“Even Dutch?”
“Especially Dutch. But I love him anyway.” She paused. “Speaking of useless men, how’s Holden?”
“About as well as you’d expect. Dutch had to physically remove him from his maps last night and send him home where I had to force-feed him dinner.”
“Sounds about right. Listen, I need to tell you something, and you need to act surprised when Holden eventually tells you. Lilac’s pregnant.”
I set down my fork. “Oh.”
“She didn’t want a big announcement. Asked me to let a few of the women close to her know quietly so she’d have support without the whole club turning it into a thing. Dutch knows. But Colt’s going to tell the brothers himself, in his own time.”
“So Holden doesn’t know yet.”
“Not yet. Let Colt have the moment.”
“Of course.”
“Meanwhile.” Her voice recovered its edge. “Colt is completely unhinged. It’s been forty-eight hours and he’s already researched every hospital within thirty miles, banned Lilac from lifting anything over five pounds, and produced what I can only describe as a nutritional manifesto. She is eight weeks along. The baby is the size of a raspberry.”
I pressed my hand over my mouth. “Does he know that?”
“He knows. He doesn’t care. He’s treating it like a club operation.” Her voice lost the joke. “Which is really why I’m telling you. She’s going to need people who can keep things light around her without making her feel fragile. And Colt is going to need someone who isn’t his wife telling him to breathe.”
“We’ll look out for them.”
“We will.”
“How’s Lilac doing?” I’d worked with the boys after everything that came out about Colt — play therapy mostly, helping them process what they’d been through. Lilac had been part of that, too. Once they’d gotten to a stable place, the sessions just… naturally wound down, and somewhere along the way we’d all become friends instead.
“Good, I think. Quietly terrified in the way she doesn’t show. But good.” A pause. “And Colt looks at her like she hung the moon. It’s honestly nauseating.”
“That’s not nauseating, that’s romantic.”
“Same thing.” Indira went quiet for a moment. “You doing okay with the run coming up?”
“I’m fine.”
“Mm.” The sound she made was warm and unconvinced. “Me too.”
She had to run after that — something about meeting with a wedding favor vendor she was definitely not looking forward to. I finished my salad and spent the remaining lunch break reviewing notes for my afternoon clients.
The afternoon was a blur of sessions, each one demanding a different kind of attention. An elderly man grieving his wife of fifty years. A young professional dealing with imposter syndrome. A mother struggling with postpartum depression who cried for twenty minutes straight before finally telling me she was terrified she was misreading her baby — that she couldn’t tell when he was hungry, or tired, or in pain, and that she was going to fail him.
That one stayed with me. I spent extra time on documentation, making sure I’d covered all the safety protocols, following up with her healthcare professionals to ensure she got the support she needed. By the time I was done, it was nearly six o’clock and my brain felt like mush.
Holden texted again:Heading out soon. Your place or mine?
Mine. I need my own bed tonight.
Rough day?
Long day.
I locked up the office and drove home on autopilot, the route so familiar I didn’t need to think. My apartment was quiet anddark when I arrived, the silence exactly what I needed after a day of emotional engagement.
The first thing I did was pour myself a glass of wine. The second was kick off my shoes and collapse on the couch, letting my head fall back against the cushions.
By the end of the day, there was nothing left. That was why Holden mattered so much.
