She meets his gaze, an ease settling over her with the gentleness in his smile. He’s good at that. Even if some might murmur that his bedside manner could use some work.

She traces her fingertips along his fingers, sliding her palm into his. “I’m not changing my mind,” she insists, fingers weaving between his. “I just don’t think I’m exactly what a mom pictures when she meets the woman her son’s bringing home.”