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“I don’t know,” I reply, wandering around the room and looking at stuff. The room is decorated so sweetly with a mountain mural on one wall with little goats on ledges.

That makes him laugh. “You tell me to ask, but when I do, you don’t know anyway.”

Instead of leaving, I walk to the chair near the window and sit. Soon, I have my feet kicked up on the ottoman, and I’m rocking. “Do you know?”

“I know.” James is free and runs to his bookcase.

“Boo,” he says, bringing me one with puppies on the cover.

I take the book and say, “Book,” softly emphasizing the hard sound of the ending for him. Tapping the cover, I add, “Puppy.”

His eyes are set on the cute cover, and he says, “Puppy.”

I look up at Jackson. He stands with a wadded-up diaper in his hands and sticks it in some contraption by the door. I say, “James is so cute that it’s tempting to get on the floor and read with him.”

“What’s stopping you?” It’s not a harsh judgment but a genuine question that has curiosity flickering in his eyes.

James is content to babble through the words as he points at each puppy on the book in my hands. “I’ve never been around little kids. Like ever. What if I screw it up?”

“Screw up reading a book with a kid? I don’t think it’s possible.” He sits on the floor next to the chair and says, “It will be good practice for when Cammie has her baby.”

That is a good point. I look into the handsome little brown-eyed guy’s eyes, and ask, “Want to read a book with me?”

I slide to the floor next to Jackson. James lands with a thump in my lap unexpectedly like we’re old buds. Glancing at Jackson, he grins, and whispers, “He’s pretty shy, so he must like you.”

I like him. We don’t get three pages in before the sitter pokes her head into the room with Tatum’s daughter, Poppy, on her hip.

“Where’s my little Jamie?” He shoves away from me like I’m boring news when he sees the two of them and takes off across the room.

Glancing up at us, she says, “Hi. I’m Larissa.

” Picking him up, she blows raspberries on his cheeks.

“I get to hang out with this little guy sometimes. It’s even more fun when it’s the two of them together. They are so funny.”

Poppy heads straight for the bed. Larissa walks over and sets James on it and then helps Poppy on. Bouncing and giggles ensue.

“Looks like they keep you busy,” I reply, feeling a little disappointed our time was cut short. I try to wrangle my thoughts back together as Jackson helps me to my bare feet.

I was just getting used to . . . whatever this was, thinking it wasn’t so bad. When we say goodbye to the kids, James is so cute when he insists on giving me a hug.

Closing the door behind him, Jackson comes into the hall with me. I slip on my shoes while Jackson sits on the steps to put his back on.

Saved by the babysitter earlier, I loop back to the burning question. “You never said if you wanted kids.”

“You didn’t ask. You asked me if I knew if I wanted them. I know.” He stands and steals a kiss.

I’m tempted to steal it right back because of that answer. I laugh instead. “Are you going to tell me more or leave me guessing?”

“Guessing sounds more fun.”

I roll my eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” I start down the stairs. “I’ve got mine.” I don’t even know if I have any secrets, but it’s fun to tease him.

He’s quick on my heels. “What secrets are you keeping?”

“Oh good, Marlow, Jackson, dinner’s ready. I put fresh drinks on the table for you.”

Saved by his sister. Nick and Harrison are here, and after quick greetings, the six of us sit to eat. Roasted chicken and au gratin potatoes with a side of steamed and seasoned broccoli. It’s such an unexpected meal—a little rustic and comforting.

I’m so used to ordering food that it’s easy to forget that I could learn to cook and make something like this on occasion. Maybe . . . I take a sip of wine after eating a couple of bites. “This is delicious.”

“Thank you. It’s simple but good every time. One of Jackson’s most requested. He’s always bugging me and my mom to cook for him since he’s so busy. Sometimes, I’ll just make two of the same dish to send over to him. Do you like to cook?”

“I don’t. My mom doesn’t either. I don’t even know if she knows how.”

Tatum says, “Sounds like my mom. She could close a multimillion-dollar deal, but boiling water was not her forte.”

Natalie says, “My mom was a very good cook, but she worked a lot as well. Nick’s mom, Cookie, showed me how to make the most delectable turkey at Thanksgiving. She’s full of great tricks.”

“She sure is,” Nick adds, “matchmaking being her specialty.”

Natalie reaches over and rubs his arm. “Cookie will take no credit for us getting together, and instead, she’ll say the stars aligned because we were meant to be.”

“That’s beautiful,” I say, cutting my vegetables and then taking a bite. Not once have they made me feel like an outsider. It’s the opposite almost to a fault. I’m being treated like I’m already a part of the family.

I’m not sure what to think of that, but it feels so natural to me as well that I have no intention of rocking the boat. This is what I dreamed of when I was growing up. A family meal. Conversation over dinner. Catching up with each other.

It leaves me befuddled as to why my parents even had a kid if they didn’t want this.

I won’t let it ruin my time. This feels too good to want it to end.

“How’s the gallery?” Nick asks.

Jackson’s hand comes to rest on my leg. I’m starting to piece together the little things he does. Support and encouragement fill the leg touch.

“It’s . . . there. I have a big show that I’m working on that could be pivotal for launching my career into a gallery director position.”

Tatum says, “That sounds exciting.”

His thumb grazing back and forth is the pride he has in his eyes for me. I love seeing it as much as feeling everything he shares with me.

“It is,” I continue. “It’s wait and see in that area, but the planning has been really enlightening.

Working on a global project has allowed me to learn so much from international galleries.

” I laugh to myself. “New York is cutting edge in the art world, but places such as Paris, Madrid, Italy, and Japan have something so stylistically unique that it’s just breathtaking when I see some of their pieces in person. ”

I hadn’t noticed that everyone stopped eating, only that my heart beat differently as I was speaking—quicker, my cadence of thoughts too fast to put into words. My love for art in all forms has been lost for the past two years. I feel alive, knowing it still exists inside me.

“I’d love to show you two photos I recently acquired. It’s a newer photographer here in the city. Story Salenger. Have you heard of her?” Natalie asks.

“The name Story sounds familiar.”

“After dinner, I’ll show them to you. You can give me your professional opinion.” She takes a bite.

“I’d love to see them. Photography and paintings are my specialties.”

“Wait until you see the finger-painting James gave me. I have it framed in my office,” Nick says.

“That’s adorable. I’d love to see his budding skills.”

Jackson’s hand was gone, and that’s when I clued in to what he already knew—I’m doing okay, better than the turmoil trying to drag me down.

The conversation moves on to the kids, and although I may not have all the answers about what life will bring or even what direction I’m headed in, something Cammie said returns. And just so I know what I’m getting into, I ask, “How big was Jackson when he was born?”