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“I used to,” I say. “Had a couple of projects going at one point.”

Her voice softens. “Before?”

I don’t answer right away.

“Yeah. Before.”

Her fingers lace in her lap. “And now?”

“Now the shop keeps me busy. Rosie takes the rest.”

She looks over at Rosie, who is curled against the car seat with a thumb in her mouth.

“She’s worth it,” Lena says quietly.

“Yeah,” I agree, trying not to get lost in my head. “She is.”

The rest of the drive is quiet. She gives me directions to her apartment, which is a clean two-story complex with matching balconies and trimmed hedges. I pull into a visitor’s space.

“That’s me,” she says. “It’s not fancy, but it’s home.”

“Any homicidal neighbors?”

She pulls a face that makes her nose scrunch. “No murderers, but there’s a DJ upstairs who thinks bass is a personality.” Her eyes meet mine, and the faintest blush tints her cheeks. “Thanks again for the ride. And for Ruby.”

“Don’t get too attached to that rust bucket. I can’t keep saving it forever.”

She flashes me a smile. “Blasphemy.” Reaching back, she gives Rosie’s foot a gentle squeeze, then glances at me. “See you tomorrow.”

I nod, tapping the steering wheel. “See you, Lena.”

She slips out, waving once before disappearing inside.

I don’t know why, but I stare at the closed door for a beat longer than I should.

Eight

Lena

There’s an inevitable chaos that comes with entering someone’s home before 8 a.m. I don’t care how well you think you know them. If you’re not biologically related or sleeping with them, there’s always a risk you’ll stumble across something you’re not ready for.

“Wes?” I call out as I let myself in, nudging the door shut with my hip while juggling my tote and a paper bag of pastries I picked up from the café down the road.

No answer.

But then—oh yes, there it is—a thud and a string of mumbled curses from upstairs.

Ihesitate in the hallway.

“Lena!” he bellows from above. “Shower! Now! Quick!”

I blink. “Shower…me?” Because apparently we’re communicating in one-word sentences today.

“Not you. Her!” he yells again, and I swear I can hear the desperation dripping down the stairs. “Rosie…Jesus Christ. Just come help me before I drown in shit.”

I kick off my boots, abandon the pastries on the table, and bolt up the stairs two at a time.

Wes’s voice leads me to Rosie’s nursery, though calling it a nursery feels generous considering there’s currently what looks like a baby crime scene in the middle of it.