“What about this one?” I spin the iPad around and push it her way. “I think it’s perfect.”

She barely gives the screen a passing glance. “This is a joke, right?”

“Sierra,” I scold.

“No.” She shoves the device across the table. I barely keep it from falling off the edge, almost spilling my iced tea in the process.

“You’re being impossible, you know that. You have to decide.” I click out of that website and move on to Nordstrom’s, trying not to freak out about all that’s on my plate.

The last three months have been a whirlwind. I moved in with Shaw. We set a wedding date for early summer that’s rapidly approaching. I was selected by a number one New York Times best-selling romance author who wasn’t happy with her previous narrations and wants me to rerecord most of her backlist. Plus she’s put me on retainer for her future works. Between trips to Colorado every week to see Annabelle, who is like night and day from when she left, my momma was in the hospital for five days last month with pneumonia. Luckily she’s completely recovered.

Oh, and I’m apparently going to be as rich as Warren Buffet since the FDA approved production of Zytin, which my father held the patent to.

But none of that trumps the most exciting development of all.

I’m pregnant. Ten weeks.

I can’t believe this is my life.

“Can’t you just elope? This wedding thing seems like a lot of work.” Sierra slumps in her chair and begins picking at her black nail polish.

“I plan to get married once and I’m not going to let some bad Elvis impersonator sign my marriage certificate. Besides, whether or not my momma remembers it, I want her there.”

“Fine,” she grumbles loudly. “Show me something else.”

“You have to help me out here, Ser. You haven’t even told me what you like.”

She shrugs. “I prefer leather over lace.”

I ignore her. We’ve already had this conversation. Four times. “V-neck? Sweetheart? A-Line? Strapless? Floor-length? Knee-length? Dusty rose?”

She snorts at that one. She hates pink in any form, except in her hair.

“How about this?” I show her a midnight-blue short V-neck dupioni cocktail dress. “Look…it has pockets,” I offer excitedly. What woman doesn’t like pockets in dresses?

“Hard pass.”

“You’re killing me, Smalls.” I sigh. “This is like the hundredth dress you’ve shot down.”

“Because you have terrible taste. Need we revisit junior prom again?”

“Another Coke, ma’am?” the waitress, who has approached our table asks Sierra before I have a chance to remind her that her velour sweat suit phase in the eighth grade wasn’t exactly her finest hour either.

“Let me ask you something.” Sierra hooks an elbow on the back of her chair and cocks her head at our young, perky waitress named Azalia. Uh-oh. “Do I look like a ma’am to you?”

Azalia’s wide eyes pop my way for help. I offer her an encouraging smile and sympathetic shrug. She’s on her own.

“Uh…” A mouse caught in a snare is exactly how I’d describe Azalia right now. Poor thing.

“Don’t look at her,” Sierra snipes. Man, she’s in a mood. You’d think she was the one with hormones ravaging her body instead of me.

Our clearly Southern server, bless her innocent soul, is saved from whatever scathing remark Sierra was about to swallow her up with because Shaw and Noah choose that moment to arrive for lunch.

I stand to wrap my arms around my fiancé’s neck.

“I missed you,” Shaw purrs a half second before kissing me on the mouth. It’s long and lusty and far too inappropriate for a restaurant. I go wet instantly, my craving for him never satisfied.

Mouth still devouring mine, he buries a hand in my hair and leverages it to his advantage. He kisses me senseless, breaking away right as I turn liquid. My lids are heavy and the throbbing between my legs begs me to take him somewhere dark and private so he can relieve it.

“You seem hungry.” He smirks, the gleam in his eye telling me he did that on purpose.

“That was mean.”

“That was an appetizer, beautiful.” His eyes sweep down my body, heating me up. “I’m looking forward to dessert later.”

“For the love of Christ,” Sierra bemoans. “You’re ruining my appetite.”

“Funny. Mine seems to be growing,” I hear Noah say with a chuckle.

“Oh my God,” Sierra mumbles. I laugh.

“Uh, I’ll just give you all a moment.” Azalia scurries away, probably to find someone else to take her crazy station.

“Hey, doll,” Noah breathes, lips skimming my cheek. Shaw shoves Noah away, who is now laughing. He’s lightened up considerably with the brotherly affection Noah shows me.

Shaw ushers me back to my seat and takes the one to my right, while Noah pulls out the only remaining chair at our four-person table.

“Sierra,” Noah’s dark voice greets her. The way he elongates her name feels the same as ribbons of silk being drawn across your naked flesh while blindfolded. Sensual. Erotic. Even I have goose bumps.

But my coldhearted former roomie remains unaffected. Or at least that’s what she wants everyone to think. She makes a big production of rolling her eyes and clucking her tongue in annoyance.

Noah sits, never taking his eyes from her. An amused smile sits on his lips. I think he knows Sierra’s act is just that. When she looks away, I barely keep myself from asking why she doesn’t let him bang her and get it over with.

Comical, these two.

“Why is he here again?” Sierra spits, crossing her arms. Noah, so lighthearted and easygoing, throws his head back and chuckles. He sets his arm on the table and leans as close to her as he dares.

“I’m the best man. You’re the maid of honor. And in a wonderful twist of fate, we’re going to be godparents. Afraid we’re going to be glued at the hip for quite some time, pet. And I, for one, can’t think of anything sweeter.”

She gasps, affronted. I’m sure there were numerous things in that sentence that set her off, but when his heated gaze falls to her hips, an honest-to-God flush creeps up her collarbone and doesn’t stop until it reaches her hairline. Satisfied, Noah leans back and casually picks up his menu.

Uh, okay then.

“So,” I ask, closing the cover of my iPad. “How was your morning?”

Shaw and Noah had some clandestine rendezvous planned this morning they refused to disclose in advance. “Guy time,” Noah had said.

They exchange furtive glances.

“Good.” Shaw, too, picks up his menu and opens it, glancing over the list of appetizers.

“That’s it? That’s all you’re giving me?”

“How are you feeling?” he asks, side-eyeing me. “Nauseous today?”

On a short laugh, I call him out. “You’re not as smooth as you think you are, Drive By.”

He winks. Dammit, he knows what that does to me. “I beg to differ, Goldilocks.” His eyes go to my nipples, which stand at attention for him.

“Just show her, Merc,” Noah says. “She’s going to see it anyway when you bump uglies later.”

“See what?”

I rake over Shaw’s body to see if anything different stands out, but he has on the same fitted black tee and dark-washed jeans he left the house in this morning. He is sexy as fuck. Those honed muscles, his long, lithe fingers, that talented…

Concentrate.

“Tell me.” My gaze volleys between them.

Shaw glares at his best friend but Noah shrugs it off. “Probably not smart to rile a pregnant woman. Didn’t you say her temper was on an even shorter wick these days?”

Shaw curses under his breath.

I don’t even have time to get mad because Sierra jibes, “What’d you do, Mercer? Get her name tattooed on your ass cheeks?” She slips her straw in the corner of her mouth and drinks, the other corner curled into a grin.

“Good guess,” Noah interjects, laughing.

Sierra says something to him I don’t hear. All of my attention is now on Shaw, our two jesters forgotten.

“You got a tattoo?”

He nods, slow, tentative.

He’s nervous.

I’m quite sure I’ve never seen the confident and all-powerful Shaw Mercer so worried before. It’s adorable.

“Where?” When he doesn’t answer, I ask on a teasing laugh, “On your ass cheek?”

He throws Noah and Sierra both a quick glare. “No.” They shriek in laughter.

“Ignore them.” I scoot my chair closer to him, taking his hand in mine. “Tell me.”

“I wanted to tell you in private.” Another glower in Noah’s direction. His eyes search mine for a good few seconds. Then he slides his hand out from mine and lifts his shirt, exposing sinewy abs that make my mouth water.

I immediately zero in on a piece of clear plastic film that covers a patch on the left side of his ribs, right over the puzzle pieces I traced with my tongue this morning in the shower before I made his knees weak. The skin underneath is red and irritated…and freshly inked.

My breath catches in the back of my throat. “What is that?”

I reach out to touch it but he grabs my hand, stopping me.

“Here. It needs to come off anyway.” He peels back the film, exposing the angry skin below, and with the covering gone I clearly see what he did.

I start to cry. Ugly cry. Snot and everything.

Damn you, hormones.

“Baby. Willow, don’t cry.”

He drops his shirt and reaches for me, but I push it back up to study the symbol of love he’ll carry forever.

Weeping branches hang over a weathered trunk.

The leaves are intricate but obvious. Most are filled in, some are left empty.

Roots spread from the base, thick and plentiful. Deep and established.

The willow tree fills the empty space perfectly.

I raise my head to find him smiling, tender and warm. He frames my face, brushing my tears away. He moves close enough to whisper against my lips, “You once told me my tattoo was unfinished, remember?”

I’ll never forget.

“I finally found something I love enough to complete it,” he tells me hoarsely.

Have you ever felt your heart balloon? Inflate with so much love and happiness your chest physically expands to the point you’re sure it will rupture?

I hope so. Because everybody deserves to experience an emotion that’s pure and flawless and untainted at least once in their lifetime.

Raising his shirt one more time, I trace around the reddened skin, my breath watery. “That’s permanent, you know.”

He chuckles, kissing my lips hard. “So they warned me.”

I feel gooey inside. “Thank you for not giving up on me.” I throw my arms around him and squeeze. “Thank you for fighting for me, Shaw.”

“You’re a tough opponent.” He extracts me from his arms and cups my face. “But a worthy one. Incredibly worthy.”

What woman wouldn’t melt at that? Sierra, maybe. “I love you.”

His lips drop to mine and he whispers against them, “I love you, too.”

“Uuugh. You two are really making me sick,” Sierra laments, loudly slurping the last of her soda. One look at her, though, and I know she’s lying. She’s happy for me.

“I think in this case I must agree with Sierra,” Noah adds, scrutinizing her with intent. She purposely avoids his rapt gaze.

Snickering, Shaw flips his menu open right as the waitress returns to take our order. The conversation quickly turns to everyday stuff. The wedding. The damage to our roof in last month’s hailstorm. Annabelle’s highly anticipated visit home next weekend. Her first.

The conversation is light and relaxed and I allow myself to sit back and take stock of my life and the people I’ve allowed myself to love. To truly, fully love without reservation, without fear. My circle may never be big, but it will be stronger than ever because of one link.

Years ago when I was at the lowest point in my life I ran across a quote: Sometimes getting lost is how we find ourselves. It stuck with me, all this time, even though I wasn’t sure I could ever be found.

Only now I understand I never was lost. I was simply hiding in plain sight, waiting for someone to take notice, to have the fortitude to fight their way through every obstacle I put up as if their life depended on it.

I was waiting for someone to take my hand.

I was waiting for Shaw Mercer.

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