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A few moments later, the door chimes and Magnolia walks in. Her head is down and her shoulders are hunched in, as if she’s trying to make herself as small as possible. Briefly, she lifts her eyes to scan the restaurant before beelining for our table.

As she draws near, I realize she has tears in her eyes. “Mags?” I use the nickname without thinking about it. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, y–yeah, sure. I . . . b–backed into someone trying to park. I’m not the best driver, still fairly n–new.” She looks down, embarrassed by her admission.

“Oh, well, that’s no big deal, hun. Not to mention, that’s what insurance is for.”

“Y–yeah. You’re r–right. H–he was just so m–mad,” she laments, taking the seat next to Azalea. Over the course of the past week, Azalea, Seraphine, and I quickly realized Magnolia gets uncomfortable around men, so we try to always be present as a buffer.

Even now, Azalea quietly asks her to switch seats, ensuring that Mags is girl-locked on both sides. She’s just gotten herself situated at her new seat when the door chimes again.

This time it’s Simon, and he’s fuming, muttering, and mumbling to himself as he heads our way. When he notices Magnolia, though, he comes to a dead stop. After forcing several deep breaths, he schools his features into what I call his calm mask.

“Sweetheart, you okay?” It takes me a moment to realize he’s addressing Mags.

She nods, refusing to make eye contact. “You sure?” She nods again. “Good. I gave that jackass the what-for and sent him on down the road. Acting like a little paint swap is the end of the goddamn world. I swear, some fucking people.”

Once we’re all here, introductions are made, and Simon relays to us the altercation outside. Lunch is amazing, and the company is even better. By the time our checks arrive, we’re all laughing, smiling, and passing around the pictures from my ultrasound.

All-in-all, today has been nothing short of magical. And I just know I’m the luckiest girl around because I have an entire lifetime of this on my horizon.

CHAPTER 38

CASH

I readin myWhat to Expectbook that pregnancy can cause mood swings, but for the past month, Myla has been extra-super-moody. I don’t wanna say crazy, butdamn. She goes from hot to cold and back again in the blink of an eye.

Not to mention, these mood swings always go together with her text notifications. Reluctantly, I believed her the first time when she said it was a problem client, but come on. How many difficult clients can you have? Combine that with her conveniently forgetting to tell me her doctor was Taylor’s dad—pregnant brain, she called it—and my doubts are building. I hate feeling this way, but I’m at a total loss.

I’m almost at the point of asking the guys if they know anything, but that feels like a violation of our relationship. Of her trust. Which is kinda absurd, since I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s lying to me.

Sliding my safety goggles back down, I shake off the negative thoughts fogging up my brain. This piece has a deadline, and these cuts have to be made to meet it, and distracted cutting leads to injury. No thanks.

I lose myself in my work for hours, measuring, marking, cutting, sanding. Again, and again and again. By the time Ifinish, the sun has long since set. I get so hyper focused when working that the outside world falls away, meaning I haven’t talked to Myla Rose at all today. Not even once.Fuck.

Scrambling around the shop, I finally locate my phone on one of my work benches. Only there’s no new notifications.Double fuck.

Unlocking my phone, I scroll as fast my fingers allow and dial Myla’s number. Thank God, her sleepy voice comes through after the second ring. “Hey there, babe.”

“Hey. Missed you today.”

“Missed you too.”

“Not to be that guy, but I was hoping to hear from you today . . .” I trail off, not wanting my agitation to upset her.

“I was so slammed at work today, and I remember you mentioning youhadto get the piece you’ve been working on ready, so I figured you’d call me when you had time.”

Her voice is raspy from sleep, and even if she’s been lying to me, her words are a pang to my heart. “Fuck, darlin’. I’m sorry. Busy or not, I’ll make time for you. Know that.”

“Okay, Cash. Will you be mad if I go back to bed?”

“Not even a little. Sweet dreams, darlin’.” I end the call and make my way home, feeling a smidge lighter.

I didn’t sleepfor shit last night. My mind was racing, all my thoughts centered on Myla Rose. Without bothering to check the time, I dial her number.

“Good morning, Mr. Carson,” she chirps into the phone. Love that my girl’s a morning person—after coffee, that is.

“G’morning to you too. You got another busy day?”