Dylan drops her head into a nod as Joey finishes up with a customer. “That’s fine. Man the front with Joey. I need to be off my feet today anyway so I’m going to stay in the back. I can work from a stool.”

“Are you feeling okay?” I watch her close her eyes through several slow, deep breaths.

My gaze shifts to the shop phone hanging on the wall.

Even though I’ve never had a reason to call it, I was forced to memorize Reese’s work number when Dylan was first pregnant with Ryan. I wonder how quickly he could get over here if I called him right now.

I imagine before I have the chance to hang up.

The door chimes as the customer exits the bakery, and Joey comes to stand beside Dylan, resting a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m fine. It’s not contractions or anything,” she reassures, looking back at him and then pressing two fingers to the inside of her wrist. “I’m just feeling anxious for some reason. I think I should take it easy today.”

“Then get your pretty little ass in the back, cupcake. I’m not dealing with that man of yours if you go into early labor due to work-related stress. I’m sure he’ll somehow blame that shit on me.” He guides her in the direction of the kitchen with a gentle push, then comes to stop beside me, dropping his head next to mine.

“Mason missed you at the coffee shop this morning,” he murmurs. “I told him you were up late hitting the sauce.”

“Did you really?” I glare at him as he leans away.

That’s just what I need, Mason thinking he drove me to alcoholism. He’s so fucking sweet he’ll probably pay for my rehab.

He smiles. “No. I said you had to do an early delivery this morning and skipped the coffee. He seemed to buy it.”

I gaze through the shop window. “I know I just got here but . . .”

“But you need to go talk to him.”

Our eyes lock. I nod at his spot-on remark, rubbing my hand down my face. “I’m just so fucking confused, and I need sleep, Joey. My skin doesn’t do well without it. I’m going to start looking like I’m in my thirties.”

“Heaven forbid.” Joey steps back and leans his hip against the counter, exaggerating his stare the longer I look at him. “Go, before Dylan comes back up here and discovers you’re missing.”

“Right.”

I slip behind him and grab an empty bakery box, filling it with four cupcakes.

“Shut up,” I snap when I hear Joey’s breathy laugh behind me.

It’s just because I need something to hold when I’m talking to Mason, otherwise I’ll reach for him, hold his face, try and slip my fingers through his hair and feel his soft curls.

There will be none of that happening.

I hastily exit the shop and cross the street. Peering through the large studio window, I can see a class is in session, but that doesn’t stop me from barging in with baked goods and a pissy attitude.

“We need to talk,” I exclaim, stopping just inside the door and glaring at the twenty-plus pairs of eyes on me. I focus in on one set in particular, crystal blue and softened with curiosity.

Mason steps between mats to see me better, his faded, sleeveless tee darkened with sweat. “Can you give me five minutes, Brooke?”

I look at him, at the crowd of women and their irritated expressions. With a quiet sigh, I slip past the elongated table covered in brochures and vitamin supplements and perch myself against the wall. I hold the box against my belly, letting my eyes wander the studio.

“Whatever.”

Class resumes. Mason goes through various positions and breathing techniques, offering assistance when some women struggle to hold a pose.

I reach into the box and bite into a strawberry ganache cupcake, smirking when a nosy chick in front of me scowls in my direction.

Fuck off, I think. You have no idea what that man is putting me through.

After the last attendee leaves and I swallow my last bite, Mason pulls the door closed behind him and stalks toward me. He tugs his shirt off with one hand and wipes it across his face.

“You wanted to talk?”

I take in his perfectly sculpted torso, from his lean hips to the muscles thickening his shoulders, every inch of him damp with perspiration.

“Yeah.” I set the box on the table and lick the frosting off my lip. “What the hell is your problem?”

His steps falter. “My problem?”

“Don’t do that.” I point a finger at him, advancing closer. “Don’t act like you have no idea what I’m talking about. I’m not allowed to touch you? I can’t . . . do anything to you? Why not?”

“Brooke.” He tosses his shirt on the table, reaching for me.

I step back to avoid his touch. “Answer my question first.” He takes in a deep breath, and my next words slip out before I can stop them. “Is it me?”

Other women have touched him. Other women have done everything with him. Why can’t I?

His eyes widen and he closes the space between us. “No. Fuck no, it’s not you. Jesus. How can you think that?” He slides his hand to my hip, his eyes following his finger as he runs it along my jaw. “It’s overwhelming how you affect me. Can’t you see it? How I look at you? I’m a bloody wreck here, Brooke. I want to take my time with you, but fucking hell if I don’t want everything you were offering last night.”

“Then take it.” I squeeze his hips, pressing us closer.