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“So you do care about him?” she asks.

My throat tightens, but I say it. Out loud. Like it’s not terrifying.

“Yes. I do.”

Avery gasps, eyes lighting up like she’s just discovered a box of wine she forgot she ordered.

“Oh my God! This is great. This is so great. Okay—so wait—did you need to stop by your place or do something for your Gramps or?—?”

I grimace. “Um, no. I made that up. He’s actually playing cards and having tea with a neighbor lady.”

Avery claps her hands together, positively delighted. “Even better!” she says in a sing-song voice as she whips out her phone like she’s assembling a war council.

A flood of text message pings erupts from her phone, and she’s tapping so fast I half expect the screen to burst into flames.

“Hon?” she calls sweetly.

“Yeah?” Dante answers, glancing over.

“Take us to Penny and Max’s place.”

Dante blinks. “But we’re almost in town. And Penny should be resting?—”

Avery swivels toward him slowly, one eyebrow arched like a goddess of war who happens to be pregnant and packing a glittery vengeance.

“Do you really want to argue with the mother of your children?”

That’s when I see it in the rearview mirror. The baby bump.

A gentle swell beneath her flowy shirt.

My mouth opens in surprise. “Oh. You’re?—”

“Yes, very pregnant.”

Dante sputters. “What? Of course not. I don’t want to argue with you, Honey!”

“Good. Then drive.” Avery turns back to me, smiling sweetly.

“Congrats, that’s exciting.”

“It is! Thank you! We’re very happy,” she replies with a smile for me and a glare for Dante.

“Um, thank you?” Dante says, but it sounds like a question and I bite my lip to hide my grin.

“Arliss?”

I blink. “Um, yeah?”

Avery leans in conspiratorially, like she’s about to reveal state secrets.

“I don’t want to freak you out or anything, but, well, I should mention Penny’s been a little, uh, intense since she found out Max—he’s the Alpha of the Crew and her mate, and also a Jersey Devil—knocked her up with not one but two little bundles of joy.”

I stare. “Wait. What?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She waves that away like it’s no big deal. “The important thing is, she’s super knocked up with twins, her hormones are out of control, and she’s been kind of extra. Like more than usual. But the good news is, being preggers hasn’t stopped her culinary skills any, and she has been baking up a storm!”

“Um. Okay?” I say, because what else does one say to that?