I stare at him, skepticism dominating my expression. “You cannot.”
His face brightens. “I can try.”
I let out a dramatic sigh, surrendering to the moment. “Fine.”
He disappears behind the bar, and I can almost envision him preparing for some grand operation, like he’s about to perform brain surgery instead of simply pouring a drink. A few minutes later, he reappears triumphantly, sliding a cup toward me with a proud grin.
“There.”
I look down to inspect my prize. A plastic cup. Wrong ice. And, worst of all, no pickles. My heart sinks like a stone.
“This is wrong,” I say, disappointment lacing my words.
His face falls instantly. “What?”
“You used a plastic cup,” I explain, my voice tinged with exasperation.
“I couldn’t find styrofoam,” he admits, looking genuinely distressed.
“It has to be styrofoam,” I insist, my tone leaving no room for negotiation.
He freezes, perplexed. “...Why?”
“Because it just does,” I reply, my irritation bubbling up.
Despite my protests, I take a sip anyway, hoping for the best. But the moment it touches my tongue, tears spring to my eyes. This isn’t it. It’s all wrong.
Suddenly, I’m crying—no, not just sniffly crying; I’m having a full-blown pregnancy meltdown. Shoulders shaking, face wet, I can’t seem to stop.
“Oh my God,” the prospect exclaims, panic washing over him. He rushes around the bar toward me, his eyes wide with concern. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did.”
I try to explain, but my tears are flowing too freely, fueled by the disappointment. The drink is wrong, the pickles are wrong, and everything feels wrong.
Just then, the clubhouse doors swing open, boots echoing across the floor. The church meeting must have finally ended. Ryan steps out first, and the moment his eyes land on me sobbing at the bar, he stops dead in his tracks.
His gaze snaps to the prospect standing beside me. “What the fuck did you do?”
The prospect throws his hands up defensively. “I swear I didn’t mean to!”
Ryan crosses the room in three long strides, crouching down in front of me. One big hand instinctively rests on my stomach, and I feel the boys kick, as if they recognize their dad’s presence.
“Baby,” he murmurs softly, concern etched into his features.
His other hand cups my cheek, and I try to answer, but I’m still crying too hard to form coherent words. Instead, I slap the prospect lightly in the chest, pointing dramatically at Ryan.
The prospect clears his throat, stepping in to help. “She wants a fountain Diet Coke with Grillo’s dill pickle chips in it.”
The room falls silent, the weight of my craving hanging in the air.
“…In it?” someone mutters, disbelief evident in their voice.
Several bikers visibly grimace at the thought.
Ryan slowly turns his gaze back to me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Is that what my babies want?”
I nod desperately, more tears spilling down my cheeks. “Yes.”
Ryan drags a hand down his beard, looking like he’s questioning every life decision that led him to this moment. Then he turns his attention back to the prospect. “You heard her.”
