“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again ... you’re not my mother, Mr.Darden. Good night.”
He exhales as he scrutinizes me. “See a doctor. I don’t want to catch anything when you come over.” With a sharp nod, he closes his door.
I open my door and step inside my small yet elegant three-bedroom apartment. Built in the twenties, most of the original architecture was maintained: arched doorways, thick baseboards, wainscotting, and a stone fireplace—now painted a rich cream. My wing of the building was renovated years ago with beautiful hardwood, marble tile, and an updated kitchen and bathrooms.
I stop in the foyer, kiss my fingers, and press them to my first painting from art school, a brown wren in the snow. I point my finger at her. “I see your judgment, but I’m not pregnant.”
I drop my satchel on a bench and go to the den. It’s decorated with a modern-style velvet teal couch and two club chairs. Cece made the pillows, and there’s a hand-knotted rug that Brogan found. My art, one of my locket paintings, hangs over the mantel. My bedroom is to the left, and their rooms are on the right down the hall.
Home. My first real one.
Across from the den is a balcony that overlooks Central Park, and I open the glass doors and step outside and lean over to see the street. The rain has cleared, and a full moon gazes down at Manhattan. I inhale a deep breath of the city and smile.
I hear laughter, and my heart jumps as Tuck, Jasper, and Courtney walk up the sidewalk. Jasper picks up pebbles and lobs them at Courtney while she yells at him. Tuck walks behind them as he swings his umbrella, lost in thought. Leaning over farther, I recall how he moved me out of the way of the tourists, then shared his umbrella with me ...
I picture him kissing Courtney and grunt. Player indeed.
As if he feels my gaze, he stops and glances up at the building toward my floor, and I quickly step back.
“Not kicking that hornet’s nest,” I tell the room as I head to the kitchen and open the pantry. I find a box of Triscuits and munch one slowly, my head churning as I replay my symptoms of sickness one more time.
A long sigh comes from my chest.I’m fine. Totally.
Chapter 6
FRANCESCA
It’s not every day your friend gazes at a pile of pregnancy-test boxes like they’re a stack of Christmas presents.
Cece taps one with a manicured fingernail. Her voice, like her, is airy and sweet. “This one has rapid detection. How preggo are you, honey?”
“IfI am, I guess ten weeks, and don’t ‘honey’ me. You only do that when you’re trying to calm me down. I. Am. Fine.”
“You sent the 911 text. You’re freaked.” She pats my arm. “It’s okay. We’re here, and we never leave a man down.”
I wince at her glamorous makeup, upswept blonde hair, and shimmery evening dress. “I ruined your dinner party. Sorry.”
She tsks. “Don’t worry about George. His ex-wife saw us together, which is what he wanted. She left him two years ago for her fitness trainer—so cliché. He’s one of my favorite clients.” She pokes me. “My offer is still open. I can hook you up with a job. Men love petite women. Makes them feel like all alpha.”
I met Cece our freshman year in art school. A gorgeous girl from the Gulf Coast of Alabama, she was working part time at the makeup counter at Barneys when a lady pulled her aside and asked if she’d be interested in dating wealthy men. She dropped out of college, makessix figures, and flies between here and LA. Before I landed at East Coast Ink, she got me in at the agency. I went on a few dates; then Donny gave me a callback, and that was it.
“Clients like pregnant women, huh?” Standing up, I mimic a belly over my stomach and puff out my cheeks. I waddle around the room.
“But you say it’s just a bug.”
I flop back on the couch and throw my head back as I groan. “It totally is. Right? Say you think it is. Please.”
She sighs. “Your boobies are sore. That’s the first indication—or so I’ve heard.” A gleam grows in her eyes. “Would it be the worst thing in the world? You’d be a good—no, agreatmom, and I’d be the perfect ‘aunt.’ Oops, wrong thing to say. Calm down, honey. Don’t get all red in the face; it’s not good for our ‘maybe baby’—”
“Brogan?” I call out. “Cece’s annoying me. Are those drinks ready?”
He comes in from the kitchen and leans against the doorjamb and chuckles. With wavy auburn hair, he’s tall and muscular with a sleeve of pink and teal roses up his arm. They match the tattoo on my back and the circlet tattoo around Cece’s ankle.
He’s five years younger than us with cut cheekbones and a square chin that hints at stubbornness. We met Brogan at a party where he attempted to charm us with his British accent—but we knew it was fake. We started a game to pay him five bucks for every person he convinced he was British. By the end of the night, he’d emptied our wallets; then he took us to breakfast.
He gives a martini to Cece, grabs his own off the bar, and then hands me a glass of water. My second. “Drink this, and try to pee again.”
“My bladder has drawn up. In fear. I may never pee again. Can you die from that?”