Page 86 of The Difference Between

“If you ever smack my ass or call me old lady again,” I whisper through clenched teeth as we march down a hallway lined with stacked logs. “I’ll castrate you with the blade of your beloved mower.”

He laughs. “I was playing the part. And you’re the one that keeps saying you’re too old for me.” His brows raise. “Just following your lead.” Then: “And I think you liked having your ass smacked.”

My body, it seems, revs when repulsed.

“No.” I shove him through the next open door into a log-filled laundry room. It takes less than thirty seconds for me to declare it useless. The cabinets above the high-end washer and dryer have the usual suspects of dryer sheets, laundry detergent, and spot treatment.

Gavin follows me as I wordlessly peek into the next two rooms—a half bath and guest room. Both bare bones and not helpful.

“We need to find his bedroom,” I whisper, craning my neck around the living room. “It’s probably upstairs.”

Gavin’s eyes widen but his voice stays low. “Why do you care about what’s in his bedroom?” He looks over his shoulder at Theo. “He seems like a nice guy.”

I shake my head. “Lots of people seem nice. But is nice enough for having a child?”

“Child?” Gavin asks, eyes narrowed. “With your firm?”

Right.

“That’s what we call our acquisitions,” I explain. “Our children. Because . . .” I reach and reach and reach. “We’re a family.” Trish would be so proud.

Gavin lets out a little laugh. “Weird, but okay.”

Once again, I have him by the elbow, guiding him across a bear-skinned rug in the living room to the open staircase. There are about six couples wandering through the house now. Women inspect the kitchen while men size up the backyard.

“Could you live here?” I ask Gavin as we climb the steps.

At the landing, he pauses and looks down to the first floor. Even though there’s ample square footage and room to breathe, the amount of wood on every wall makes it dark. Like living in a coffin. I could never, but Gavin, in his worn jeans and boots fits right in with the rustic décor.

“Nah,” he says. “Too much wood.” His eyes climb the log-stacked wall. “Not enough windows.”

It’s a simple common thread, but it makes me pause. Makes me look at him and think . . . huh.

“I like windows,” I say like it matters or that’s at all a thing I would say.

Below us, the front door opens. A family of five files in, and kids instantly sprint around the living room and scream about the rug.

“You want kids?” I ask.

“Hell yeah,” Gavin says easily. “I love kids. Addie’ll be a kick-ass big sister, and I want to spoil a dozen grandkids someday.” A kid laughs and he smiles. “You?”

Actively trying to reproduce has turned my brain to hot garbage, because when Remy’s words from yesterday pummel me—fill a Fontain house with a dozen little Gavins—I can almost see it. And, if I thought it mattered, this would be the perfect time to say Surprise! That’s why we’re here!

“Yeah,” I admit. “I want kids.”

It hangs there, our truth along with a secret that suddenly feels dirty. Like I should tell him—a near-stranger friend—that I’m on a quest for a sperm donor.

And so is he.

Unknowingly.

And, in some circles, illegally.

I clear my throat. “Let’s see the rest of the house.”

At the first door we come to, my pulse ticks up. “It’s his room,” I whisper as we step in. “Close the door.”

Gavin hesitates.