The rest of my pregnancy passes happily, with about as much trouble as the first two months gave me. Which is to say…not very much at all.
“I get the feeling I’m being rude,” I murmur, drifting my hand over my very-pregnant stomach and glancing out over the vineyard, which has come so far in the past few months.
“Rude?” Frankie asks, coming up behind me on the stone porch of our little cottage tucked away in the corner of the field, up on a hill, overlooking the entire vineyeard and down over the main house. He slips his hands over mine where they rest on my baby bump, pulling me slightly backwards so that my weight rests against him.
I sigh in happiness to feel him behind me, warm and supportive.
“Yes, rude,” I murmur, looking towards the road to the village, where my friends Dia
