Page 180 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

I can survive emotional support from a golden retriever. I'm a strong, independent woman who’s survived public humiliation, budget motels, Bryce Biggs, and Ethan Strong’s mouth.

But there’s something about a dog silently deciding you need supervision that goes directly for the weak points.

I scratch behind his ear. “It’s just stress.”

That sounds convincing.

Almost.

The last few days have been a circus with knives. The dinner. Bryce walking into Ethan’s penthouse. The shock of seeing him there with her. The argument. The crying. The way Ethan followed me. The way he held me. The way he looked at me afterward, like everything between us had shifted and neither of us knew whether to be terrified or grateful.

And then yesterday he went to work before I woke up, because of course he did, because men like Ethan Strong wake up and go command glass towers while women like me sit on bathroom floors explaining nausea to golden retrievers.

Normal, healthy, and extremely sexy, unfortunately.

My stomach flips again, but this time it doesn’t turn into a disaster. I breathe through it, slow and careful.

Stress.

Definitely stress.

Maybe a bug.

Mystery solved. No need to spiral.

I push myself up, rinse my mouth, splash water on my face, and stare at my reflection.

Wow.

If Victorian ghosts had messy buns, one of them would be staring back at me. My eyes look too bright. My heart is doing skips that feel legally complicated.

“Okay,” I tell my reflection. “We’re going to shower. We are going to dress. We’re going to take care of a small child and a large dog. We aren’t going to collapse dramatically, because that’s embarrassing, and also I have things to do.” My reflection looks unconvinced. “Don’t start.”

The shower helps a little.

By the time I’m dressed in leggings, a soft sweater, and boots, I feel less like an emergency and more like a woman who can fake competence for at least six hours.

Which, honestly, is most adulthood.

The penthouse is bright with morning light, all clean lines and expensive surfaces, and one small boy in space pajamas attempting to build what appears to be an airport out of blocks, cereal boxes, and one of Ethan’s coasters.

“Sunshine!” Oliver announces, like I’ve just returned from war.

My heart flutters. “Sunshine?”

“That’s your airport name.”

I laugh. “Good morning, Captain Airport Authority.”

He beams. “This is Terminal One.”

“Where’s Terminal Two?”

He points to the coffee table. “That’s for private planes.”

“Obviously. Very exclusive.”

Captain trots past me with a sock in his mouth.