Whoops. I hit send before I can snatch the words back, my admission—in writing—that I’ve been creeping on him online.

Mateo: Ummmmmm, did you just admit to cyberstalking me?

Me: Absolutely not! All I said was I’ve seen what women say, so stop trying to add me to your list.

Mateo: You know, True, sometimes it’s not the things people say—it’s the person who says it. Maybe I don’t care about hearing nice things from anyone but you.

That gives me pause.

Has me staring at that last message and digesting the words.

He’s right—so right. It isn’t the things people say; something coming from the right person is what matters. A stranger calling you pretty or saying you’re ugly makes little impact if they’re nameless and faceless and mean nothing to you.

That can get tuned out with practice.

But him wanting to hear it from me?

I squirm in the tub uneasily, unsure of myself and what to say. I didn’t grow up with just boys in the house—my mom was there too, obviously—but it sure made an impact being Tripp and Trace Wallace’s little sister. I feel like I was raised by wolves sometimes, with no social graces and the manners of a man.

Ugh. Why don’t I have sisters to ask for advice?

You do, halfwit—you have Hollis and Chandler now.

No. You are a mature woman with a baby inside you—grow the hell up and give this man a damn compliment.

Me: I…thought you were very sweet tonight with your sisters. My brothers would have thrown a fit and probably gotten up and left after all the teasing.

Mateo: Ha. I thought about it.

Me: You did?

Mateo: Eh, for a second. But Glory had her elbow jammed in my gut, which made it hard to move, let alone escape. I’m sure she was doing it on purpose.

Me: LOL she’s cute. Is she in college, or…?

Mateo: Yeah, she’s in school right now taking classes online. She’s not sure what she wants to do so it’s all prerequisites for business.

Me: Smart girl.

Mateo: She’s a brat.

Me: Aren’t we all…

Mateo: You are DEFINITELY a brat.

Me: Hey!

Mateo: Ha! So brat, what else do we want for dinner this weekend. Do you like wine or beer…?

Me: Um…no—water will be good.

If he’s suspicious of this request or curious about it, he doesn’t say so.

Mateo: Ice cream, cake, pie, cookies?

Me: Yes

They all sound good to me right now, and I wonder if Tripp has anything sweet downstairs.

“True?”

There’s a knock on the door and I quickly set the phone down and run the faucet so the foaming bath liquid I dumped in earlier creates more bubbles—to cover up my STILL SMALLISH BOOBS—and sink lower into the water.

“Yes?”

“It’s Molly—you alive in there?”

I cock my head toward the closed bathroom door. “Did my brother send you up to check on me?”

There’s a pause. “Yes, but he also sent up some of the brownies I just made.”

Molly comes over to my brother’s house a lot and uses his kitchen for her cooking and baking projects, and I’ve recently become the lucky prototype tester.

“You can come in.”

Slowly the door eases open and her head peeks around it, cautiously, as if she’s worried she’s going to catch me standing buck-ass naked in the center of the bathroom.

“Oh good, you’re not naked.”

“I mean—I am.” I run my hand through the water to disperse the new bubbles over places I don’t need her to see.

“I don’t need a peep show,” she says, sitting on the toilet with a plate in her hands.

“Yeah, neither do I.” I fluff more bubbles as they collect around my knees, dragging them up my torso then setting my sights on the plate Molly has. “Those look fresh.”

She grins. “They are.”

I can smell that, and brownies happen to be my favorite, especially when they’re fresh out of the oven.

I dry my hands off. “So does my brother grocery shop for all the baking supplies, or do you bring them over?”

“I bring them over, but sometimes I forget something and dig through his pantry. He doesn’t seem to mind.”

Well no kidding he doesn’t—she supplies him with all the yummy, delicious things.

“Chandler keeps a little basket in there with random sweets, like chunky chocolate chips or butterscotch or baking flour. Things like that. I don’t think she cooks, either.”

No, she wouldn’t—she was raised with a silver spoon in her mouth, and it’s unlikely that anyone showed her the way around a kitchen, no offense to her. It’s not like she can help being born rich.

It just means my brother still orders out a lot or grills while they learn together how to cook actual meals.

Molly offers me a brownie and I take it, biting off one gooey end and sighing.

“Damn, Molly, this is amazing.”

“I noticed you’re not really eating for two, so…”

I shoot her a look. “You know that’s an old wives’ tale, right? You don’t actually have to stuff yourself silly when you’re having a baby.”