Page 133 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
It's easy.
It’s good.
And it’s real.
After a while, Genevieve’s head droops against my shoulder. Her body relaxes. Max pulls a blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over her legs, his fingers lingering on her ankle.
Sebastian shifts a little closer, stretching his arm along the back of the couch behind her. His fingers brush her hair like he can't quite help himself.
Genevieve makes a soft sound in her throat—half sigh, half hum—and it just about kills me.
Max catches my eye over the top of her head. No words. Just a look. One that says everything.
We’re doing this.
We’re really doing this.
Genevieve shifts again, curling tighter between us, her hand landing on my thigh in her sleep. I press a kiss to the top of her head without thinking about it. Max tugs the blanket a little higher. Sebastian says something under his breath about needing a bigger couch, but he doesn’t move away either.
Chapter42
Gen
The first thing I register is the smell.
Warm, rich, unmistakably buttery.
The second is the low hum of voices filtering in from the kitchen, pitched in that particular cadence that means they’re trying—and failing—to be quiet.
I push back the covers, blinking against the early morning light, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body protests the movement, stiff from a restless night, but I make it to my feet without too much struggle. Twenty weeks and the idea of waddling feels absurdly premature, but there's no other word for the awkward, careful way I shuffle toward the kitchen.
When I round the corner, I freeze.
All three of them are crammed into the space in front of the stove, an image so absurdly domestic that for a moment, all I can do is stand there and stare.
Sebastian is hunched in an awkward stance as he curses at the pancake he’s attempting to flip.
Max stands beside him, arms crossed, arguing about the correct batter-to-butter ratio with the kind of intensity usually reserved for corporate mergers. Silas, of course, has a spatula tucked behind one ear and a glass of orange juice in his hand, offering commentary that consists mainly of mocking them both.
Something tight and painful swells in my chest. I press a hand against my sternum, trying to will the sudden sting of tears in my eyes away.
Sebastian notices me first and his eyes go wide.
"Shit," he says immediately, abandoning the pancake to the mercy of the pan. "Did we do something wrong?"
The sheer panic in his voice cracks something open inside me. A tear slips free, and I scrub at it furiously.
"No," I manage, my voice wobbling embarrassingly. "You did everything right."
Silas's mouth twitches in a grin. Max steps forward, squeezing my shoulder and kissing me on the top of the head before returning to supervise the increasingly disastrous pancakes.
I offhandedly mentioned I was craving pancakes last night, and here they are, making that happen for me. I’m overwhelmed by how easily they fill the empty spaces I didn’t know I was still carrying.
We eat together at the counter, pancakes slightly burned, bacon too crispy. I have to skip the eggs. They’re a little too runny, making my stomach turn.
And then, halfway through laughing at something Max mutters under his breath about Silas’s culinary crimes, it happens.
A tiny, almost imperceptible flutter low in my belly. It almost feels like a butterfly flapping it’s wings.
