Landyn practically glows at that. “She has a little bit of me, but she’s mostly her daddy. She has his dimples, his stubborn streak, his nonstop energy. She’s like a tiny Ford in a party dress. Pray for me.”
Madeline laughs, and Landyn’s expression softens even more. Typically, this would be enough to make me take off running, watching a woman I’ve just been intimate with hanging out with my family. But instead of feeling caged in by it, everything in my body feels lighter. It’s like the noise in my head dials down long enough for me to breathe. This is new for me. I don’t quite know what to do with it, but I like it.
“Lan, baby. Emergency!” Ford’s voice calls out from across the living room. Landyn’s eyes go wide. “Oh God, I bet you it’s the dog. Come on, Poppyseed, let’s see what the dog has done now.”
She gives Madeline’s arm a gentle squeeze as I set Poppy down. She hurries to the back yard with Landyn in tow.
The string lights glow above the long table on the patio, lanterns flicker from the trees that border the yard. The caterers have cleared the empty plates and refilled our glasses. Music wafts onto the patio from inside the house and Poppy bounces up and down in her seat to the beat.
Noah sits across from me, relaxed in that careless way that drives me crazy sometimes. Wes is beside him, sharp-eyed and bone-dry sarcastic, the only man on earth who can make a completely neutral expression look judgmental.
Noah leans back in his chair, stretches out his legs, and points his fork at Wes. “Okay, I have a proposal,” he says loudly. “We should form—hear me out—a Cove crew.”
Ford groans. “Cove crew?” he repeats, skeptical. “You probably should have workshopped this one a bit more before saying it out loud.”
Landyn swats at his arm, laughing. “Say more, Noah. What would we do?”
“Team building,” Noah says proudly.
“Like trust falls?” Wes deadpans.
Ford shakes his head. “I’m not catching any of you.”
Landyn looks at him, eyebrows raised.
“Except you, baby. I would catch you every time,” he says, reaching over to grab her hand. “I’m talking to the rest of these dummies.”
“Daddy!” Poppy admonishes. “You shouldn’t saydummies.” She whispers the last word very dramatically.
“You’re right, Poppy,” he agrees, looking at her like she hung the moon.
Noah launches into his plan to rope the staff into weekly axe throwing practices, but I am only half-listening, my attention fixed on Madeline. She sits next to me, looking entertained as she listens to my brothers rib each other. Her gaze catches on mine and lingers for just a moment before her attention is pulled away by Becca, who is on her other side.
Eventually, we all drift back into the house for dessert. I circle around the edges of the living room, scanning the clusters of people, looking for her. I finally find her back on the patio. She’s alone, sitting at the fire pit, running her fingertips along the rim of an empty wineglass. I’m not surprised to find her outside by herself. The more time I’ve spent with her, the more I’ve come to understand her. She feels everything deeply, pays attention to the smallest shifts in a room, and when things get loud or crowded or overstimulating, she slips away to breathe. Not because she’s avoiding anyone but because she just needs a moment to reset. To get quiet enough to hear her own thoughts again. So, seeing her here, tucked into the soft light of the fire, isn’t unexpected.
I walk outside and set a piece of chocolate cake on the edge of the fire table, then take a seat next to her on the couch. I sit close enough that my knee brushes hers—not accidental, not something I pretend to correct.
“Thought you might want to share a piece,” I tell her, nodding to the three-layer slab of dark chocolate cake. “And I was hoping we could talk.”
She blinks. “You brought me dessert?”
“I did,” I say, reaching for the plate and handing it to her. “I am, after all, your fake boyfriend. I figure I should continue to do fake boyfriend things.”
Her lips part in surprise before curling into a quiet laugh. “Fake boyfriends feed their girlfriends dessert now?”
“They do if they’re over-achievers,” I say. I’d promised to be her fake boyfriend at the gala, and if leaning into that role now is my way in, then I’ll be the best fucking fake boyfriend the world has ever seen.
She waves the plate away. “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly eat your chocolate cake.”
I raise a brow. “No problem. I’ll eat it.”
Lifting the fork, I dig into the cake and bring it toward my mouth before she stops me. “Wait,” she says, lips parting in mock offense. “You’re really going to sit here and eat that in front of me?”
I laugh. “I thought you didn’t want it?”
She gives me the most dramatic, affronted stare. “Of course, I want it.” She holds out her hand, pouting her bottom lip. My dick perks up in an instant.
I lean back, plate still in my hand. “Is that how you ask for something you want?”
