By noon, the Yellowstone smells less like a ranch and more like a county fair run by southern women with something to prove.

Smoke rolls lazy into the summer sky from the grills while laughter carries across the yard in bursts loud enough to startle birds from the fencing. Somebody’s arguing over charcoal. Somebody else already opened a cooler they were specifically told not to touch. Country music hums low from old speakers near the barn doors.

And in the middle of all of it, somehow, is you.

Very pregnant.

Very warm.

Very aware that this baby has inherited Kayce’s appetite and absolutely none of your restraint.

You stand near the long food tables adjusting the skirt of your sundress for what feels like the hundredth time. The hot pink fabric hugs your belly beautifully without making movement impossible, roses scattered across it like watercolor stains. Your braids fall over your shoulders in soft waves threaded with little gold cuffs Harley insisted you wear because: “You gotta look magical.”

Apparently pregnancy now qualifies as magical.

Your mother is beside you rearranging dessert plates with the concentration of a surgeon.

“Don’t touch the carrot cake yet,” Barbie warns someone sharply. “The frosting still needs settling.”

“It’s frosting,” Felix says.

“It’s cream cheese frosting.”

“That did not answer my question.”

Barbie gives him a look so severe he physically steps backward.

You hide your smile behind your cup.

The dessert table honestly looks obscene.

Layered red velvet cake sits in the center like royalty itself, thick cream cheese frosting swirled high between layers, candied pecans glistening on top because you felt like showing off a little. Beside it sits two carrot cakes dusted with cinnamon and chopped walnuts, banana pudding cups Harley helped assemble, and trays of brownies Maxwell has already stolen from twice.

But the real star—the one currently ruining your unborn child’s dignity—is the sweet potato cornbread.

Warm squares sit beneath a glossy caramel glaze, steam still curling faintly from the pan.

The second you smell it again, the baby kicks so hard you physically stop mid-step.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, grabbing the table edge.

Kayce looks up instantly from across the yard.

He crosses toward you fast, concern already written across his face.

“What happened?”

“He likes the cornbread.”

Kayce blinks once.

Then the baby kicks again hard enough for him to see it through the dress.

His entire expression changes.

Every single time the baby moves visibly, Kayce reacts like he’s witnessing divine intervention.

Slowly, almost reverently, he places his hand against your stomach.

Another kick.

A grin spreads across his face before he can stop it.

“That’s my son,” he says proudly.

“You’re encouraging him.”

“He’s got good taste.”

You snort softly and lean into him without thinking. Smoke, soap, sun-warmed cotton, and the faint smell of barbecue sauce cling to him.

And there it is.

The stain.

A dark splash near the hem of his light blue button-up.

You narrow your eyes immediately.

“Kayce Dutton.”

He already looks guilty.

“You said food wasn’t ready yet,” you accuse.

“I was checking the beans.”

“You were eating the beans.”

“I had to make sure they wouldn’t poison anybody.”

Felix overhears while carrying beer toward the coolers.

“That’s interesting,” he says dryly. “Considering you’re the one who spilled sauce on yourself like a toddler.”

“It splashed.”

“You leaned over the pot like a starving Victorian orphan.”

Kayce flips him off lazily without looking away from you.

You laugh before another kick interrupts you.

“Oh no,” you murmur.

“What?”

“The sausage.”

“The what?”

“The baby wants sausage now.”

Kayce immediately points toward the grills. “See? Boy after my own heart.”

“You are both impossible.”

—

Harley, meanwhile, has become an unstoppable social force of nature.

She tears through the party in sparkly pink cowboy boots with all the unchecked confidence of a child who knows every adult present adores her.