Page 23 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

He laughs, and it rumbles through me, and yeah, it feels like us again.

16

GRAYSON

The morning after is slow and golden. Margot’s tangled in the sheets, one leg hooked over mine, hair a wild halo on the pillow, her skin still warm from everything we were last night. I should be thinking about the chaos waiting on my laptop, but all I can focus on is the way she sighs softly in her sleep, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. I run a hand down her back, fingers tracing the curve of her spine, and I swear she melts into me. It takes everything in me not to pull her back in for another round.

Eventually, I slip out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen, half-dressed and still grinning. The fire’s burned low, the coffee’s weak, and I burn the toast, but I don’t care. We’re in the middle of nowhere, hiding from the world, and somehow it feels like the safest place I’ve ever been.

Margot shuffles in, wrapped in a blanket, cheeks flushed, hair pulled into the world’s most chaotic bun. "Something smells like betrayal."

"That would be the toast."

She gives me a look, grabs the jam, and sits cross-legged on the couch like she owns the place. Like she owns me. She probably does.

While we eat, she reaches for the app again. "I’m going to rerun Blaze’s file. Maybe he’s just misunderstood."

"You planning on moving to Minnesota to join the falcon cult?"

"Only if they offer benefits."

We’re still laughing when she stands up too fast and freezes mid-motion, hand on her stomach. Her face twists, not quite in pain, but something else.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she says quickly. Too quickly. "Just stood up too fast."

She heads toward the bathroom, muttering something about finding her toothbrush, but I can tell something’s off.

The cabin creaks around us, wind brushing against the windows. I move to grab another log for the fire, and as I shift the kindling basket, I knock over her laptop bag. A folder falls out, thin, tucked between papers like it wasn’t meant to be found.

I reach down and pick it up, my fingers brushing the edge of the thin folder as I lift it carefully from the floor. Inside is a crumpled piece of notebook paper, covered in Margot’s handwriting. At the top, circled in red pen, is the word:Positive. A list follows beneath it, dates, symptoms, crossed-out questions. It’s not a lab report or a printout. It’s her way of keeping track, quiet and private, something meant only for her.

Pregnancy results. For a moment, my breath stalls in my chest, refusing to move.

I hear footsteps behind me and turn slowly, the page still clutched in my hand. Margot stands in the doorway, her face pale and her eyes wide, like she’s just seen her world tilt.

"Grayson…” she starts, her voice barely above a whisper.

The air between us freezes, the silence louder than anything she could have said. For a brief, stunned second, my mind flashes to another time she kept something from me, when she found out from Eleanor that I wasn’t a King by blood. That the man who raised me wasn’t really my father. She held that truth for a while, keeping it to herself, until it burned between us.

I remember the weight of that betrayal. But this time, I don’t feel anger. I just feel the gravity of what’s in front of me. I look at her, really look, and the last few weeks play in my mind like a highlight reel on fast-forward.

Every strange craving, every quick excuse, every moment she looked like she was holding something back, it all rushes together and makes perfect, terrible sense.

"You’re pregnant," I say, my voice softer than I expect.

She opens her mouth as if to deny it, but no words come. She closes it again, and after a long second, she nods. And in that moment, everything changes between us.

She steps forward slowly, like she’s not sure how close she’s allowed to get. The hardwood floor creaks beneath her bare feet. Her fingers twist the edge of the blanket tighter around herself as she crosses the space between the narrow kitchen and the living area. The fire pops softly behind me, casting flickering shadows along the cabin walls.

"I was going to tell you," she says softly, her voice almost swallowed by the stillness around us. "I just... didn’t know how."

I’m still standing near the fireplace, one hand resting on the arm of the worn leather chair beside me. The piece of paper lies on the coffee table now, a fragile truth between us.

I nod slowly. "How long have you known?"

She hesitates near the edge of the couch, her toes curling over the rug. Then she lifts her eyes to meet mine. "Several days. I wasn’t sure at first. I thought maybe the stress... then the nausea started. The cravings."

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