Voices overlap in the living room—Camilla's laugh, Mia's gentle corrections, Mom directing traffic like she's choreographing a Broadway production. The dining table is covered in pastel ribbons, tissue paper, and what appears to be enough tulle to outfit a small ballet company.
"Nora!" Mom spots me first, waving me over with a glue gun that feels vaguely threatening. "Finally. We need another pair of hands."
"Sorry I'm late. Traffic was?—"
“Traffic is nonexistent in Eden," Camilla cuts in, grinning. “What were you really up to, huh?” She says with a wink.
I eye roll at her and drop my bag before surveying the organized chaos. Lydia is at the dining table with two of Mia's cousins—Priya and Anjali, I think—all three of them weaving garlands with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for bomb defusal. Mom and Lydia are debating the merits of lavender versus mint green ribbons like it's a matter of national security.
In the living room, Camilla, Marcus, Mia, and a guy I don't recognize are assembling what appears to be miniature gift bags.
"Nora, this is Alex," Marcus says, gesturing to the man beside him. "My boyfriend. Alex, this is Nora, the friend I told you about."
"The bestselling author," Alex says, standing to shake my hand. He's tall, polished, with kind eyes and the sort of firm handshake that screams lawyer. "Marcus talks about you constantly. It's annoying, actually."
"I do not," Marcus protests.
"You literally have a spreadsheet ranking her books."
"That's called being a supportive friend.”
I laugh despite myself and settle onto the couch beside Camilla, who immediately hands me a glue stick and a pile of miniature thank-you cards.
"You're on bag duty," she says. "We're making sixty of these, so pace yourself."
"Sixty?" I stare at the components spread across the coffee table—tiny bottles of hand sanitizer, lip balms, chocolates, personalized tags. "How many people are coming to this shower?"
"Forty," Mia says from her spot in the armchair, one hand resting on her very pregnant belly. "But Lydia insisted on extras in case people bring plus-ones."
"Or in case I eat half of them," Camilla adds. "Those chocolates are really good."
Mia looks radiant, honestly. Eight and a half months pregnant and she's glowing in that way people always talk about but you don't really believe until you see it. Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose bun, and she's wearing a soft cotton dress that shows off her bump.
"You look incredible," I tell her, and I mean it.
"I look like I swallowed a yoga ball," Mia says, but she's smiling. "I can't see my feet anymore. Ollie has to tie my shoes."
"That's adorable," Marcus says.
"It's humiliating."
"It's pregnancy," Lydia calls from the dining room. "Enjoy itwhile it lasts. Soon you'll be sleeping in two-hour increments and covered in spew.”
"Very reassuring, Lyds,” Mia laughs.
"I'm just being honest."
Alex leans back, surveying the scene with barely concealed amusement. "I have to say, this is significantly more wholesome than how I usually spend my Saturday afternoons."
"What do you usually do?" Camilla asks.
"Depositions, mostly. Contract negotiations. The occasional threatening letter."
"He's an entertainment lawyer," Marcus clarifies. "He makes sure artists don't get screwed over by studios."
“Oh, no way,” I say.
Alex shrugs. "It has its moments. Though most of it is reading contracts so dense they could be used as doorstops."
