Chapter Twelve
SELL IT, BABY, SELL IT
LOUISIANA
“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”
Henry had just curb-stomped my heart, pleading with those sharp hazel eyes of his—eyes that always managed to cut through every damn wall I’d built.
He looked at me like he expected me to say no, like he thought I could just turn my back on a child in need.
As if I ever would. That hurt worse than I was willing to admit, especially after the way he dragged our childhood into the middle of this mess like it was some kind of bargaining chip.
But this? This is where I drew the fucking line.
He groans, hands running through his thick hair until it stands on end, frustration humming off his broad shoulders like electricity. “I didn’t ask you because it’s fucking convenient, Louisianna.”
I snort, biting back the volley of words ready to rip out.
“Great. Ask Soph or Allie, then.” I jab a thumb over my shoulder toward the bakery across the street, where most of our family has migrated for pastries and peace.
That left just the four of us here: me, Henry, Maggie, and Aunt Joe—aka the unofficial family referees.
He steps forward. Big, angry, desperate. “Yeah? And what the hell would that look like?”
“Yeah, like that’d be real believable,” Aunt Joe mutters, voice low as she takes a slow sip from her chipped coffee mug, the bitter taste almost palpable.
I narrow my eyes at her. “You’re not helping.”
She just raises a finger at me, cool as ever. “Oh, I am helping. You just don’t like what I have to say. But let’s not kid ourselves, Lou—there’s always been something brewing between you two. Hell, being in a room with you and Henry? I need to go home and sit in front of a fan just to cool off.”
“Jesus, Joe, could you not?” Maggie sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, the exact same motion Maddox makes when he’s two seconds from snapping. The tension in the room thickens, like the heat before a storm.
“These are my children,” she mutters.
Aunt Joe shrugs, a wry smile tugging at her lips as she swirls the silver bangle on her wrist. “Doesn’t make it any less true, Magnolia.”
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms tighter over my chest, trying to keep myself from unraveling. Aunt Joe isn’t wrong—but that doesn’t mean I want to hear it.
“I know Sophie will do it in a heartbeat,” Joe adds, her tone softening, “but it wouldn’t be believable. And Allie…”
Her voice trails off, heavy with what she doesn’t want to say. So, I say it for her.
“Allie is struggling enough with the arrival of the new baby.”
Joe gives a curt nod as she twirls the bangle again.
I know that part. Allie had been with Maddox once, and they had the most beautiful baby girl.
But after Livvy was born, Allie slipped—first into postpartum depression, then into drugs.
The fall was fast and brutal. Maddox had held on as long as he could, but eventually, he had to let go.
He kicked her out. From then on, he raised Livvy alone.
He did it with grace. Quiet strength. Never once making it seem like a burden. Meanwhile, Allie vanished—like she’d been swallowed whole. No calls. No visits. Not even a birthday card. She became a ghost.
We all sat with that. With shame and disappointment and the unspoken anger. Even after Livvy died, Allie stayed gone. She didn’t show up for the funeral. Didn’t send flowers. Nothing. Just a void where a mother should’ve been.
It wasn’t until last year that she came back—hollowed out and trembling on Maddox’s doorstep.
And it was Evie who stepped in, who pulled us back from that ledge.
She made us see the truth of Allie, not the version we’d demonized in our heads, but the woman who’d been drowning all along.
A tragedy in human form. Someone who lost herself and her daughter before she ever had a chance to fight for either.
At first, Maddox could barely be in the same room with her.
I’d watch his jaw tense, his hands clenched into fists, every inch of him straining not to explode.
He couldn’t make sense of it—how she could bring someone like Livvy into the world and then throw her away like she didn’t matter. Like she wasn’t everything.
Now? Maddox and Evie are having a baby girl of their own.
A new life. A new chance. Something none of us ever thought possible, not after everything they’d lived through.
Instead of keeping Allie out, they brought her in—carefully, thoughtfully, like you’d carry a glass shard in your palm.
They didn’t have to. No one expected them to, but they did it anyway. Because that’s just who they are.
The best of us. The fucking best.
Aunt Joe was never able to have children of her own, but in every way that matters, Evie and Allie have become hers.
She carries their joy like sunlight tucked deep into her pockets, warm and bright even when the world feels cold.
And their sorrow? She wears that like heavy stones pressing down on her chest—silent, unyielding.
Whatever they feel, she feels it too—quietly, fiercely, never asking for anything in return.
Sophie used to tell me, “Go to her. Talk to her. She’ll understand.” She said it like it was simple—as if pain recognizing pain should be enough. But what Sophie didn’t see was the way I kept my grief folded tight, like a letter sealed and locked away.
I didn’t want another pair of eyes prying into the hollow parts of me. I wanted the ache to be mine alone—sharp, sacred, untouched.
The silence hangs in the air, thick and heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Henry’s big body deflates, the tension in his shoulders fading as he looks at me.
There’s no anger in his gaze now, no pressure.
Just a quiet tenderness, the kind he only lets slip through when he thinks no one’s watching.
It’s a softness I’m not ready for—like the weight of all our years together suddenly shifting in the air between us.
“It won’t be for long,” he says, voice steady and low, like he’s trying to plant something solid between us—a lifeline. “Just long enough to get the legal stuff sorted. Until his last name’s Wilder.”
There’s a pause. A beat, and then the corner of his mouth lifts in the faintest, most rueful smirk.
“Then you can take your stubborn ass right back across those thirty-six yards to your own damn house.”
The words hit me hard—half a lifeline, half a dare, wrapped in care. It’s the closest thing to a promise, but also a challenge. But it is more than that, I’m risking more by agreeing to this fucking sham than he’ll every know.
Then I think of that little boy and I shove all that aside, because Henry is right. Someone stepped up and saved us, and my heart can’t take knowing I could have done something for this child and didn’t.
After Henry fills me in on Cece’s slick-ass comment to the caseworker about me being his fiancée earlier, I make a mental note to sweetly ask Crew to piss in her drink the next time she shows up at Bangers. The nosy bitch. She has no idea what kind of mess she’s stirred up.
That mess? Led to me being asked to move in with the one person I’ve wanted my whole damn life but never let myself have…and with a little boy I could never truly call mine.
Boy, the universe really has a twisted, cruel-ass sense of humor. Like it is dangling everything I’ve ever wanted just close enough to feel, but never close enough to keep.
I shift on my feet, the weight of it pressing down like the humid summer heat settling into my skin.
“You know this is a horrible idea that will end badly.” The words fall out of my mouth thick and rough, tasting like ashes I can’t swallow. I hate that I’m giving in. Hate how much the pull of him feels like a chain wrapped tight around my ribs, squeezing me from the inside out.
Henry doesn’t flinch. His eyes are sharp, steady—like he’s reading the map of every fear I’m hiding beneath the surface. He leans in, the heat of his breath brushing against my cheek, close enough I can catch the faint scent of tobacco and something woodsy—like cedar and rain.
Then, impossibly, he boops my nose with the lightest touch—a ridiculous, childish gesture—but it lands like a spark, igniting a flare of something wild and unspoken between us.
“Wildflower,” he murmurs, voice low and laced with a kind of reckless confidence. “I’m expecting you to raise a little hell, fight me, scratch and claw. Matter of fact, if you take it easy on me, I’ll be a little disappointed.”
The words hit me hard, tangled with heat and promise and that dangerous kind of hope I’m terrified to feel.
Before I can even catch my breath, Aunt Joe’s voice cuts through the charged air—dry, amused, carrying that Southern drawl like a whip cracking in the room. “Whew! Quick, Mags, turn that fan on high, because they just made it hotter than a whore in church on Sunday in here!”
I glance over at Aunt Joe, and she’s fanning herself with a menu, practically collapsing into her chair.
Her legs are spread just enough to resemble a melted ice cream cone, completely defying any attempt at dignity.
She’s slouched low, practically horizontal now, like she’s given up on life and is just waiting for the world to end.
She meets my gaze and, with a dramatic sigh, mutters, “If I die from heatstroke, I’m blaming you two.”
Her dry tone barely covers the amusement dancing in her eyes. It’s like she’s watching a slow-motion car crash and enjoying every second of it. I fight the urge to laugh, the tension between me and Henry still crackling like an electric wire.
“So,” she says, cool as can be. “Need help packing?”