Grip Trilogy Box Set

For the space of a heartbeat, she’s silent, and then her voice comes strong, like I’m used to hearing it.

“Yes. Yes, there is,” she says. “Keep sending me pictures of that beautiful little girl. We never had children, you know, and . . .” Her words fade into a trail of memories, a path of regrets.

“Of course,” I reply immediately. “We’ll bring her to see you when we’re back in New York.”

“Yes, do that.” She pauses before saying more. “And the apartment is yours if you want it.”

Even as my heart contracts for her loss, I can’t deny my excitement. Bristol and I have leased that apartment for years, hoping one day it would be ours. We’ve made love under the vivid city skyline in that greenhouse, and Bristol made her first pot of edible collard greens there.

It’s where I proposed and where Nina was conceived. “I . . . yes. We want it, of course.”

“I’ll send all the paperwork to your firm.”

“Sounds great. They’ll take care of it.”

“And one more thing, Marlon.”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything.”

“Remember what I said the first day we met.” Her voice is a thin thread strained to the point of snapping. “Don’t waste one minute.”

Before I can respond, she hangs up. I hold the phone for a few extra seconds, still pressed to my ear like she might share more wisdom. I finally slip it into my pocket, not pulled from my stupor until I feel something wet on my toe.

“Nina, baby.” I scoop her up and rest her on my hip. “Don’t eat Daddy’s feet.”

I walk down the stairs to find Bristol. We’ve been in this house for less than a year, but it felt like home immediately—Bristol made sure of that. She insisted on decorating it herself, thus me going gray trying to read Japanese instructions for something that could have been delivered fully assembled. I’m too rich for this shit.

She’s in her office, wearing a frown, ripped-knee jeans, a paper-thin ankle-length cardigan, and a tank top that simply says PERSIST.

It’s tight and strains over her swollen breasts and belly. She massages her side, eyes glued to the screen of her laptop.

“Hey.” I put Nina on the floor, lift Bristol from her seat, take her spot, and then pull her back down to sit on my lap.

“Hey.” She turns her head, looking around until she spots Nina, who has taken her post on the floor with Elmo.

Mrs. O’Malley said not to waste a minute, and I won’t. Before Bristol can say another word, I grab her chin and pull her face around to me, delving between her lips, caressing the soft hair escaping from her to

pknot. She kisses me back, hunger sparking between us like a flare. She turns to face me, splitting her thighs over mine, straddling me with our unborn child sandwiched between our torsos. The kiss slows then stills until she tucks her head under my chin and slides her hand under my T-shirt, caressing the muscles of my stomach.

“What was that for?” she asks huskily, looking up with a smile, her eyes the same silver as Nina’s. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Mrs. O’Malley’s husband died,” I tell her without any lead-up. “I just got off the phone with her.”

“Oh my God.” Bristol sits back, one hand going to her chest. “Is she . . . how was she?”

“Devastated.”

“I would be inconsolable.” Bristol looks at me, her eyes softening and saddening in empathy. “We’ll send flowers and make sure to visit her when we’re back in the city.”

“That’s what I told her.” I watch for her reaction to my next statement. “She says we can have the apartment.”

“What?” Bristol’s head pops up, her eyes widening. “We can?”

“Yeah, if we want it.”

“We want it!” Bristol bends her brows with a sudden thought. “We’ll have to set up a nursery there, too.”

“Yeah, about the nursery—I’m not assembling any more furniture. That shit’s in German or something.”