She leaned forward to share it. “Royce knocked me up.” Her eyes sparkled. “We’ve only told our families, and I know we’re not super close, but . . . we’re friends, right?”
I blinked through my surprise, feeling like an asshole for suspecting the worst of her, and gave the biggest smile I owned. “Oh, my God, congrats!”
“Thank you. I’m too excited to keep it to myself.”
“That is exciting. When are you due?”
“May seventh.” She took a sip of her water and turned bashful. “My hormones were being weird, so I went off the pill for a few months. Let this be a lesson to you. The ‘pull out’ method isn’t super effective when he forgets to actually do it.”
I laughed and immediately pressed my hand to my sternum. It’d been eleven days since Macalister had broken my rib and six since he’d broken my heart, and neither was healing as fast as I wanted.
“Thanks for the tip,” I said.
“You want kids?”
I picked up my vanilla vodka and Coke and took a big drink. I loved babies and always pictured myself as a mother someday. “Yeah. I’d like to have kids, but . . . I’m not even dating anyone.”
She gave me a sly smile. “Aren’t you?”
I wasn’t naïve. Her husband was her best friend, and he told her everything. A dark expression filled my face, so she’d understand I didn’t want to talk about it. “We weren’t dating—we were fucking—and that’s over.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders pulled back, and she glanced away. “I didn’t know. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Let’s talk about something else.” I scrambled for a topic that didn’t involve Macalister. “Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”
“He wants a boy, and I want a girl, which means it’ll be a boy. Those Hale men always get their . . .” She gave me a pained smile as she caught herself.
“Don’t paint the nursery blue just yet,” I grumbled. “They don’t always get what they want.”
“I couldn’t paint it, anyway. We haven’t decided which room will be the nursery yet.”
What was she talking about? Their apartment was big, but there were only three bedrooms in it, and one was being used as an office. My confusion was obvious.
Marist lifted a shoulder. “We’re moving back into the house.”
“With Macalister?” I shot her a skeptical look, one that asked her if that was a good idea.
“He offered to move out, but Royce and I talked about it, and we’re willing to give it a try.” She tossed a hand up. “He’s putting the house in Royce’s name, so we can throw him out if he does anything, but honestly, I don’t think he will.” She stared at me like this was somehow my doing. “He’s changed.”
My phone was on silent, but it vibrated on the tabletop, scooting along as it rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I was happy for the momentary escape from a discussion about Macalister.
“Sorry, one second,” I said to Marist. I tapped the screen and pressed the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hi,” a male voice said. “Is this Sophia?”
I didn’t recognize the caller, but he sounded young. “It is.”
“Hey, this is Ian Holzman. We met at Damon Lynch’s birthday party.” This was the guy who’d hit on me all night and I’d been dumb enough to dance with. “I hope you don’t mind that Vance gave me your number.”
Oh, I fucking minded. I opened my mouth to unleash my fury, but he kept talking.
“I swear I’m not a stalker,” he said. “It’s just, I’ve been looking at your social media accounts, and I think you’d be a real help to the team. Damon’s social media presence is good, but it could be better.”
My fury was sidetracked. “Are you offering me a job?” Working for Damon?
“Uh . . . not exactly.” He hesitated. “I’m not in charge of that, but I was hoping you’d be interested in, like, volunteering.”
I closed my eyes as irritation overtook me. I was an influencer, and he wanted to me to use my brand to promote Damon Lynch. And he wanted me to do it for free.
“Yeah, I’m sorry, but—”
“Damon’s hosting a private dinner next weekend at the Plaza with his friends and donors. I was thinking you could come with me.”
I asked it flatly. “As a date?”
“As friends.” He answered so quickly and casually, it was obvious he’d hoped to turn it into a date. “It should be fun, and, hey—free dinner.”
Thoughts spun in my head. I’d never get in on my own, and I was pretty sure I was on a no-fly list. The only reason I’d been at the last campaign party was because I’d freaking helped throw it.
Macalister had warned me not to go after Lynch, but this could be my best opportunity.
And the icing on the cake was Macalister would probably be there for support. He could watch as I strolled in on another man’s arm then defied his advice. I’d show him how little control he held over me now.