Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

That doesn’t mean I won’t find happiness on it. And who knows, maybe Grey will want to be involved in the baby’s life. Maybe he’ll actually want to be the super invested co-parent I’m looking for. Both my parents were very involved in my life from the start. They showed up to almost everything: tennis matches, spelling bees, birthday parties. I’d love for my son or daughter to have both parents be involved that way, too.

I’d love for this baby to have a special relationship with his or her father, the way I had a special relationship with mine. It made my life infinitely richer.

In fact, if Greyson does want to be involved—and that’s a big if—maybe I should tell him that. I should make that my expectation: that he’s as invested in this baby’s upbringing as I’ll be. Seems only fair. The more upfront I am about what I hope for from him, the easier things will be going forward. I imagine co-parenting is a minefield, even with solid communication. Best to get in the habit of being honest from the start.

If Greyson doesn’t want to be involved, well…then I’ll deal with it. The baby will have plenty of adoring aunties to make up for not having a daddy.

My heart pops around inside my chest.

I’m still not totally sure about keeping this baby. But I am definitely leaning that way.

One thing I am totally sure about? How fucking dismayed Greyson is going to be when I tell him. I’ve seen firsthand how a control freak like him responds to unexpected news.

Not well.

Whatever. I’m not responsible for his reaction, same as I’m not responsible for fixing his jerk-off behavior.

That’s on him.

Either way, I have to tell him.

Taking a deep breath, I shoot him a text.Chapter SixGreysonJulia: I need to talk to you. Can you come to my place tonight?

Greyson: What’s going on

Greyson: youve never invited me over before

Julia: We need to talk in person.

Greyson: Are you ok?

Greyson: Something happen at the barn

Julia: Everything is fine at the barn. My address is 23 Longitude Lane. It’s the apartment above the garage. House with blue shutters. I should be home by 7.

Greyson: Have a ton of research to do. Will be in the office until 8:30 or so

Greyson: I’ll be downtown

Greyson: I can come after

Greyson: You sure you’re ok?

Julia: 8:30 works.* * *I know something’s up because Julia never gave me a straight answer to my “are you okay” question. I dwell on it more than I should throughout the afternoon.

Is she going to quit? Have I finally pushed her over the edge? I thought we worked decently well together, despite disagreeing on almost everything.

Have we given each other an STD? Not likely, considering we always use condoms. But I guess there’s always a chance.

Whatever’s going on, I need to know what it is, and I need to know that Julia’s okay.

I’m running late from the office—I’m never late to work events, but personal stuff is a different story—and I’m at her door at quarter after nine.

Julia lives on a cute little lane not far from my condo on South Adger’s Wharf. Her place is an old carriage house set above a double garage.

I knock on Julia’s door with the outside of my fist. I slide my phone back into my pocket, taking care not to crush the pack of cigarettes I have in there too.

I’m about to knock again when the door opens. Julia glances up at me. She’s channeling Joni Mitchell tonight in a straw hat and flared jeans with holes in the knees.

She looks drawn. Eyes swollen and a little red, like she’s been crying.

My heart dips. I put my hand on the door, opening it wider as I take a step toward her.

“What is it?” I ask, eyes locked on hers.

Her eyes move to my chest. Move back up to my face. She tilts her head. “Come in. We need to talk.”

I close the door behind me, heart thumping as I follow Julia inside.

The place is tiny but impeccably decorated. There’s a galley kitchen to my left and a living room to the right.

Julia nods at the sofa in the living room. “Please, have a seat.”

Sinking into her cushy velvet sofa, I cross my ankle over my knee and hold my hand there. Julia takes a seat in the chair across from me, setting a glass bottle—Topo Chico, Mexican Sparkling Water, the label reads—on the glass coffee table between us.

Something about the water makes my gut prickle with ice. Julia strikes me as the type to finish the day with something stronger.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, right on cue. “I haven’t been with anyone besides you, so…yeah. Baby’s yours.”

My heart trips to a stop.

For a second my vision contracts.

I’m a partner at a venture capital firm. Before that, I worked in private equity and investment banking. I know stress. Usually I can growl my way through it.