myself up on my elbows. “You really looked all this up?”

He looks at me like I’ve just asked the world’s silliest question. “Of course I did.”

I sigh, feeling satisfied and loved. Yes, I think before I drift off. Of course, he did.

I wake in bed to the sound of a helicopter landing in our backyard and remember that Damien has a breakfast meeting in San Diego. But he’d told me he would be back by noon if I needed anything.

I can’t imagine what that would be since my entire day is going to consist of working on the Greystone-Branch project in my office, something I fully intend to jump into after I eat the pancakes that Damien left warming for me in the oven.

So far, I haven’t had pregnancy cravings, but if I do, I hope it’s for chocolate chip pancakes, because the ones Damien makes are almost as orgasmic as the man himself.

By the time I get out the door and into Coop, I’m in the kind of good mood that even the pile-up of traffic on PCH can’t shatter. I make it to my office with a full hour to spare before my interview with Laura, a recent engineering grad, who I’m seriously hoping is going to be as awesome today as she was when I did the first interview. Because if so, I’m offering her the job.

I keep Laura’s resume on my desktop while I start working through my list of action items. I’m on number eight by the time eleven o’clock rolls around, and Laura is officially an hour late.

I skip lunch, just in case she’s stuck in traffic and her cell phone is dead.

She doesn’t show.

At two, I call her. She answers on the first ring with, “Yeah?”

“Laura? It’s Nikki Stark.”

“Oh, hey. Hang on.” She must be putting her hand over the microphone because I hear a horrible rustling, then her muffled voice. “No, no, that’s going to Goodwill. But that box needs to go into the truck. Sorry about that,” she says, her voice returning to normal.

“You’re moving.”

“Um, yeah.”

“You know we had an interview today.”

“Oh, man. I’m really sorry.” She doesn’t sound sorry. “I’m moving to Silicon Valley, and I need to—no, no, not that box.”

“I’ll let you go,” I say. “Good luck.”

“Oh, thank—” she begins, but I’ve already hung up and tossed the phone on the desk in disgust.

Shit.

I’m reaching for the phone to call my second choice when it starts to ring. It’s Frank, and I snatch it up. “Hi. Aren’t you on a plane?”

“Delayed. I’m at the gate. What’s wrong?”

“Just work stuff.” I’m surprised—and a little impressed—that he could tell that I was irritated. It’s nice in a weird way. Like he really is a parent. “Why are you calling? Just so I can wish you a good trip again?”

“Your mother called me.”

I’d been rising out of my chair—but now I plunk back down. Hard. “Oh.”