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“Nope.”

“Maggie.”

“I'm fine.”

“You look like you're about to pass out,” he insists.

I straighten and grab a box of cleaning supplies. “Can’t talk. Busy now.”

Jules follows me. “What's wrong?”

I start toward the storage room, balancing the box against my hip. “Nothing.”

“Maggie.”

I keep walking.

He keeps following.

“You're not getting’ rid of me.”

“That's becoming painfully obvious.”

By the time we reach the hallway, I'm already regretting every life decision that led to this conversation. Jules knows me too well. One look at his face tells me he's not going anywhere.

I scan the room to make sure nobody is within earshot. Then I jerk my head toward the office.

“Come on.”

That gets his attention fast.

Inside the office, I close the door behind us and lean against it. Jules doesn't rush me. He just waits. Every trace of teasing is gone, replaced by concern.

I open my mouth, then close it again. The words refuse to come. They sit lodged somewhere between my chest and my throat because saying them out loud will make them real.

Eventually, I drag in a breath. “I think I might be pregnant.”

Jules stares at me.

I stare back.

After several long heartbeats, he slowly lowers himself into a chair, as if his legs have suddenly stopped working.

“Well.”

I wait.

“That's one way to start a Thursday.”

The laugh slips out before I can stop it. Relief follows close behind. Trust Jules to find the humor in a complete emotional disaster. I sink into the chair behind my desk.

He points at me. “You couldn't have eased into that conversation?”

“I tried.”

“You absolutely did not.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs.

Jules watches me across the desk. “So, how long have you been thinkin’ this?”