Page 43 of Time Out

Maggie rolled her eyes. She had her thick, dark-brown hair twisted up into a clip, and as I flipped open the pizza and garlic knots boxes, she tugged wisps of hair at her temples out of the clip.

“I didn’t mean anything big about it. I just wanted you to know you’re always welcome here.”

“Even when you’re not?”

“If you need to be here, sure.” I leaned forward, braced my palms. Her crystal-blue eyes dipped, slowly slid up my arms and caught my smirk when our gazes met. “I have nothing to hide, in my life or my home and we’re going to be a part of each other’s lives in some way, shape, or form for the rest of them. I want you comfortable here and around me.”

It seemed to settle her, and maybe it was the reminder of how eternally connected we now were that made her shoulders droop.

“Okay. That makes sense. But I promise I won’t randomly start showing up unannounced or anything.”

I didn’t give a damn if she did. Frankly, the idea of her walking into my house while I was fresh out of the shower, dripping wet with only a towel wrapped around me—if I chose to wear one at all—thrilled me.

“I won’t be mad if you did, but let’s table the key thing for a minute so you can explain this?” I swirled my finger over her pizza.

“No idea.” She laughed and dragged a piece, and then two, onto her plate. “You asked what I wanted and it sounded good.”

“So you’re craving spicy foods.”

“I am today, apparently.”

She was laughing now, at ease.

“All right then, spicy mama. Let’s eat.”

Blond brows rose at my off the cuff nickname. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Pretend away.”

But I had very vivid memories of how spicy she could be, and she was my baby mama.

I think it fit her perfectly. Maybe even more than Snickers.

We dug into our food. If she was going to get pissed at me for figuring out who she was, or if it was supposed to be some great secret, at least she wouldn’t storm out of my place on an empty stomach.

“How long have you lived in Nashville?” I asked her after she’d eaten her first slice of pizza.

“Three years.”

It killed me to ask, but I’d know less had I not read the article about her earlier. “And how old are you?”

Her lips parted in surprise, and then a soft laugh fell from her lips before she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“What?”

“It occurred to me how little we actually know about each other. I mean, Belle told me plenty about you when she looked you up online, but…” Her head tilted to the side. “Do you even know my last name?”

How bizarre that she was pregnant with my child, and up until a few hours ago, I hadn’t.

And since she asked, what a perfect segue.

I set down my pizza slice and brushed the garlic and grease off my fingers with a napkin. “Actually, Magdalene, I think I know quite a bit.”

The color on her cheeks darkened. “You know? About my family?”

That they were borderline cultish with their beliefs. From what I’d been able to find, the only thing the daughters were supposed to do were learn how to take care of a home, get married to a man their dad and uncle approved of, and pop out copious amounts of children—ironic, considering? Yeah. I knew. I also knew she was the only child to actually go away to school and that she had two older brothers who went to work with their father in the church and their uncle working a small string of auto parts repair businesses. It was the uncle whose family starred in the Blessed Movement television show.

“I found out by accident.”

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