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She raises her eyebrows.

I reconsider. “Probably.”

By the time we reach the elevator afterward, Emma has spotted the notebook going back into my jacket.

“You wrote down the water recommendation.” Emma follows me into the elevator, watching as I put the notebook back inside my jacket.

“The doctor mentioned it, which qualifies it as useful information.” I press the lobby button and rest my hand against Emma’s back as the doors close.

Her eyes narrow as I tuck the notebook away. “You’re going to start tracking how much I drink, aren’t you?”

“I have work to do.” I slide my hand into my jacket, then stop because I’m standing beside a woman whose clothes are already in my bedroom and whose tea has taken over an entire shelf in my kitchen.

The girls ask whether she’s coming home with us whenever I pick them up, Sprout follows her around waiting for food, and Mom has started adding Emma’s favorite yogurt to the grocery order without asking anyone.

Keeping two homes between us has become ridiculous.

“You should move in.”

Emma goes still beside me before turning my way. “What?”

“Move into the penthouse.”

The elevator continues downward. She studies me, clearly trying to work out whether I’m serious.

She looks at our joined hands before meeting my eyes again. “Okay.”

The elevator opens onto the lobby, but neither of us moves until someone outside clears his throat.

Emma glances over and discovers an older man waiting to get in. “Sorry.”

He smiles and gestures us out. “Take your time.”

Her cheeks turn pink as we step into the lobby.

I keep hold of her hand.

Emma starts moving her things into the penthouse over the next few days, which apparently gives me just enough time to convince myself I’m behaving rationally about the pregnancy.

That illusion ends when a shipment of corner protectors arrives at the penthouse during my workday.

When I get home, Babs and Biddy are sitting on the living room rug surrounded by rubber padding with Sprout chewing one beneath the coffee table.

Emma stands beside the couch holding the shipping invoice.

Mom watches from her chair with a glass of wine.

Babs spots me first. “Daddy made the table soft.”

Emma lifts the invoice. “Thirty-six, Bane?”

“I ordered twelve.”

“That’s considerably less insane.”

Babs crawls toward the sideboard. “You put them here too.”

“I didn’t put those anywhere.”