Time to get serious.

“Martha, really, honey, we need to talk.”

“Shit.” She was still muttering.

“It’s important,” I whispered, and felt the amused Brock vibe flatten but the kitchen filled with warmth.

Martha heard my tone, read it, and immediately gave in. “All right, but we’re not meeting at the bakery for cupcakes. You’re coming over and I’m making salad.”

I blinked at the counter. “You’re making salad?”

“I’m making salad.”

“Honey, the last time I had dinner at your house, you fried celery.”

The warmth in the room remained but the hum came back and it was heralded in by Brock roaring with laughter.

My eyes cut to him and I bugged them out but he ignored my hint, kept laughing, and did it shaking his head.

“I hear he found that amusing,” Martha noted irritably.

I looked away from Brock and pointed out, “Martha, babe, you fried celery. Anyone would find that amusing.”

“I’m an experimental chef,” she fired back.

This was true. But she was not an altogether successful one.

I sighed again.

Then I suggested, “How about you come over here and I’ll make salads.”

“Will smokin’ hot guy be there?”

“His name is Brock,” I whispered.

“Will smokin’ hot but bad for you Brock be there?” she amended.

“I don’t know,” I told her, the truth. “But what I have to say won’t wait and he knows about it anyway, so if he is, you’ll deal. If he isn’t, he isn’t. Yeah?”

Silence.

Then, “So this isn’t about him?”

“No, it isn’t. It’s about something I should have told you a while ago but I didn’t and I need to…” My eyes slid to Brock and saw his were on me as I saw he was moving toward me. Then he made it to me. His arm wrapped around my belly, the front of his body hit the back of mine, I felt his heat, then I felt his face in my neck. Only then did I continue. “I need to get rid of it, so it’s time to tell you about it.”

Straight off the bat, she whispered her guess. “Damian.”

That’s when I knew she knew. Or she might not actually know but she sensed there were deeper issues at play but she backed off and let me deal with them. And when I stuck to my guns and got shot of my ex-husband without sinking into the depths of despair, she gave me that play.

“Yes,” I whispered back.

Brock’s arm gave me a squeeze.

I closed my eyes.

“All right, babe, I’ll be there at seven.”

“Martha?” I called.

“Yeah, Tess,” she answered.

“Love you, honey.”

“Love you too, babe.”

“But you keep stalking me, that love will die,” I warned on a tease.

“Whatever,” she muttered, knowing it was a tease, then disconnected.