She doesn’t say it like an order. It’s soft. Steady. Like she’s handing me a lifeline without making a show of it.

Magnolia has a way of seeing the cracks before they split wide open—of knowing when the pressure gets too much, when the walls close in. She’s the only one who’s ever known how to pull me back from the edge without making me feel weak.

God, I love her.

I push away from the table. “Be right back.”

The men’s room is quiet—thankfully empty—giving me a moment to regroup. I lean against the sink, rolling my neck and shoulders, exhaling a slow breath.

It’s a conversation. That’s all this is. One woman’s opinion.

One very important woman.

I shake it off. It’ll be fine. Magnolia loves me. Violet loves Magnolia. By default, she should at least tolerate me, right?

…Right.

I push off the sink and head for the door. The second I step into the hallway, a woman appears out of nowhere, blocking my path.

I stop short.

She’s wrapped in a dress that clings to every inch of her. Bright red lipstick, eyes flicking over me like she’s sizing me up.

This one likes to be noticed.

“Damn. Didn’t think I’d get lucky this early in the night.”

Here we go.

I shift to move past her, but she mirrors me, stepping right into my path again. I’ve been in enough bars to recognize the look in her eyes.

“Excuse me.”

She doesn’t move. Instead, she tilts her head, smiling like she knows something I don’t. “You Australian?”

I nod once. “Born and raised.”

Her smile curves slow, deliberate. “Love the accent.”

I don’t react. Not the first time I’ve heard it, won’t be the last. Means nothing.

She shifts, angling her body enough to block my path. “So tell me—what’s a guy like you doing here alone?”

“I’m not alone. I’m with my girlfriend.”

She steps in closer, a breath too close, dropping her voice to something she thinks sounds seductive. “That doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun while you’re here.”

“It does, actually.”

Her grin widens, lazy and cocky. “Can I change your mind?”

“No. Now if you’ll excuse me, my girlfriend’s waiting for me.”

One brow arches high, practiced and sharp. “What are you? Some kind of saint?”

“Not a saint.” I meet her gaze, steady and unbothered. “But I am faithful.”

She studies me for a beat, head tilted. “Not even tempted?”

This is getting old fast. “Not interested. Excuse me.”

A smirk ghosts across her lips—a small, knowing thing.

“See you later,” she tosses over her shoulder before pivoting toward the ladies’ room, hips swinging like she still thinks she’s in the game.