Page 139 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

Jace looks at Miles. “You have recent experience breathing through agonizing waves of pain.” Then he turns to me. “And you have experience coaching him. Plus, you’re calm when things go sideways.”

I start laughing. Miles crosses his arms, staring his brother down.

Jace’s shoulders drop. “Please? Mackenzie really wants you both.”

Miles just raises an eyebrow.

“And she specifically said, ‘Bring Miles. He survived fake labor, so he’ll be useful for real labor.’”

“Her words?”

“Exact quote.”

I see the moment Miles knows he could never say no to the request. I grab his hand and say, “Come on, birth buddy.”

As soon as we’re in Mackenzie’s room, a contraction hits, and she grabs Jace’s hand with one of hers, the other grasping the bed rail.

Miles and I move to the opposite side of her bed, and I say, “Okay, breathe.”

Her eyes snap to mine, and she growls, “Do not tell me to breathe.”

“Excellent,” I say. “Hostility is grounding. It helped Miles, too.”

Mackenzie breathes anyway, matching my breathing, and the contraction eases. She falls back against her pillow and says, “I hate this.”

“You’re doing amazing,” Jace says.

“I hate you, too.”

“I know,” Jace says, then kisses her forehead.

Miles leans in close to me and says, “I was nicer during labor.”

I turn toward his ear and say, “You threatened to kill half your family.”

Mackenzie’s labor lasts long enough for me to gain an entirely new level of respect for Mackenzie. At one point, Mackenzie looks at Miles and says, “Did yours hurt this bad?”

“No,” Miles says without the slightest hesitation. I raise my eyebrows, so Miles says in a low voice close to my ear, “I’m an intelligence operative. I know when survival depends on giving the correct answer.”

His breath brushes my ear, and my body gives a tiny, completely inappropriate-for-a-labor-room reaction. Apparently, knowing I’m allowed to be attracted to Miles has made me notice everything. Including how good he smells.

The hours blur into contractions, ice chips, short walks, counter pressure, and breathing. Miles keeps track of timing while I coach Mackenzie through contractions. Jace stays beside her through every one, managing to look terrified and steady at the same time. Jace keeps telling Mackenzie that she can do this. Mackenzie keeps informing Jace that he is never touching her again.

Suddenly, everything changes. More nurses come in, and everyone is focused on one purpose. I stay near Mackenzie’s shoulder while Miles steps farther back, beside Jace, as they tell Mackenzie when to push.

And then there is a tiny, furious, beautiful cry. The whole room seems to stop for a second. Then Mackenzie starts crying, and Jace does, too. He laughs while he cries, which makes me cry, too.

Their little girl is placed against Mackenzie’s chest, all red-faced and outraged and so very perfect.

“Oh,” I whisper. Miles’s hand finds mine, and I hold on. I knew this would hurt. There’s an ache in my chest as I watch Mackenzie touch one trembling finger to her daughter’s cheek. I may never know what that feels like. I might never look down and see my own eyes or Miles’s smile in a baby we made together. The grief is real.

But the grief isn’t alone. There’s intense joy and wonder, too. And overwhelming gratitude that Jace and Mackenzie trusted us enough to be part of a moment that I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

After a while, the flurry of nurses slows, and Jace and Mackenzie have had time to stare at their daughter from every possible angle, like they’re trying to memorize her. I’m standing beside the bed when Mackenzie looks up at me. “Do you want to hold Grace?”

My heart trips. “Me?”

“You did help get her here.”