Page 152 of Nash
"Shh." Darla holds up one finger. "Mommy's performing."
The music starts. Darla wraps her hand around the microphone, plants one heel, cocks her hip, and becomes someone else entirely. She sings "Cool Rider" with the polish of a woman who dreamed of Juilliard and the fire of a woman who performs at the community theater because the stage is where she comes alive. She points at East during the chorus, then does a spin that belongs on Broadway. Darla hits the high note clean, full, holding it two beats longer than the track, and the room erupts.
East is holding both babies with his mouth open while his face cycles through pride, confusion, and the specific terror of a man watching his partner commit a public performance that he will be hearing about for the rest of his life.
"THAT'S MY WOMAN!" East yells. Declan startles. East drops to a whisper. "That's my woman. She's incredible. I'm marrying her. Someone write that down."
"You haven't proposed," Kyle says.
"Details."
Darla takes a bow. The room applauds. She walks back to East, takes Rowan from his arms, sits down, and crosses her legs.
Nash's hand slides from my arm to my hip. He pulls me closer on the couch, his fingers curling around the curve of my waist. Just above my jeans, his thumb rubs a slow circle. I lean into him. His mouth finds the spot below my ear.
"You're next," he says against my skin.
"I'm strategizing. A performance of this caliber requires mental preparation."
His teeth graze my earlobe. My breath stutters. In front of everyone. He's doing this in front of everyone, and he doesn't care. The not caring is so new and so hot that my brain is short-circuiting.
"Your turn," Darla says to the room. "Sloane." Darla leans forward. "You look uncomfortable."
"I'm fine."
"You've been holding your stomach for twenty minutes."
"The baby is active."
Knox glances at her. "The baby is active because she ate something she said she'd never eat."
Sloane's head snaps toward him. "Knox."
Darla sits up straight. "What did you eat?"
"Nothing."
"Knox just said—"
"Knox is a traitor who sleeps on the couch tonight."
"Olives," Knox says.
Darla's mouth falls open. Then closes. Then opens again into a grin so wide it takes over her entire face.
"I TOLD YOU." Darla points at Sloane with the authority of a woman who has been vindicated. "I told you that you would crave them. You said you hated olives. You said, and I quote, 'I will never in my life voluntarily eat an olive.' I told you it would happen. The pregnancy would make you crave them. You looked me in my face and told me I was wrong."
"They were Kalamata," Sloane murmurs.
"The VARIETY does not matter, Sloane. You ate the thing you swore you'd never eat. I called it. I called it months ago."
"They were on a charcuterie board. They were right there," he says.
"Don't help me," Sloane says to Knox.
"I'm confirming the circumstances."
Sloane throws a napkin at Knox. He catches it without looking. Candace comes out from behind the bar. She walks to the jukebox, selects her song, and turns to face the room.
