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“We’re not dating,” I interject, before he can say anything.

“Well,” she says, “I’d rather you brought home a fuck buddy who was a true gentleman than married a loser. Even if it doesn’t give me grandkids.”

“Mom.Jesus. Tone it down.” To Harlan, I say, “I have never seen her like this. I need to get her meds checked.”

“Quinn! Who raised you to be so rude?”

I roll my eyes. Mom’s “who raised you” thing is always her comeback when I say or do shit she doesn’t like. I never let her get away with it.

“Youraised me, Lorraine. And isn’t it ‘rude’ to like someone simply because you know he’s a billionaire?” I claim an egg-and-bacon sandwich and sit down.

“I like that he surprised you and your mother with breakfast,” she corrects me sharply. “It reveals character.”

“Or psychopathy,” I mutter.

Harlan just smiles in that way I’ve seen him do so infrequently, with his eyes, like he’s truly enjoying himself.

Come to think of it, I’ve only seen him smile like that once before. The morning we woke up in bed together and he called me a grump.

He blinks at me. “What?

“Why are you so happy right now?” I demand. “It’s early as fuck. I haven’t even had coffee.”

He gives me that bossy look again and informs me, “You shouldn’t be drinking coffee anymore.”

I glare at him.

Mom watches us curiously.

“Mornings are great,” he says lightly. “You can get a lot done before other people get in the way.”

“Oh my god,” I groan, as realization dawns. “You’re a morning person.”

“Oh, I love morning people!” Mom says, delighted.

“Don’t you have work to do?” I grump. I’ve been denied coffee, and instead handed a rooibos tea that tastes of flowers by an extremely controlling billionaire who seems to think he can just pop in and take over my life whenever he feels like it. It’s an annoying pattern. “It’s Monday.”

I’m in the back of Harlan’s SUV with him. After he drilled me about my plans for the day, he insisted on driving me around as I ran errands. He and Manus have just taken me grocery shopping, and helped me deliver Mom’s cupcakes.

Now we’re driving deep into the Kitsilano neighborhood on “a little detour.” I don’t know why.

“I have a lot of work to do,” he says. “But this is important. And time sensitive.”

We pull in behind a row of commercial buildings facing West Broadway. When we park, Harlan comes around to get my door, and offers me his arm. He’s been doing this all morning, as if I’m suddenly breakable now that I’m pregnant.

A man waiting by the back door shakes hands with Manus, and lets us into the building. Harlan and I enter alone, stepping into what appears to be a commercial space in mid renovation.

It’s empty except for the construction tools that are still everywhere. At the front end, there’s a storefront area and a big window facing the street.

“What’s going on?” I ask Harlan, as he leads me into the middle of the room. “Where are we?”

“This, Quinn Monroe,” he announces, “is your bakery.”

I stare at him, shocked.

“Or at least it could be,” he says. “It’s being renovated, as you can see. It was stripped right down to the studs, and the new drywall has just gone up. It will be painted by the end of the week, and then it can be outfitted for your bakery as needed. There was a delicatessen with a full kitchen in here before, so electrical, plumbing, and exhaust fans are all in place.”

I look around, still in shock.