We’re four weeks into the new year and things are fucking amazing. If I’m not working on the farm, I’m with Azalea. We split our time between friends, families, and alone time—my favorite. Even better, Azalea and her girls breezed past the drama with Kelly and Kasey and easily accepted them into their fold, claiming the more the merrier.

And I’m not gonna lie, it’s awesome getting to hang with all of my friends at the same time, not having to pick and choose. Hell, sometimes, when the girls get together at an event and they get to talking, I’ll catch them all looking over at me, looking guilty as hell, like they’re all sharing secrets about me.

I. Love. It.

Life is good, and come Valentine’s Day, it’s only gonna get better.

* * *

“Y’all doing anything for the fourteenth?” I ask Cash, laid back in Simon’s recliner.

“Think we’re gonna stay at the house with Brody and chill. He’s been extra clingy lately.” He twists toward me from his spot on the couch. “What about y’all?”

“We’ve got plans. Azalea doesn’t know it yet, but we definitely have plans.”

“Oh, yeah? What?” Cash asks as he pops a cocktail weenie into his mouth.

“You let me worry about that, brother.”

Cash goes to respond, but Simon walks in, two beers in his right hand and a Coke in his left. “Y’all gonna sit around and gossip all day, or are we gonna watch some football?”

Cash rolls his eyes, because he couldn’t give two shits that it’s Super Bowl Sunday. He’s just here to chill, and probably for the food. “Yeah, yeah, shut it.”

“I’m for real, though. Y’all’re sitting around like a bunch of girls yappin’ about your V-Day plans. Hell, listening to you two, you’d think the girls were here already.”

Smirking, I cut my eyes to him. “Just you wait. One day, you’ll be just as damn sappy. You know what they say, ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall.’”

He snorts out a laugh, not taking my words to heart. But I mean every single one. I know Simon keeps his feelings under lock and key, but I also know he feels ten times bigger than the rest of us.

We’re thirty minutes from kick-off when Myla Rose and Brody arrive, Azalea in tow. Cash stands and heads straight for his wife and son while I let Azzy come to me.

“Where’s Magnolia?” Simon asks just as the sickening sound of metal crushing metal ricochets through the house. “The hell was that?” Simon jumps up from the couch, rushing toward the front porch, all of us hot on his heels.

Flinging open the front door, he finds Seraphine on the other side, her eyes frantic. “Simon!” Her voice is high and panicked. “Oh–oh my God. Help! I called 9-1-1, but I need . . . She’s stuck. It was an accident . . .” Seraphine’s words are barely coherent through all of her distress.

“What? What was an accident?” Simon steps around Seraphine, pausing at the top step of his porch before taking off at a full run toward the side of the yard where he parks his truck.

“Stay here!” I tell the rest of our group as I take off after him, shocked as shit when I find Magnolia’s rusty little Honda crushed up like a soda can, the tailgate of Simon’s truck wrapped around it like a bow. “What the hell? Is she okay?”

“I don’t know! I can’t get her door open,” Simon yells, yanking on the crippled metal with all his might.

Seraphine approaches us cautiously. “I followed her here, since she’s not the best driver. I’m not sure what happened. It’s almost like she missed the brake and hit the gas instead and lost control. Is she okay?”

“I–I don’t know.” Simon sounds utterly defeated.

Two seconds later, the sound of sirens fills the air and Simon’s yard is littered with emergency vehicles.

I stand helplessly with Seraphine and Simon while the emergency workers cut away the door to Magnolia’s car. We look on with bated breath as they help her from the car, loading her directly onto a backboard. “I–I’m fine,” she croaks out.

At the sound of her voice, it’s like an invisible thread snaps, and Simon rushes to her side. “Bet you wish you’d taken me up on those driving lessons, huh, Goldilocks?”

Magnolia tries to smile at him, but it comes out as more of a grimace. “A–are you m–mad at me?” she asks, tears streaking down her face.

“No. Never,” he tells her, gently brushing her hair back from her forehead.

“Sir, we’ve gotta get her loaded up. You’re welcome to follow us.” The three of us watch as they load Magnolia into the back of the ambulance, Seraphine’s face a mask of worry and Simon’s jaw clenching in anger.

“Jesus Christ,” Simon mutters, rubbing his hands over his face. “Drive me?”

Seraphine nods, and Simon looks to me. “Take care of shit here and lock up?”

“You know it, brother. Get outta here.” Simon and Seraphine load up into her RAV4 as I head back to the porch.

The minute Azalea sees me, she takes off at a sprint. “What happened? The police officers wouldn’t let us leave the porch. Is Magnolia okay?”

Wrapping her in my arms, I drop a kiss to the top of her head. “Take a breath, Little Bit, and I’ll tell y’all what I know.” Together, we walk back to the porch, and I gesture for everyone to follow me inside.

“What in the hell happened?” Cash asks, pacing the length of Simon’s living room.

I catch them up on what Seraphine told us, and without anyone asking if I need a hand, they all spring into action, helping me clean up, the Super Bowl long-forgotten, and once Simon’s house is spotless, I pull out my phone and dial him up.

“Hey,” he answers after a few rings, sounding weary.

“How is she? Want us to come up?”

“Banged up, a few cuts and bruises, a possible concussion. They’ll be discharging her in a little while. Y’all just go on home. She’s resting, and I kind of want to be alone.”

“I hear ya. I’ll tell everyone. You send Seraphine home too?”

“I did. I’ll update y’all tomorrow.”

“All right, let me know if y’all need anything before then.” Simon promises he will, and we end the call.

“Simon says they’ll discharge her in a bit and that she’s resting. He also asked us to stay home. So . . .”

Myla Rose walks over with a sleeping Brody and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. “Keep us in the loop, D.” Cash follows behind her, offering a handshake on his way past, a somber look on his face.

“My place or yours?” Azalea asks, resting her head on my shoulder, as if she can sense I need the contact.

“Yours is closer. I’ll follow you there.”