Page 102 of Beloved Beauty


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The patio glows with string lights. There’s glitter on the table, someone’s shoes on the steps, and an empty pitcher of margaritas beside a bowl of tortilla chips that looks like someone declared war on it.

The women are mid laugh—loud, tipsy, glowing. Magnolia’s in the middle of it all, cheeks flushed, head tilted back, her laugh ringing out. And Violet’s draped across her, laughing.

Margarita Monday, apparently, is a full-contact sport.

Jack meets me at the edge of the patio, a beer in one hand, and a grin that only comes from watching chaos unfold and knowing you’re not responsible for it. “I just got here, but I can tell you this much. Enter at your own risk. I don’t want to guess how many margaritas deep they are.”

I scan the scene, zeroing in on Magnolia’s smile. “Think it’s safe to go in?”

Jack chuckles. “Safe? No. Entertaining? Absolutely.”

Laurelyn spots me and lifts her glass. “Alex! Come collect your drunk wife and her bad influence before Violet convinces her to pierce something that shouldn’t be pierced.”

Hmm… that could be interesting.

Magnolia spins around, eyes lighting up when she sees me.

“Hey! There he is—my hot husband with a mouth like sin and the stamina of a god.”

“Must run in the family,” Violet slurs without missing a beat.

I shake my head, grinning. “Too much information, Violet.”

Magnolia raises her margarita. “Take me away, sexy chauffeur husband.”

I step forward, catching Magnolia by the waist as she teeters sideways on her heels. “Okay, favorite, let’s get you home before someone hands you a microphone and regrets it.”

“Ruuude,” she slurs, grinning up at me.

I steer them toward the gate. Violet stumbles and grabs my arm. “Don’t tell Elias I said this, but I think I’m… maybe… aggressively in love with him.”

“Are you now?”

She sighs. “I am. It’s disgusting. I hate it.” She squints up at me, dead serious. “It’s either love or low blood sugar. But I’m leaning toward love because I ate three lemon bars. Okay, it was four.”

Jack pats me on the shoulder as we pass. “Good luck, mate.”

“Thanks. I think I’m gonna need it.”

Magnolia flops into the front seat of the G-Wagon and starts playing with the radio, landing on a song she likes and cranking the volume.

“Woo-hoo!”

I reach over and nudge it down a few notches. “I’m pretty sure we can hear it fine without blowing the speakers.”

“Party pooper,” she says, but she’s grinning.

I ease out of the driveway, glancing at her. She’s barefoot now, humming off-key to the radio with a contented smile.

From the back seat, Violet mumbles, her cheek mashed against the leather: “Your name is Alexander Björn. Like BabyBjörn. You give off such intense dad energy they named a baby carrier after you.”

I glance in the rearview mirror, then over at Magnolia. “What is she talking about?”

Magnolia laughs low. “No idea. She’s drunk. Ignore her.”

“You’ll love it. Tiny sneakers. Chubby cheeks. Your genetics wearing a onesie. It’s gonna be great.”

A minute later, she flops to one side and starts snoring. It’s the type of sleep only tequila can deliver.