Worthless asshole playboy Baptist. Selfish, angry, pride-filled Baptist.
If he knows I’m pregnant, he’s going to fire me and run away as fast as he can.
That man is allergic to commitment. The only thing he cares about is this production company, and even then, I’m not so sure. He seems more interested in chasing after UPenn coeds than he is getting Cowan in a room and signing all the necessary documents.
I splash water on my face and close my eyes.
Cowan is real. I spoke to his assistant on the phone a few days ago. I watched Baptist FaceTime with the director a week before that. The movie is real and Cowan truly wants to get it done, and Baptist has the money.
I should know. I set up all our business accounts and got the company registered. I know exactly how much we have—and it’s enough.
This is happening.
My dream is actually happening.
But I’m pregnant.
I touch my stomach and take deep, shuddering breaths.
I’m not going to cry. Not right now, not when I’m so close to meeting Cowan for the first time and really getting into this industry for real.
No more bullshit. No more working for someone else. As much as we joke, I’m an equal partner with Baptist—he even put my name in the title.
I can deal with the baby later. I have nine months to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. I let out a long breath, adjust my makeup because of course I screwed it up, then head out, the tests shoved back in my purse and all evidence safely hidden away.
“You’re late,” Baptist says as he stands leaning against my car. “Zoe said she put your coffee on my tab.” He holds out a hand. “Three-fifty, please.”
“You can put it on my tab then, dick.” I shove him away from the door and he laughs as he goes around and gets in the passenger side.
I can tell he wants to discuss his new redhead girl toy some more but I keep him on task. We go over what we’re going to say to Cowan, how we’re going to make sure he’s serious about getting this movie done, and all the little logistical details we need to hammer out with the director.
“Relax, Webb,” he says as I roll down the long, gated driveway and stop outside of a Victorian mansion on the western edges of Philadelphia in the heart of the Main Line. It’s straight out of a gothic horror story with peaked roofs, a real stone facade, storybook landscaping, and a red slate roof.
“Please don’t tell me to relax right now.”
“I’m just saying, Cowan’s on board. All we have to do—”
“Baptist.” I turn toward him, heart racing.I’m pregnant with your baby.“Cowan hasn’t finished a movie in almost ten years. Do you really think this is going to be easy?”
His easy smile slowly fades and he glances at the house. “No, I don’t.”
“Then don’t treat me like an idiot. Come on, let’s get in there.”
He laughs softly and follows me up the front steps. I knock on the massive oak doors and nearly scream when a blast so loud it makes my ears ring explodes somewhere from behind the structure.
“That was a gun,” Baptist says, stepping in front of me and shoving me toward the side. “Something’s wrong. That was—”
Another loud blast, and another. Followed by yelling.
“Stay here.” Baptist yanks the doors open and plunges inside.
“Baptist!” I stare around me, freaking out. Why are there gunshots right now, in the middle of the morning, in this gorgeously nice neighborhood? The house is set back from the road and all alone in a ring of trees, with no other houses in sight, which means nobody else knows what’s happening. If Baptist is in danger—
“Ah, shit,” I say quietly and hurry into the home.
The walls are all wood paneled and oil paintings are spaces around haphazardly. The carpets are threadbare, the floors creak, and while it looks like this place should be magnificent, it clearly hasn’t been taken care of. It’s dark, dusty, spider-web speckled, and smells like cat.
Another explosion, this one close, and Baptist’s voice. “Almost got it!”