She gives me a tiny nod, and then—she moves in close, resting her head on my chest. I wrap my arm around her, holding tight. And there’s a small comfort in the idea she needs this every bit as much as me.

“I love you, Chelsea.”

Her sigh is long but not ungrateful.

“I know. I love you, too.”

There’s a weighted pause, and then she adds, “Even when you’re being an asshole.”

Yep. I can totally live with that.

****

The next morning, our midnight truce is most definitely off. Our mornings are busy—crazy—and that’s never truer than on a school day. I get the kids up. They’re dressed and almost fed by the time Chelsea walks into the dining room.

Wearing a pretty, dark-green sheath dress and matching blazer. Dressed for work.

From the chair at the table, my eyes rake over her.

“Nice outfit.”

She smiles tightly. Determinedly. “Thanks. It’s new. Maternity clothes have come a long way since Rachel was pregnant.”

I cock a questioning brow. “Do you have a job interview lined up already?”

And her nostrils flair. “No. I have a job. I’m dressed to go to it.”

At some point during the night, I decided I wasn’t going to fight with her anymore. She’s fucking pregnant—only an honest-to-goodness coldhearted prick would upset his pregnant wife, and I’ve put a lot of effort through the years into not being that.

So I nod. Take out my cell phone and dial Brent’s number. And as I speak to him, my gaze doesn’t waver from my wife’s stubborn face.

“Hey. Listen—I’m supposed to be in court today at ten and I’m not gonna make it. Can you stand in for me? Request a continuance?”

Chelsea flinches at the question.

After Brent responds in my ear, I tell him, “Yeah, exactly. Thanks—I owe you.”

I jab at the disconnect button and slide the phone into my pocket.

And all eyes—mine and the kids’—are on Chelsea.

“What’d you do that for?”

I open my palms, gesturing like the answer is obvious. “We’re going to work at the museum. I’m pretty frigging talented but even I can’t be in two places at once.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re coming to work with me?”

I smirk viciously. “There’s no place else I’d rather be.”

“That’s your plan? You’re going to follow me around. Forever?”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I’ll do what I need to do, sweetheart, for however long I need to do it.”

Her face pinches and she looks away from me. Then she yanks her own phone out of her blazer pocket and a few seconds later speaks into it—leaving a voice mail.

“Gavin, it’s Chelsea. It seems that what you told me yesterday is accurate. I’m resigning. I . . . good-bye.” She pins me to the chair with a scowl. “There, you win. Happy, Jake?”

“This isn’t about winning.”

“You sure? Because that’s how it feels.”

She turns away, heading into the kitchen, but not before I see the tears welling in those crystal-blue eyes.

And—fuck—if that doesn’t make me feel like the smallest dick that’s ever existed.

Just when I think I can’t feel any lower, Regan manages to help me out.

“Are you and Mommy getting divorced?”

Rory raises his hand. “I call Jake.”

Riley swats his hand and tells him to shut up.

I touch Regan’s little head. “No, we’re not getting divorced.”

“That’s what Abigail Stillwater’s parents said. Right before they got divorced. Then on Visiting Day Mr. Stillwater called Mrs. Stillwater’s friend an underage boy toy and Mrs. Stillwater said Mr. Stillwater was a deadbeat bastard who didn’t own her. They had to be escorted from the building.”

Jesus Christ.

Ronan steps up next to his sister. “Are you sure you’re not gonna get divorced?” He wags his finger. “Tell the truth.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” I rub my hand over my face. “Look, guys . . . sometimes adults disagree. Just like you two—you fight all the time, but you still love each other.”

They glance at each other, confused—and slightly disgusted.

“We do?”

Fuck me.

“Okay, bad example. I promise Mommy and I are not getting divorced.” I gesture to their backpacks and coats. “Now get ready—the bus will be here soon. Rosaleen, help Ronan with his shoes.”

Rosaleen purses her lips, quieter than I’ve ever seen her. “Okay.”

With a big breath I walk into the kitchen, to fix the shittiness that is this situation. She’s at the sink, washing dishes . . . and holding back tears.

I’ve seen some heartbreaking stuff in my days—but there is nothing on earth more gut-wrenching than watching Chelsea Becker trying her hardest not to cry.

And failing.

I come up behind her, wrap my arms around her waist, and bury my face in her neck.

“I hate this.”

She stiffens, and sniffles, but stays silent.

“I fucking hate this. I want you to be happy, but I need to know that you’re safe.” My arms squeeze tighter. “I won’t . . . I won’t be able to function if I don’t know that. Try and understand. Please.”

She gives me more of her weight, leaning back, softening just a little. “I do understand. I would probably feel the same way if things were reversed. But . . . it hurts when you make decisions without me.” She hiccups, and it lands like a knife to my stomach. “When you don’t think of me.”