“Please think about it.” I wanted to add, We just want what’s best for you and your baby, but left that part unsaid. In her present mood she would take that all wrong, and an irritated Kristen was never a good thing, let alone an irritated and very pregnant Kristen.

She gave me a mulish look and laid a hand across the mound of future baby. “Fine. I’ll think about it,” she said as she looked at the three of us. “I promise I will.”

If Kristen promised something, it was as good as done.

“Thank you.” Scruffy reached out, took her hand, and kissed the back of it. “I love you, you know.”

“Whatever,” Kristen muttered, but the look she was giving him was filled with love and much, much more.

“Get a room, you two.” Rafe rolled his eyes and picked up his beer mug.

“We did,” Scruffy said, putting his own hand on Kristen’s stomach. “That’s what got us into this situation in the first place.”

Rafe laughed, spitting beer across the bar in the process. While he and Scruffy used their napkins to clean up the small mess, I leaned over to Kristen. “Let me guess. You’ve thought about it already and decided that you’re going to keep on doing what you’re doing.”

The corners of her mouth curled up in a slow, Grinch-like smile. “Let’s just say it may take some time to think it all through.”

And by the time she was done thinking, the baby would be long born. I was about to commend her on her cleverness when the thunk of a dart hitting a dart board caught my attention. In the back corner of the room, Ash and Tank had started a game.

“Darts,” I said out loud.

“What’s that?” Kristen asked.

“Hunter said he played darts here with Ryan. I wonder if he was in a league.” I made a come-hither gesture to the bartender, who’d just filled a tray of beer mugs and was wiping her hands with a towel. She bustled over, polite smile on her face, and asked, “What can I get you?”

Something that didn’t taste like beer. “Do you have dart leagues here?”

“Sure. Tuesday nights.”

Last night. Timing was not my friend. “My fiancé there is thinking about getting into a league”—unlikely to be a complete lie, as I was sure he’d considered it at some point—“but I want to make sure my ex-boyfriend isn’t on a team, if you know what I mean.”

The bartender grinned. “Boy, do I.” She reached under the bar, pulled out a three-ring binder, and slid it over. “The names of all the people on the teams are listed in here. Don’t tell anyone I showed you, okay? Someone might get uptight.”