“She’s so small,” I murmur and start to smile when her thimble nose crinkles. “What are you gonna call her?” I ask since they’ve been flip-flopping on the name for months. “Olive is still on the table, you know. I’ve never known a single bad Olive, except for that moldy jar of kalamatas.” Jane grins. “Olive is unfortunately off the proverbial table. We’ve already chosen a name.” Thatcher nods. “Took long enough.”
