Rory had discovered that pregnancy cravings were nature's way of making sure expectant mothers never felt dignified. Currently, she was elbow-deep in a jar of pickles while simultaneously dipping them in a tub of vanilla frosting she'd been testing for the bakery. The combination was unholy but somehow perfect, like heavy metal covers of ABBA songs.
"That's revolting," Jim observed from the kitchen doorway, looking equal parts fascinated and horrified. "Like genuinely, stomach-turningly disgusting."
"Says the man who once swallowed a live goldfish on a dare." Rory pointed her pickle at him accusingly, a glob of frosting falling onto the counter. "Besides, this baby has Sam's taste buds. Remember when he'd put ranch on literally everything?"
Jim's face did that complicated thing it alway
