Joey bumps his shoulder against mine, pressing his weight into me. “That’s kind of hot, actually. But . . . okay, I have to know. Was it a barbell? Or one of those stud things? Oo! Did he have it going down the shaft?”

The noise from the TV abruptly cuts off. Silence fills the condo.

Billy leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, the look he reserves for moments when Joey and I go off on dick tangents at the dinner table ghosting across his face.

I clear my throat, lowering my glass. “Hi, hey there, little spoon. Sorry, we’ll be quiet.”

His eyes, steady with doubt, shift to Joey and soften marginally.

There it is. Sweet Billy. No one else looks at Joey like that.

Mindful to the fact that the only way to keep his husband on the couch with us and not locked in his office, going over documents that can surely wait until tomorrow is to shut up and watch the movie, Joey slides over and plucks the remote out of Billy’s hand.

The movie resumes playing.

I tuck my knees against my chest as the two men at the other end of the couch dissolve into each other, recommencing the intimate embrace they always share. The closeness that stills the two of them, even Joey, who is nearly impossible to silence.

I sip leisurely on my daiquiri, my thoughts on piercings and poor, poor Paul, struggling to find the perfect spot to display that condom.

The sidewalk is already busy at a quarter after eight Monday morning as I make my usual trek down Fayette street, carefully juggling four coffee orders, my over-sized Coach bag, which just so happens to be the purchase that sent me over my spending limit two months ago, worth it, it’s fabulous, and the design binder I took home on Friday of Dylan’s.

I wanted to organize some of the notes she had penciled in over the past several years and make things more legible, pretty even. I used textured paper and script font. The letters and thank you cards she received since opening the bakery that had been stuffed into the back pocket for keepsakes are now laminated and on display for clients to read in a section titled ‘Sweet Testimonials.’

I’m honestly not sure how Dylan will take my modifications to the only thing she seems to study more than her husband. The thought of her hating what I’ve done, the one thing I haven’t cleared with her beforehand that involves her business, causes me to miss the giant crack in the pavement I’m usually careful to step over.

“Ow, shit!”

The binder goes down first, followed quickly by my Coach bag.

But the coffee? Ha! Not today, city of Chicago.

As I bend down, securing the leather strap on my shoulder, the binder pinched between my fingers, a car horn sounds and I lift my gaze to the street. Traffic clears. My eyes roam the row of shops on the west side of Fayette, until landing on one I haven’t seen before, or maybe, I just haven’t noticed.

No, this has to be new. I would’ve noticed this.

Sandwiched between a florist and a family-owned candle shop, the words Hot Yoga scream against the brick front in burnt-orange lettering. A simple logo swirls in the corner below the ‘a’.

Yoga?

“Yoga?”

I straighten and stare a little longer at the new business, which just so happens to be in direct line-of-sight from the bakery.

That’s almost laughable. Here, sweat your ass off, then skip across the street and stuff your face. Maybe we could go in with the owner and have some sort of a coupon-deal worked out.

Five sessions and you get a free cupcake?

I swallow down a giggle.

Look at me, all business savvy, trolling for ways to pull in new customers while helping to promote other local enterprises.

I should seriously run for president.

The door chimes as I step inside the bakery, the scent of sugar now mingling with the aromatics wafting from the four coffees in my hand. With an exhaustive sigh, I set the cardboard carrier on the glass display case, followed by my bag and the design binder.

Dylan perks up from behind the counter when she sees the latter.

“There it is! You know I tore this place apart this weekend looking for that? What the hell, Brooke?”

I flatten my hands on the glass, then hesitantly nudge the binder. “I, uh, did some reorganizing. I hope that’s okay.”

Her face remains expressionless. I take in a shallow breath.

Rule number one of life: Don’t piss off your employer, especially if that employer happens to be Dylan Carroll. She’s been known to go a little slap happy.

Moving closer, she flips back the cover, then a few more pages, running her finger along the edge of the new font. Silently judging, meticulously studying every alteration I’ve made. She halts at the back where the testimonial section begins.

I wipe a hand across my brow, relieved when I don’t feel the sweat I fear I’m releasing.

“Mm.”

I lean closer, staring at her mouth, the small crinkle in her nose. “Mm?”

God, why the hell didn’t I ask permission first? Could she fire me over this?

After what feels like the longest seconds of my life, she looks up at me, narrows her eyes, then smiles. “I love it. Brooke, this is . . . surprisingly thoughtful of you.”

My mouth falls open. Surprisingly? “Hey, I’m thoughtful! I do stuff for other people all the time. Take last week when Ryan wanted that Elsa dress and Reese was on the brink of losing his ever-loving mind looking for it. Who stepped in and saved the day? Huh? Who almost got arrested at Target? You?”

She laughs, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ear. “I know. I’m just kidding.”

My spine straightens with pride as I pluck my coffee out of the carrier. “Well, you’re welcome. I’ll take that raise whenever you’re ready.”

She cocks her head with a glare. I take a step back. Easy, Rocky.

The door chimes, followed immediately by Joey’s booming morning voice.

One volume. The man has one volume.

He hooks his thumb over his cashmere covered shoulder in the direction of the window. “Did you see the yoga studio across the street? What is that mess about?”

“Not just yoga,” I correct him. “Hot yoga. Lots of sweaty women with camel toe, being forced into ungodly positions.”

Joey makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. “Sounds like somebody’s high school years.”

“Yours?” Dylan throws out, resting her hands on her swollen belly. “Didn’t you wear an alarming amount of spandex back then?”

Joey spins the carrier on the display case, tugging out the cup with his name scrolled on the side. “I’ll ignore that jab, since you’re carrying Joey Jr.”

“His name isn’t Joey Jr.”

“What?” Alarmed eyes flick between myself and Dylan. “Okay . . . Joseph? I’m fine with that.”

“I’m afraid not.”

I smile against my cup. “Excellent. We’ve settled on Brookes then? Suck on that, McDermott.”

Joey glares at me over the top of his cup. I glare right back, laughing a little.

Dylan gently sighs. “Sorry. We’re going with Blake. That’s the name we both like.”

“Who’s we?” Joey squawks, his face suddenly two shades redder. “I don’t remember that name being on the table for discussion. And I definitely don’t remember receiving a phone call, asking my opinion before you started getting shit engraved.”

“Why do I need to call you? And engraved? Really, Joey? Who got anything engraved?”

A soft noise comes from the kitchen, followed by the familiar quick tapping of tiny feet on tile.

Joey sweeps his free hand around the shop. “I’m sure there’s something around here with that name already on it. Is it possible to fill out the birth certificate before the birth? Has Reese figured out how to do that?”

“Joey.” Dylan exhales exhaustively. “Fucking relax, all right? You haven’t heard the middle name yet.”