Page 8 of Curvy Girl and the Bad Boy Cowboy

"I'll tell Vincent you're handling some personal business," he says, then hesitates. "You want to talk about what you're going to say to her?"

"Not particularly."

He nods, respecting my space for once. "Fair enough. Good luck."

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of shower, coffee, and more coffee. I spend an hour researching pregnancy online, feeling increasingly overwhelmed by terms like "trimesters" and "prenatal vitamins" and "mucus plug" (that last one I immediately try to scrub from my brain).

By 1:50 PM, I'm standing outside Sweet Somethings Bakery, fifteen minutes early and feeling like I might throw up. Through the window, I can see Naomi behind the counter, her dark hair tucked behind her ears as she boxes up pastries for an elderly customer.

She's smiling—that warm, genuine smile that first caught my attention almost a year ago.

The bell above the door chimes as I finally work up the courage to enter. Naomi looks up, and her smile falters slightly before she recovers.

"Ethan," she says. "You're early."

"Yeah, I, uh..." I shove my hands in my pockets. "Thought we could talk when you're free."

She glances at the clock. "Melissa should be here in five to take over the counter. Why don't you grab a seat in the back corner? It's quieter there."

I nod and make my way to the table she indicated, passing display cases filled with cookies, muffins, and elaborate cakes that Naomi decorates herself. The bakery smells like vanilla and cinnamon, comforting and familiar.

True to her word, Naomi joins me five minutes later, bringing two cups of coffee. She sets one in front of me—black with one sugar, exactly how I like it.

"You remembered," I say, oddly touched.

"Of course I did." She slides into the seat across from me. "So..."

"So," I echo, wrapping my hands around the mug. "I want to start by saying I'm sorry about last night. The way I reacted wasn't... it wasn't my best moment."

"You were shocked. I understand that."

I shake my head. "That's no excuse. This affects you way more than it affects me right now, and I made it about myself."

She looks surprised by this admission, and I realize how low her expectations of me must really be.

"I've been thinking all night," I continue, the words I've rehearsed all morning tumbling out. "About the baby, about us, about everything. And I want you to know I'm all in, Naomi. Not just for the baby, but for... for us, if you'll give me another chance."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

"I know it sounds crazy, maybe even pushy, but I want to try—really try—with you. With us. I want to take you on a proper date. I want to see if we could be a family."

Naomi sets down her coffee cup slowly, her eyes studying my face.

"Ethan," she says carefully, "it's not that I don't want that. I did want that—for months while we were seeing each other."

"I know, and I was an idiot—"

"Let me finish," she says gently. "You sound desperate. Like you're running after something you could have had if you weren't so blinded by every shiny new thing that pops up at the bar."

"That's not—" I start to protest, then stop myself. "Okay, maybe it sounds that way. But this isn't just about the baby."

"Isn't it?" She tilts her head. "Because four days ago, you were at The Rusty Nail with Brianna Mitchell. I saw you two."

I wince. "That was nothing. Just dancing."

"It's always 'just' something with you, Ethan. Just dancing, just drinks, just fun." She sighs. "And now you want me to believe it can be 'just' a committed relationship? 'Just' a family?"

"No," I say firmly. "Not 'just' anything. I want this. For real."

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