Oh. That’s starting to sound like a lot. “But the baby will be a stone of that, right?”

“I should hope not, for your sake.”

“That’s not helpful.” I really need to look into this stone thing more carefully.

“You’re going to be the most gorgeously lush pregnant woman London has ever seen. Your pregnancy style will cause a sensation envied by women citywide, whilst every man under eighty will wish he were me.”

“That’s better.”

I lie back on the bed as Jennings lies next to me, one hand spread across my flat stomach. Our heads are turned towards one another and I rest my hand on top of his. He’s making the softest circles on my stomach, the touch a combination of possessive and comforting.

“You’ll be stunning. I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”

“You won’t?”

“I promise you I won’t. I’m quite looking forward to watching your body change.”

“You are?” This is news to me. He’s made his interest in children clear, but without pressuring me. He respected my need to establish my career on a new continent and has patiently waited for me to be ready. We’ve talked about it in the abstract, checking in with each other on timing and interest, but this I’ve not heard.

“You’ll be huge by summer and I’m going to buy you loads of pregnancy sundresses.”

“How sweet. And I’ll still love you when you have no hair.” He’s got great hair. It was all I could come up with.

He laughs. “It’ll get me off. Seeing you swell with my child.”

Damn. That’s some caveman talk right there. And makes me a little excited, if I’m being honest.

“Are you proud of yourself?” I ask him, fighting the grin from my face and doing my best to ask the question innocently.

“For knocking you up?”

“Yes.”

“Quite chuffed, yes.”

I laugh then, giggling until something else occurs to me. “Wait.” I bolt straight up on the bed and stare at Jennings. “I’m going to have a baby in England.”

“Yes. That’s indeed what’s happening.”

“Do you do it the same here?”

“Do what the same?”

“Deliver babies.”

“I believe they do it the same everywhere, love.”

“This country doesn’t even know what Hidden Valley Ranch is. Nothing is the same.”

“I’m not sure one has anything to do with the other, but I’ll ensure a case of salad dressing is shipped over before your due date.”

“People don’t refrigerate their eggs here.”

“Also not relevant, but we can go over that again if you like.”

“This country doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving and no one eats pumpkin pie.” I’ve hopped off the bed now to pace and I wave my hand at him about the pie.

“Violet, you don’t like pumpkin pie.”

“That’s a valid point,” I agree.

“We have afternoon tea in England. You know how you enjoy the mini-sandwiches and the assorted cakes.”

“Also true, but what does that have to do with delivering a baby?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “I thought we were just talking gibberish about the differences between our homelands.”

“No, babe. I have a point.”

“Of course you do.” He nods without laughing at me, which is a really important quality in a husband.

“What if I do it wrong? What if I go into labor and they say, ‘Sorry, Violet, you were supposed to have pre-booked a room, you’ll need to deliver it yourself now. Good luck?’”

“That’s not likely to happen anywhere in the UK. Or elsewhere for that matter.”

“You never know.”

“Tell you what,” Jennings says, sitting up on the bed and putting on his thinking face. It’s the face he uses when he’s trying to rationalize with me about things such as the lack of flavored coffee creamer available in this country.

“What?”

“We’ll use the same hospital Will and Kate did. Will that work for you?”

“Shut up!” I gasp. I stop pacing and face him. “We can do that? For real? Normal people have babies there?” If they delivered the future king of England then they can probably deliver this kid.

“Yes. We can do that. Anyone willing to pay private hospital fees can do that. Is that the end of your concerns?”

“It is for now, but I reserve the right to change my mind at any time.”

“Of course.”

“Good thing we just finished the renovation on the mews house.” That’s what they call a guest house over here. A mews house. It was originally a carriage house—like an actual carriage house. For horse-drawn carriages. Insane, right? I can’t believe I live in a house old enough that it has a horse garage.

I mean a mews house. Jennings has told me repeatedly that horse garage is not the correct term.

In any case it’s renovated now, top to bottom. Two-car garage on the ground floor, a kitchen and living space above it and two guest bedrooms above that. Perfect for visiting family to stay as long as they like. Plus that’s just the guest quarters. We’ve got more room in the main house, but don’t get me started on that. No, really, don’t. It took two years to renovate.

I loved every minute of it, of course.

Do you ever look up dream houses on the internet and imagine what it would be like to actually live in them? It’s like that. Only better, because it’s in London and the original details are a design dream come true. Imagine a historical townhouse on one of the best streets in Mayfair and an unlimited renovation budget. I could come just thinking about it and it’s my house.

“Why is that a good thing? We’ll be keeping the baby in the main house, surely.” He grins when he says it so I know he’s teasing.

We’ll be keeping the baby in the nursery adjacent to the master bedroom. I might not have been ready for a baby when I drew up the plans for the remodel, but like any good designer, I planned for the future.

“My parents will want to stay when the baby comes. Plus my sister and her crew.”

“Ah, yes. I look forward to it.”

If I’ve one complaint about the British, it’s that I’m not always certain when they’re teasing. I side-eye Jennings now as I try to determine if he’s sincere or not. And my sister—well, she does love to mention that Jennings fired her any chance she gets. But she’s teasing. It’s not like she’d have been able to go back anyway.

“Are you taking the piss out of me?” That’s British for sarcasm. Taking the piss. It’s not my favorite of the Britishisms but it doesn’t stop me from using it whenever the opportunity arrives.

“Of course not, love. I’m attempting to get into your knickers.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, carry on.”

The End