The phone in my pocket buzzed for the fifth time in as many minutes and I had no idea who it was because no one ever texted me. Ever. Okay, rarely. Belle Musique was small enough that a message would get relayed to me or my friends would just come into the shop. But I’d just sold the last two dozen muffins and it wasn’t even lunch yet so the store had finally emptied out. “If you want cupcakes or muffins, come back in thirty minutes but sixty would be better.”

With a groan the four latecomers took their coffees and left, leaving the shop empty. Peacefully so. Another final glance around the shop and I slipped my phone from my pocket and unlocked the screen. Oh holy hot damn! It was a photo of a shirtless man with indecently low jeans. I knew that torso and those tattoos well. Hell I even knew the color of those nipples and I had to snap my mouth closed to prevent the drool from seeping out.

It was no secret that Mason was hot but sometimes, in moments like this, it still knocked the wind out of me. The man was drool-worthy and right now, for the moment, he was all mine. But what I couldn’t figure out, the thing that niggled at me all morning, heck all week if I’m being honest is why.

What was with all the effort? Not that I didn’t appreciate it, because I did and I sent him a tongue sticking out emoji, several eggplants and a dozen drooling ones. It was all I could manage, even via text message.

I wanted to overanalyze it. I wanted it to mean something just as much as the thought terrified me. I was confused.

And I was going with it. Unlocking the screen again, I tapped the phone button and grinned when Mason picked it up. “Is that a picture of my lunch?”

I heard the sound of him swallowing down the line. “If you want it to be.”

Oh I wanted it to be. I wanted it to be a lot. I was insatiable for Mason and the fact that he couldn’t seem to get enough of me only made me want him more. Feeling desirable and cherished was a heady, addictive experience, and the thought of ending this thing between us made me feel sad. And feeling sad made me feel angry because Mason wasn’t for me, and as much as he’d proven to me that he was more than a man-slut, more than a commitmentphobe, I knew we couldn’t make it. “I do.”

“I’ll be there in five,” he said and ended the call and leaned against the cool metal of the swinging door to cool my overheated skin. It shouldn’t always be like this, not with a guy I couldn’t have.

It all seemed so unfair, that after all the internal lessons I’d battered into my brain, I’d fallen for the world’s wrongest man. In love with a bad boy, a tattoo artist.

On a highway to certain heartbreak.

“Oh my god, what is that?” Something awful hit my nose, a terrible, disgusting blend of coffee and anchovies which was weird since none of today’s sandwiches came with anchovy. “Ugh, stop saying anchovy!” It was too late for any of that to work but luckily my feet were smarter, moving towards the bathroom to dump out the contents of my stomach. “God, that was rank!”

I spent the next ten minutes searching the kitchen for the stinky culprit only to come up empty. The coffee pot was empty and cleaned thanks to Molly and as I suspected, there were no anchovies to be found.

Still, the smell lingered and I couldn’t get rid of it and the closer I drew to the trash can, the more moisture gathered in my mouth until it was all coming out. Again. My stomach clenched as my throat contracted with every heave of my empty stomach.

“Oh shit, you really are pregnant.”

That voice didn’t sound happy or thrilled, mostly shocked with a little hint of disappointment. I turned to Mason with a narrow eyed glare. “You don’t have to seem so horrified about it, Mason.” When he wouldn’t move, would speak, I rushed past him and left my own shop.

Nothing was certain but the doom that settled in my belly told me I had my answer.

Which meant there was only one thing left to do. Get that quickie divorce.