Page 104 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

She inhales slowly. “I think… yeah. Pretty sure my water just broke.”

For a beat, we just stare at each other.

Then I throw off the blankets and bolt upright. “Okay. Okay. No problem. This is what we trained for.”

She’s calm. I’m not. She swings her legs over the side of the bed while I’m already yanking our go-bags into the hallway.

“Grayson,” she says. “You’re not breathing.”

“I’m fine. I’ve reviewed every scenario. I’ve watched the videos. I know what to do.”

“You’re white as a sheet.”

“I’m the rock.”

“You’re the rock who just packed the bathroom slippers instead of mine.”

I blink down at the bag and groan. “Dammit.”

She laughs as I race to fix it, her voice light, strong, grounded.

By the time we make it to the elevator, I’ve got the right slippers, the car keys, and a wife who’s somehow the calmest person in New York City.

She squeezes my hand. “This is happening.”

I squeeze back. “Yeah. It really is.”

And just like that, the countdown is over.

56

MARGOT

The moment I say,“Grayson, my water just broke,”time stutters.

Grayson freezes mid-step, one socked foot hovering over the floor like his brain’s just blue-screened. Then, click, he’s moving. Fast. Gone from the room and already barking orders to himself from somewhere down the hallway.

“I’ve got it,” I hear him say. “Bags. Phone. Route B. We trained for this.”

I brace my hand on the edge of the bed, sucking in a breath as a wave of pressure tightens across my lower back and hips. It’s not agony, not yet. But it’s real. A low, steady pull that says: this is happening. Grayson reappears moments later, juggling hospital bags, my water bottle, and, for some reason, my pregnancy pillow.

“Do you want me to carry you?” he asks, wide-eyed.

“Grayson, I’m in labor, not fainting in a Victorian novel.”

“Right. Walking. Yes. Absolutely.” He nods with so much intensity it’s a miracle he doesn’t give himself whiplash.

I can’t help but laugh, even as another contraction rolls through me. The elevator ride is a blur. So is the descent to the parking garage. Outside, the city is cloaked in pre-dawn stillness, its streets slick from a recent rain, reflecting streetlights like molten gold. Grayson opens the car door with more care than I think he’s ever used with anything in his life.

“Seatbelt. Blanket. Lemon candies in the glove compartment. You’re good.”

I grab his hand, squeeze gently. “Grayson. Drive.”

The drive feels suspended in time. The streets are mercifully empty. My contractions grow stronger, more insistent, and I begin to count my breaths, eyes closed, body tensed against each wave.

“You’re doing great,” Grayson says for the fourth time.

“If you say that again, I will throw your phone out the window.”

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