Page 30

The waitress chooses that exact moment to bring our food. My wife’s eyes light up as she stares down at her sandwich.

That’s one thing I’ve learned over the last eight months—never get between a pregnant woman and her food.

We eat in silence for a minute. Damn. This isn’t half bad. In fact, it’s pretty fucking good.

Halfway through, Eden starts in on the nursery plans. “I’m thinking we paint the wall behind the crib sage green. Not too babyish, but still soft. You can put up those shelves for the books and the little plant I got last week.”

“Done,” I say. “Easy.”

She lifts her fork and points it at me. “Don’t say it’s easy until you actually do it. Remember what happened last time you tried to put up shelves?”

“I put up three,” I remind her. “Only two fell down.”

She laughs, head thrown back, and my heart actually skips. It’s a sound I never thought I’d hear in my own house, in my own life. But here it is, and I’ll tear apart heaven and earth to make sure I never lose it.

We eat. I check my phone again, this time under the table. Still no word from Diesel. The bastard better be on top of things, or I’m going to kick his ass.

Eden wipes her mouth with a napkin, then sighs. “After this, I want to swing by the shop on our way home. I left a few invoices on the desk, and if I don’t handle them today, they’ll breed like rabbits over the weekend.”

Since pregnancy is slowing her down a little, she’s only been working three days a week at the garage. Although I miss her like crazy, I know it’s best for her and our little one.

Panic grips me. Those assholes haven’t texted to let me know everything is ready. If we get there too early, the whole thing will go to shit. I scramble for a reason to stall. “Let’s get dessert,” I say, grabbing the menu and waving it like a flag.

She looks at me like I’ve just confessed to murder. “Dessert? You don’t eat sweets.”

“It’s a special occasion,” I insist, inventing as I go. “We made it through another week. You deserve to be spoiled.”

She rolls her eyes but clearly likes the idea. “Fine. But you’re eating at least half.”

“Deal.”

I flag the waitress, order the Tiramisu, then check my phone again. Still nothing. I type out a quick “Are you almost fucking done?” text to Diesel and hit send.

Eden narrows her eyes. “You’re texting Diesel again.”

“You know they can’t survive the day without supervision,” I mutter.

She shakes her head, but I see the way her lips curve up. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re up to something.”

I lift my chin. “Pregnancy hormones are fucking with you again.” I blame the one thing she can’t deny.

The dessert arrives. I’ve never seen cake look this fancy. The waitress sets down this rectangle of tiramisu, dusted top to bottom in cocoa powder. Eden stares at it like she’s found the Holy Grail. Her fork’s already in her hand. I don’t even get a second to crack a joke before she drags the tines through all those perfect layers and shoves a bite in her mouth.

Her eyes go wide. She groans, low and filthy, like I’ve just gone down on her under the table. Fuck me, it’s hot. My cock twitches at the sound. I’m fucking addicted to watching this woman eat.

“Holy shit,” she moans, mouth full. “This is so good. You have to try it.”

I grab my fork and take a bite. Damn. It’s creamy and rich, coffee and chocolate and some other shit I can’t identify. I don’t give a fuck about dessert, but this is actually decent. Good enough to order again, if only to watch Eden lose her mind over it.

“You like it?” she asks, lips already stained with chocolate.

“It isn’t bad,” I grunt, shoving another bite into my mouth because I don’t want to admit my pregnant wife is right.

When she glances over at me and grins, the whole world shrinks down to just us. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this happy. Not in my whole goddamn life.

My phone buzzes. I check it under the table. Diesel’s sent a thumbs-up and a GIF of a dude tap dancing in place. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I signal over the waitress and hand her my credit card without even looking at the bill.

Eden finishes her cake, dabs her lips with the napkin. “Ready?” she asks, but her eyes say she already knows the answer.