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I’m leaning against the island in Colston’s kitchen, staring at a half-empty beer. It's been too fucking long since Goldie let her guard down and kissed me in her kitchen. I haven't tasted her since, and the cravings are almost unbearable. I've kept my hands to myself, giving her exactly what she asked for, but being around her without touching her is a special kind of hell. Every time she laughs, every time she casually bumps her shoulder against mine, my muscles lock up just to keep from touching her the way I know we both want.

The way we did in the hotel.

Except this time it’d be better because I know her and she knows me. There’s trust and a level of comfort we didn’t have before.

When she finally lets me in fully, it’s gonna be so fucking good and worth every second of torment.

I’m not going to push her, though. I want to be the guy she feels safe enough with to drop the armor herself. I want her to look at me and decide she’s ready to be with me in every way. But waiting for her to make that choice is testing me on a level I’ve never experienced before.

Colston’s sitting across from me, scrolling on his phone, when the front door opens, and we both look up to find Trace kicking the door shut.

He drops onto the seat beside me with a heavy groan. "I hate university bureaucracy bullshit," Trace announces, cracking his neck.

"Rough day?" Colston asks, popping the top on a beer from the fridge and sliding it over to Trace. "Good thing Wells’s number one best friend is here with beer then, isn’t it?"

Trace catches the bottle, flipping Colston off. "I've known him a decade longer than you, Jennings. Know your place."

I just roll my eyes and take a drink of my beer, letting them run through their usual bullshit.

Trace takes a long pull. "So, you sign the papers today?"

"Yeah," I say, setting my bottle down and rolling it between my palms. "I met with the lawyer this morning. Delia is officially being served next week."

"And you're not just handing her the house anymore, right?" Colston asks, looking up from his phone.

"My lawyer told me I'm an idiot if I walk away from that much equity just because I'm pissed," I admit. "So no. We're forcing a sale. She can buy me out or we put it on the market."

"Good. Fuck her," Trace says, taking a long drink. He sets the bottle down and claps his hands together. "Now, where are we going tonight? I need stronger alcohol than this and to make some bad decisions."

"We're heading over to St. Pete," I tell him, grabbing my keys off the counter. "Goldie's friends are throwing a party on the roof of their building."

Trace pauses, lowering his beer. He looks at me, then looks at Colston. "Be honest with me, dude. Are these friends hot? Because if I'm dragging my ass across the bridge to watch Shamu pine over his baby mama, there better be single women."

Colston grins. "Oh, they're hot. A little feral, but hot. One of them threatened to feed him to an alligator last time we saw them."

Trace raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk taking over his face. "Perfect." He looks back at me and snorts. "You're so fucking down bad it's embarrassing."

"I never said I wasn't," I say.

"Just wait until you see them together, T," Colston laughs, grabbing his wallet and sticking it and his phone into his pocket. "Standing next to them feels like you're interrupting foreplay."

I shove Colston toward the door, ignoring him. Let them talk shit. I don't care. Tonight, there's gonna be music, a crowded roof, and Goldie. And honestly, Colston isn't wrong. Getting across that bridge, finding her in the crowd, and just soaking her in is the only thing I give a shit about right now. I can't touch her yet, but just being near her takes the edge off.

CHAPTER 20

GOLDIE

Eight Weeks:

Baby is approximately the size of a raspberry.

The sun's setting over St. Pete, turning the sky above the warehouse a blinding neon orange-pink just in time to kick off our Friday night.

We spend almost every Friday night up here on the roof. Over the years, we’ve dragged up a bunch of potted palm trees, built a wooden pergola for shade, and pieced together a makeshift bar out of reclaimed wood, transforming the ugly space into our own private oasis. Scout even mounted a hot pink neon sign from her shop against the brick that says Bad Bitches Only.

Sabrina Carpenter’s "House Tour" blasts from the Bluetooth speaker, competing with the loud clatter of ice against steel as Tatum works a cocktail shaker behind the bar. Even from ten feet away, the sharp bite of fresh lime juice hits my nose.

My sense of smell is on another level right now. I’m like a freaking bloodhound. Thankfully I managed to skip the morning sickness, but my nose is a whole different story. I think I even get a little hint of salt from the beach on the breeze.