“Yeah,” I whisper, brushing her hair behind her ear. “We are.”

  She’s quiet for a second, then adds, “I hope the baby looks like you.”

  I smile, heart catching in my chest, because we’re talking about a child that could enter our lives soon.

  “But… I also hope he’s not a giant like his daddy who’ll rip me in half on the way out.”

  I wince. “Jesus, favorite. I could’ve gone my whole life without thinking about that.”

  She grins. “One request. Can you please put a smaller kid inside me?”

  We both dissolve into laughter, hers muffled against my neck, mine rumbling in my chest like I don’t know how to hold in all this joy. “I’ll do my best, babe.”

  Maybe it’s not a big announcement. Maybe it’s not fireworks or a marked date on the calendar. But it’s our secret. And that makes it everything in my book.

  Chapter 32

  Alex Sebring

  The Rabbit Hole hasn’t changed. Still tucked behind that nondescript alley door, still lit in that moody amber glow. The wood floors creak, and music hums from behind the bar, and that specific scent—aged whisky, citrus, and something sweet and smoky—floats in the air.

  I tug Magnolia closer, my arm snug around her waist as we push through the last curtain. Her face softens, and she smiles.

  Being here with her is nostalgia and wonder all over again.

  She looks around, taking it all in. “It’s the same as I remember it.”

  I kiss her temple. “Just like the night I met you.”

  Yet everything has changed now. She’s not just a beautiful stranger anymore. She’s my wife. My future. And if all goes to plan, soon, the mother of my child.

  This night is a pause. One last breath before everything changes. Because once Magnolia gets pregnant, the spontaneity vanishes. No more impulsive whisky nights or teasing each other on the dance floor until we’re both breathless. No more pretending we have all the time in the world.

  We need this night. No work. No talk about ovulation. Just us and the place where it all started.

  Elias and Violet are already inside, tucked in a leather booth near the back, drinks in hand. Violet’s laughing at something Elias said—head thrown back, wild and carefree. My brother looks at her like she’s the only woman on the planet.

  It’s been special, watching them fall in love.

  “Should we crash their date?” I say against Magnolia’s ear.

  She smirks. “Only if we can out-flirt them.”

  “With you? Not a challenge.”

  We head to the bar first. Dave’s behind it—same suspenders, same half-scowl of concentration as he pours something dark into a cut-crystal tumbler. When he sees us, his eyes lift, and a grin tugs at his mouth. “Well, if it isn’t Sebring.”

  “Hey, mate,” I say, extending a handshake across the bar.

  He shakes my hand, nodding. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

  “I’ve had a lot going on. You still pouring them strong?”

  “Always.”

  I wrap an arm around Magnolia’s waist. “Dave, I’d like to introduce you to Magnolia Sebring, my wife.”

  The bar spoon slips from Dave’s hand onto the bar, making a clanging sound. “Shit. No way.”

  Magnolia laughs. “Hello again.”

  Dave’s eyes widen. “You married the American mystery girl?”

  “I sure did. You were the one who pointed her out to me that night, remember?”

  “I do. Damn.” Dave chuckles, pouring us both a whisky without asking. “I thought you were gonna chicken out.”

  “Didn’t get the opportunity. She made the first move.”

  Magnolia laughs, leaning into me enough to bump my shoulder. “We often have very different recollections of how things went down in the beginning.”

  Dave raises his glass with a grin. “Here’s to fate doing what fate does best—and to marrying the one who makes all the chaos make sense.”

  We clink glasses. The drink burns, perfect and familiar.

  I glance over at Magnolia, glowing under the amber light, and a thought pops into my head: this could be the last time we’ll do this before there’s a baby onboard.

  I want to memorize every second.

  We lucked out—it’s Retro Rhythms Night: ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s on shuffle. Magnolia lights up like someone who hit play on her soul’s personal soundtrack.

  She grabs my hand and I spin her around. “You and your weird music,” I say as we make our way to the table where Elias and Violet are waiting.

  She gives me a mock gasp. “Weird? This is a cultural treasure.”

  “Is it now?”

  She tips her head, eyes narrowed in playful challenge. “You love it. Admit it.”

  I pause for a beat and lean in. “Yeah, all right—I do. But only because you love it and I love you.”

  That earns me a smile that could melt concrete.

  We reach the table as Elias leans in and kisses the side of Violet’s neck. She leans in, smiling, and notices us. “Oh look, the Sebrings have arrived.”

  We slip into the booth, drinks in hand.

  “Found it without too much trouble?” I ask.

  Elias chuckles. “Eventually. This place doesn’t want to be found—but I like it.”

  Violet scans the room with approval. “It’s moody in the best way.”

  Magnolia nudges me. “This is where we met face-to-face for the first time. Right over there.”

  Violet’s eyes widen. “Get out—this is the bar?”

  Magnolia looks at me, eyes sparkling. “It is. Brings back memories.”

  I reach for her hand under the table, giving it a squeeze. “Sure does.”

  Violet exchanges a glance with Elias. “Thank God for their meet-cute at this place. If they hadn’t met here, you and I wouldn’t know each other. I’d be on a date with some guy from Tinder whose idea of romance is Venmo-ing me for half the Uber.”

  Elias leans in, placing his forehead against Violet’s. “Fate’s a funny thing. That night started their story and also set ours in motion.”

  Wow. My brother is in love––as in quoting-fate-and-touching-foreheads in love. I’m not sure what surprises me more—the tenderness I see in him or the fact that Violet’s letting anyone get that close without a sarcastic retort.

  I shoot Elias a sideways grin. “Okay, lovebirds. Calm down.”

  We finish the last of our drinks, and Magnolia’s practically vibrating beside me when the next song comes on. “‘Self Control’ by Laura Branigan––one of my favorites.”

  The music is funky, familiar, pure ’80s gold. Very Magnolia.

  “We have to dance.” She takes my hand, pulling me up from my seat. “C’mon, husband. You didn’t marry a wallflower.”

  I go with it, laughing as I look back at Elias. “You two coming, or what?”

  He grins. “Right behind you.”

  We lose ourselves in the music—all of us, no choreography, only rhythm and joy and a night we won’t soon forget.

  The funky song fades, giving way to something slow and seductive.

  She stands with her back to my chest, her hips already moving to the slow, sultry rhythm. One arm lifts, graceful and deliberate, curling behind her to thread through the hair at the nape of my neck. She tugs me closer, her head tipping back enough for her lips to graze my jaw.

  “You’ve never played this song. What is it?”

  “‘Red Light Special.’ TLC,” she murmurs, her voice low and loaded.

  “You need to play this one at home.”

  She rolls her ass against my cock—slow, steady, knowing exactly what she’s doing—and any coherent thought I had goes up in smoke.

  I groan low in my throat. “Fuck, I would bend you over if we weren’t in public.”

  She turns in my arms, brushing her lips along my jaw, teasing and lethal. “You mean if we weren’t on a very specific timeline? You’ve got to put the brakes on, big guy. I’m ovulating.”

  And just like that—ice water.

  Of course she is. Tonight of all fucking nights.

  We only need to avoid pregnancy for one month. One. Fucking. Month. But right now, with her swaying against me, lips close enough to taste—I want her so badly it hurts.

  I pull her in tighter anyway. “We’ll have to get creative tonight.”

  She hums low and promising. “Oh, we will.”

  We hit the bar for round two, then three and so on. Old-fashioneds slide into our hands like clockwork. The bourbon burns in the best way. We’re tipsy but not lost. Loosened. Dialed into each other in a way that sharpens everything—every glance, every smile, every graze of skin.

  She laughs at something I say, tossing her head back, and it’s all I can do not to lean in and claim her mouth right there. Her fingers drift to my leg casually, but the spark it sends up my spine is anything but. Everything between us is heat now—smoldering and slow-burning. The air, the silence, even the way her foot brushes mine under the table—it all hums with anticipation.

  And when she looks at me like that—eyes low, mouth tipped in a secret—I know exactly where the rest of this night is headed.

  “I want to dance some more.”

  “Whatever you want, Mrs. Sebring.”

  Her body fits against mine like memory, like instinct. Her hands trace up my chest before looping behind my neck, pulling me closer until her mouth brushes mine. The music doesn’t matter anymore. We’re not dancing to it—we’re moving to something else. Something we’re barely holding back.

  My hands slide lower, anchoring at the dip of her spine, pulling her against me until there’s no room left between us. She shifts her hips enough to drive me insane.

  Her laugh is soft and dangerous. “You’re getting grabby.”

  I lean in, lips brushing her ear. “You’re not exactly discouraging me.”

  She tilts her head up, gaze locked on mine, mouth parted like she’s daring me to kiss her right there. I do—slow and unhurried––tongue brushing hers long enough to forget where we are.

  “Maybe we should get out of here.”

  I don’t even hesitate. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  We head back to the table long enough to say our goodbyes. “We’re calling it,” I tell Elias, clinking the last of my drink against his. “Catch you two later?”

  Violet grins, slipping her arm through his. “We’re right behind you.”

  Then we’re outside, flagging a cab. The second the door shuts behind us, Magnolia slides in close. We’re not all over each other—but tangled enough that no one would raise an eyebrow. But her thigh is pressed tightly against mine, and her hand settles high on my leg. Definitely not innocent.

  She leans in, voice low. “I can’t wait to get you home.”

  Her dress has inched up enough to test my self-control. I let my fingers drift over the inside of her knee, slow and casual.

  She shifts, crossing her legs slowly—deliberately—and leans in as though she’s going to whisper something harmless. But her lips brush my jaw when she speaks, soft and devastating.

  “This is why we don’t drink and ovulate.”

  I turn my head enough for our mouths to almost touch. “You’re playing with fire, Mrs. Sebring.”

  Her hand squeezes my thigh. “And you love it.”

  God help me, I do.

  I glance at the driver’s eyes in the mirror. Focused on the road. Good.

  I slide my hand a little higher. Not enough to get us kicked out of the cab but enough to remind her I know how to make her squirm.

  She doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t even blink. Just lets out a breath that sounds like a dare.

  “Keep on and we won’t make it to the bedroom,” she whispers.

  I smile, low and slow. “Maybe you should stop testing my limits.”

  She grins and drags her nails down my arm. It’s only a graze, but my body reacts like she flipped a switch.

  “If you keep doing that, I’m going to break every rule tonight and give you twins.”

  She bursts out laughing, burying her face in the side of my neck. “You wouldn’t.”

  I catch her wrist, guiding her hand down and pressing it over the hard line straining against my jeans. “Don’t tell me I wouldn’t.”

  Her breath hitches, and that wicked smile returns.

  Suddenly, it doesn’t matter how fast the cab is moving. Home can’t come soon enough.

  By the time the taxi turns onto our street, we’re both half buzzed, half feral, and fully aware this night isn’t ending anytime soon.

  We stumble through the door, half laughing, half kissing—lips brushing between gasps and bad aim. Her heel knocks against the wall with a sharp clack, and I shoulder the light switch on by accident, flooding the entryway with a glow neither of us needs. I hit it again, plunging us back into shadows.

  We don’t bother speaking. Every word we’ve not spoken is communicated in the tension strung tight between our bodies.

  Her fingers grip the front of my shirt with fists. My hands are all over her—spanning her back, dragging down to her hips, yanking her closer every chance I get. She kisses me like the old-fashioneds are still working their way through her blood.

  By the time we make it to the kitchen, I’ve got her pinned against the island. My hands are planted firmly at her waist, but hers are everywhere—scraping through my hair, curling into the back of my neck, and tugging at my belt.

  She arches into me with a low noise that punches the air out of my lungs.

  “You are trouble,” I growl against her throat, letting my teeth scrape along her skin enough to make her shiver.

  “You love trouble,” she whispers, a smile in her voice.

  She doesn’t wait. Just pushes herself up onto the edge of the counter. I catch her thighs as they part—instinct, hunger, a reaction I couldn’t stop if I tried.

  She braces her feet on the edge of the marble, knees bent, legs open wide enough to taunt me. And then—snap. She closes them again, tight as a trap.

  I freeze, a beat too slow. My breath comes out in a rasp. “Stop that.”

  She tilts her head, lashes low. “Make me.”

  Challenge accepted.

  I drop my hand to the hem of her dress and shove it higher, revealing those ridiculous lace knickers she knows I can’t ignore. I find the crotch and hook my fingers under it.

  One rip. Gone.

  “Hey! Those were cute.”

  “They were in the way.”

  She laughs, breathless. “You’re going to owe me new ones.”

  I don’t answer because I’m already dropping to my knees, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee first. Then one higher. Then another. Her legs fall open for me without hesitation, and I grip her thighs.

  I work her slowly at first, savoring every gasp and shudder. Then deeper, more focused—tongue and mouth and hands, relentless in the way I know drives her wild.

  “You taste like dessert,” I say against her.

  Her hips shift, chasing the friction. “I’ve been eating pineapple, babe. Just for you.”

  And then she stops talking and threads her fingers into my hair, holding on. Tight. Like she might float away if she lets go.

  She gasps my name once—only once—before it’s all breathless moans and shaking thighs. Her body tightens, pulls taut like a bowstring, and then snaps.

  She comes hard—legs trembling, back arched, head tipped back in a silent cry I feel more than hear.

  I don’t move. Just hold her through it, kissing the inside of her thigh.

  And in that moment—lit by nothing but the light coming through the kitchen window, with her sprawled on our counter looking like ruin and ecstasy—I swear to God, she might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  I stand, breath still ragged, and reach for my belt. My hands are shaking—but not from nerves. From restraint.

  Her eyes meet mine, wide and glassy, lips parted. Her dress is still bunched around her hips, her thighs glistening, her chest rising and falling.

  I undo my pants in one clean motion and press forward—sliding into her with a thrust that’s pure instinct.

  She gasps, her body arching into mine. “What are you doing? I’m ovulating.”

  I freeze, forehead pressing against hers, my heart hammering. “You want me to stop?”

  She blinks, breath catching, fingers digging into my shoulders. “God, no. But don’t come inside me.”

  I nod once, jaw tight, and start to move. Slow. Controlled. Every stroke a war between caution and need. Her heels press into my back, her hands fisting in my shirt, mouth brushing mine with every breath.

  “Fuck,” I grit out, hips stuttering. “You feel so good.”

  “So do you,” she gasps. “It feels so good, Alex. Don’t stop.”

  I don’t. Can’t. Every part of me is wrapped around her—inside her—and the edge is coming fast.

  Too fast.

  I grip the counter behind her, trying to hang on. Trying not to lose it inside the one woman who could undo me with a single word.

  “I’m close,” I manage to say. My voice is hoarse. Strained. Desperate.

  She nods, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Pull out. Promise me.”

  At the last possible second, I do––barely––just in time to come on her stomach and dress, gasping like I’ve been punched in the chest.

  We stay there, tangled and breathless, her fingers still threaded in my hair.

  “Babe,” I groan, shaking it off. “I’m not sure my pull-out game is very good.”

  She lifts her head enough to look down. “What do you mean?”

  I wince. “I don’t know if I pulled out fast enough.”

  She stares at me. Then smacks my chest—half laugh, half horror. “Alex.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We had a plan,” she says, trying to sound stern but failing.

  “I know, I know.” I kiss her, soft and apologetic. “That plan went to shit the second I was inside you.”

  She sighs, shakes her head. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

  “And you’re lucky I love chaos.”

  She huffs out a laugh and looks down at her dress. “Well, if it happens, it happens. But I don’t think it will.”