Notthesecret. But a secret.
“Joy!” Sloane waddled toward her, one hand pressed to her lower back, the other cradling her enormous belly. Baby #2 for her and Callum. “Please tell me you brought that tart. The one Bear mentioned. I’ve been thinking about it for three days.”
“It’s over there with the other desserts.”
“Thank God.” Sloane lowered herself onto a nearby chair with the careful precision of someone whose center of gravity had shifted dramatically. “This baby wants sugar. Constantly. Callum keeps trying to get me to eat vegetables, and I keep telling him the baby has spoken.”
Joy laughed, but something twisted in her chest. In seven months, that would be her. Swollen ankles and weird cravings and a body that didn’t feel like her own anymore.
The thought should have been exciting. Instead, it sent a spike of panic through her so sharp she had to focus on breathing.
“You okay?” Sloane’s eyes narrowed. “You went pale.”
“Fine. Just warm in here.”
It wasn’t warm. Linear Tactical’s heating system was fighting a losing battle against the Wyoming cold, and Joy could see her breath if she stood too close to the windows. But Sloane acceptedthe excuse with a nod, already distracted by her husband, Oak Creek’s sheriff, approaching with a glass of water and a look of gentle concern.
Joy slipped away before she had to watch them be tender with each other.
The main room was a study in controlled chaos. Kids darted between adults, shrieking about something involving a stolen candy cane. The music had shifted from traditional carols to something with more bass, probably River’s doing—Bear’s only sister had strong opinions about holiday playlists and zero respect for tradition.
In the far corner, Annie and Zac had found a pocket of quiet. Annie was listening to something Zac was saying, her expression patient and focused, one hand resting on his forearm. Around them, the party churned—kids screaming, adults laughing, someone dropping something in the kitchen—but Annie didn't flinch. Didn't look away from her husband. She existed in her own calm center, unruffled by the disorder.
She'd been like that as long as Joy could remember. Steady. Present. The kind of woman who could stitch up a wound and soothe a terrified child in the same breath.
Joy wondered if that was something you were born with or something you learned. If it could be taught. If she had any hope of finding it in herself before she had to. Joy had never been the calm, steady, unruffled type.
Her hand drifted toward her stomach again. She caught it, redirected it to straighten her sweater.
“I saw that.”
Charlie Bollinger, Bear’s mom, appeared at her elbow like a very small, very determined ghost. The woman barely cleared five feet, but she had a presence that made people twice her size step back.
“Saw what?” Joy kept her voice light.
“You’ve been fidgeting all night. Adjusting your clothes, watching everyone else, barely talking.” Charlie’s eyes were sharp. “Something’s going on with you.”
Joy’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Mmhmm.” Charlie didn’t look convinced. “You’d tell me if something was wrong?”
“Of course.”
“Because you've been family since long before my son put a ring on your finger. Whatever it is?—”
“Charlie!” Finn’s voice cut across the room. “The garland is falling again!”
Charlie sighed, the sound carrying decades of affectionate exasperation. “That man. I told him to use the heavy-duty hooks.” She squeezed Joy’s arm. “We’re not done talking about this.”
She marched off toward the garland crisis, and Joy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Three times. She’d almost told Charlie three times tonight.
Once when Charlie had asked why she wasn’t drinking the spiked cider. Once when Charlie mentioned that Bear seemed different lately—happier, more settled—and asked if Joy knew why. And just now, when Charlie’s concern had been so genuine, so motherly, that Joy had nearly cracked.
She wanted to tell someone. The secret was getting heavier by the day, pressing against her chest, demanding to be spoken. But every time she opened her mouth, fear closed her throat.
What if something went wrong? What if she lost the baby and had to untell everyone? What if she couldn’t do this—couldn’t be a mother, couldn’t be the kind of parent a child deserved?
