Page 147 of The Bodyguard Situation

Carlee

I have snacks and tissues. I’m emotionally prepared. Can’t say the same for your brothers.

Asher

I’ve got Billie. She’s pacing like she’s the one going into labor. Send backup. Anyone grab bourbon?

Weston

Apparently, booze isn’t allowed. I asked.

Harper’s laughing beside me, scrolling and snorting as she reads me every new text. The sunlight beams through the windshield and hits her cheeks, and in that moment, I realize I don’t just love her; I love all of it and having her beside me in the excitement with the family she’s inheriting. However, she’s always felt like family, and she’s always been a part of the Calloway chaos.

By the time we reach the hospital, it’s already a scene. There are two nurses standing just outside the maternity wing, whispering like they’ve seen a ghost—or worse, a Calloway in crisis.Weston’s voice booms from down the hall before we even turn the corner, followed closely by what sounds like someone knocking over a magazine rack.

Harper and I step into the waiting area, and it’s exactly what I expected … chaos in designer clothing.

Weston is pacing in front of the nurses’ station like he’s waiting for a stock to drop or the second coming of Christ. He’s wearing a camel coat, leather gloves, and sunglasses—indoors—gesturing wildly with a bottle of sparkling water like a microphone.

“Three babies,” he says to no one in particular. “You understand? That’s like … that’s a trilogy.”

Carlee’s seated in the corner near the windows, calm and polished as ever, pulling various snacks from her enormous quilted tote like she’s been tasked with catering the apocalypse. A nurse thanks her for the protein bars, and she smiles like she’s their little helper. She’s the only calm one here.

I glance at her, and she shrugs, completely unfazed. “My family is huge. I’m used to this.”

Billie sits on the edge of the couch with her phone in one hand, and the other taps against her knee. Her light coat is draped over the armrest in a perfect fold. She’s tense in that way only Billie can be—poised, dressed to kill, and seconds away from micromanaging someone into submission.

Asher sits beside her, scrolling through his phone with the dead-eyed calm of a man who knows the only way to survive is to let this play out. He’s actually one of the most patient people I’ve ever met, until he’s not.

“Welcome to the circus,” Asher says without looking up.

“Lexi’s still in labor?” Harper asks as we sit down beside them.

“Not sure. We haven’t gotten another update yet,” Billie says. “Easton’s currently in a supply closet, practicing breathing exercises and contemplating the fragility of life.”

“Weston’s not helping,” Carlee adds. “He’s been running bets on who will cry first when the babies arrive.”

I glance across the room just as Weston waves at us.

“My money’s on me!” he shouts. “Or Brody. He’s got thatsensitive, soon-to-be-married manglow.”

Harper leans into my side. “Do not engage. That’s what he wants.”

“I make no promises.”

We fall into an easy rhythm after that—someone refills coffee, Asher pulls up a baseball schedule to distract Weston, Billie complains about the hospital’s slow-as-hell Wi-Fi, and Harper grabs a pen and starts sketching something on the back of a discharge pamphlet. I watch her for a while. Her brow is furrowed, her fingers moving like they already know the future. She’s calm and settled, glowing in that way people do when they’re happy.

And for a moment, in the middle of the noise and the nonsense, I realize this is our version of normal now. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The nurse clears her throat, pulling everyone’s attention away. “Mama’s doing great. All three babies are healthy—two boys and a girl. All breathing well on their own. No complications.”

It’s like someone presses play again on the entire room and raises the volume. Carlee gasps first, covering her mouth with both hands as tears spring to her eyes. Billie exhales, her shoulders finally dropping. Weston lets out a yelp so loud that it startles the nurse, and Asher mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “I owe you five thousand bucks.”

I can’t stop smiling.

Harper reaches for my hand, and I take it without thinking, threading our fingers together. This is joy—the real kind. The unfiltered kind that makes everything else worth it.

“They’re perfect?” Carlee asks, her voice shaky.

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