Chapter 11: Princess and the Player: Chapter 11

“You’re starting to annoy me,” I grouse to Cece as we walk down Fifth Avenue on our way back to Wickham.

“Only now? I thought it was when I dragged you into Pottery Barn.” She sighs dramatically. “I loved the ducky bedding. Gray and yellow. So soothing. And gender neutral since you don’t want to find out the sex. I could make something if you want. Sewing—and sex—are my superpowers.”

“Uh-huh.” We spent an hour there, and all I wanted to do was take a nap on one of the beds.

“Back to food. No raw fish or undercooked meat. No unwashed produce. No unpasteurized cheese, milk, or fruit juice. We don’t want any gross bacteria to hurt baby Cecelia.”

I grunt. “First Brogan and now you. I’m aware of the food list! I had sushi one time, and you freaked out, but it was cooked. Even Brogan said it was okay.”

She ignores me. “Raw eggs and hollandaise sauce are also off the list. Homemade cake icing, ice cream, and mayo.”

“No issue there.” I swallow down the urge to gag. “Mayo is gross.”

“No coffee. You snuck some this morning.”

“I had three sips! Three!” I throw my head back and shake my fist at the sky. “Maybe that’s why I feel violent! I need caffeine! It’s not fair!”

“No alcohol, no processed food . . . hmm, so that means no fries, chips, bacon—”

“You’re vicious! Give me bacon! Come on!”

“For Cecelia—whose middle name can be Ivy—no bacon.”

“Mmm, fries from McDonald’s would be so good. With bacon.”

She takes my arm as we walk up to the entrance of our building. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

“I’m not a baby deer. I can walk by myself.” I untangle myself from her. “I need some space. Please. I’m cranky and kind of horny. It’s a weird combo.”

“But—”

“No more monitoring my coffee in the morning.” I stomp ahead of her in my three-inch stacked black Converse. “While you were in LA, I had fries. Herman had them delivered; bless his soul.”

“Get your pregnant ass inside, missy.”

“You’re pregnant?” Herman bellows, and I turn to see he’d followed us to open the door. Wearing a scarf with Santa faces on it and a red bow tie, he gives me a wide smile.

“Er, um, well . . .” My eyes dart around the entrance to see if anyone else heard. I sigh. He’ll notice my growing belly soon in the coming months. “Yeah?”

“Congratulations!” He gives me a hug. “How are you feeling? If you need anything, just ring me, yeah? Or ask for Tony. He’s my nephew who works security. Hard worker. He’ll dash out if I’m not here and get you anything you’re craving. Christmas is just a few days away, so if you feel weak and need someone to do your last-minute shopping, the girl at the front desk is looking for extra work—”

“Herman . . .” I glance around again, nodding and smiling at passing residents. One of them is Widow Carnes. Shit, shit. I adjust my black moto jacket over my harem pants and stand taller. She’s like the mean teacher you had in school, the one who carried a ruler around and slapped your palm if you misbehaved.

“How are you, dear?” she asks, pausing as Herman opens the door for her.

“Oh, just wonderful.” I give her my biggest smile. “You?”

“Just wonderful.” She narrows her gaze. “Tell Mr. Darden I said hello.” She snubs Cece, their usual.

“Have a nice day,” I call as she walks away. I exhale slowly. I imagined that look she gave my stomach. Right?

I mean, sure, people might know if they see me later in my pregnancy, but winter and cold weather are great for hiding with baggy sweatshirts and coats. Frustration hits as I chew my lower lip. I’ve managed to not run into Tuck for the last few days. My only outings have been a doctor’s appointment, a client meeting, and today.

Football season wraps up at the end of January, which means he’ll be on his yacht in February and gone for months. His summer camp—I googled it—starts at the end of July. By then, I’ll have a two-month-old. I groan inwardly. He’s going to see me. Eventually. Should I move from Wickham? Never. It’s my home. And Mr. Darden is here. He’s elderly. He needs me. Okay, fine. I’ll become a hermit. I’ll take side exits. I’ll avoid the lobby and elevator. I’ll say it’s not my baby. I’m babysitting. I adopted.

Oh my God. I’m officially insane.

How will this ever work?

Just tell him, a small voice says.

March right up to his place, knock on the door, and say the words.

My heart squeezes in my chest, and my mouth dries. What if he rejects me? What if he rejects our child? My hands settle on my stomach. I’m supposed to protect her from people who don’t want her in the world. I’ve tasted the sharp sting of people not wanting me. I’ve lived with it for thirty years. I don’t want it for my child.

Herman breaks into my thoughts. “You think you might need a crib? My daughter might have one—”

“I’m buying it,” Cece says tartly. “All white. Sleigh-style. It’s being delivered soon.”

Oh. I didn’t know. It’s the one I liked from the catalog, and I smile at her, then glance back at Herman. I give him a wink. “Hey, let’s keep this pregnancy on the down low. It’s a secret, okay?”

He stands straighter. “Right. Best to see if it sticks. My wife was the same.”

“Well, it’s more than that,” I say, floundering.

Cece takes over as she hooks our arms together and gives him her kindest smile. “Herman, it’s like this: I may look angelic, but I will stab you in the nuts if you spill the news—or bring her fries.”

He blanches as I nod and whisper, “We call her the Angel of Nut Stabbing.”

“Oh.” He swallows. “You always look so nice, Cece.”

She puts a hand over her heart. “Why, thank you—but don’t trust me, yeah?”

The desk attendant, a pretty girl in her early twenties, calls my name, and we leave a frowning Herman and head that way.

“You have a package, Miss Lane,” she says excitedly from behind the desk. She darts to the back and returns with a small box wrapped in brown paper. “It came last week, but somehow it got put in the wrong place. Apologies.”

“Okay.” I’m not expecting anything. Edward hasn’t left flowers or notes lately. I feel certain he said everything he wanted that night in my apartment.

She blushes. “It’s from Mr. Avery.”

“Oh.” I frown. I assumed he was done with me, but if this came last week . . .

“He’s, like, the hottest guy in the building,” she adds. “You’re such a lucky girl.”

“Hmm.” I sign the receipt.

She leans in, her voice lowering. “I like you better than Courtney Neil—you know, the supermodel. She’s been coming in and out of his place. I think she lives there—”

“Hey,” Cece says sharply, cutting her off. “We don’t need a play-by-play. We already know how virile he is. He’s got big-dick energy. Just ask Francesca—”

“Cece,” I warn.

She scowls and mutters under her breath as I lead her away from the desk to the sitting area of the lobby. We plop down in a pair of club chairs near the windows. I set the package on a side table and focus on her. My moods come from pregnancy hormones, but she’s been extra snippy today.

She throws her hands up as she crosses her legs. “Ugh. She’s just so perky and pretty and . . .”

“Young?”

She adjusts her green Stella McCartney minidress. “Yes, it’s true; women in their twenties annoy me, all dewy complexions and innocence. Disgusting.” A long exhale comes from her.

“What’s really wrong?”

She pauses for a moment, wariness on her face. She then leans in and squeezes my hand. “Okay, you know how I’ve been planning to retire from being a companion? I’m getting older, and men want the young girls. Plus, design is something I’ve always wanted to try.”

I nod.

“I’ve decided I’m moving to California—with Lewis.”

My head races. “Wait. What? You’re leaving New York?”

She chews on her lip. “Not right away. I’ll stay until the baby is born in June, then fly back and forth, maybe once a month? Auntie Cece, remember?”

I shake my head. “When did all this happen?”

“Life changes when you least expect it—you know that.” She stares at her hands. “Lewis asked me to marry him a few months ago, but I didn’t mention it because you’d gone through the Edward thing, then lost your job—then the baby news came along. Plus, I was still deciding if I’d accept his offer . . .” She pauses. “This last time I saw him in LA, I said yes. You’ll adore him, Fran.”

I process through my muddled brain. Lewis, right. Geeky Silicon Valley tech-business owner. Billionaire.

“He wants to get married next fall. He loves me or thinks he does. Dumb, right? Anyway, he bought me a house in Palo Alto a while back, remember? I’ve barely been there, but he gave it to me to use whenever I want. It’s so pretty, Fran: lakes and gardens and gorgeous furniture.”

Nausea bubbles in my stomach. She never told me. She never asked me for advice. What is happening to us?

“Oh, Fran, honey, your face is doing that red thing. I’m sorry to throw this at you right now. I really thought I’d end up staying here with you, but this feels right. The good news is that since I told Lewis yes, I’ve let my clients go. You’re my focus right now.”

She continues, “And, if you want, we could all make a new start in California. You can get settled in my house and figure out what you want to do. Maybe find a cool place in LA to work. Brogan can go back to med school. Lewis is totally on board with whatever makes me happy, Fran, and me happy is knowing you are okay.” She tightens her clasp on my hands. “I know how you feel about being left behind, but I’m not really leaving; I’m just moving. We can text and talk all the time.”

Help from Lewis? I don’t want his help. I don’t freaking know him.

And he’s taking my friend away.

“Are you okay?”

I pull away from her. “No, Cece, I’m not. You didn’t even tell me. I’m your best friend. You’re . . .” Abandoning me. “My family. I’m having a baby! I thought you’d be here!”

“I’m sorry.” Her lip wobbles. “Truly. I didn’t want to upset you, honey.”

I rub my forehead, willing the stupid tears away.

It’s just . . .

She’s the friend who knows all your dirty secrets and doesn’t bat a lash. She’s the life of the party who makes sure you get home, then tucks you in. She’s the girl who makes you giggle even when it feels like the end of the world. My head plays snapshots of us bingeing Gilmore Girls in our pj’s, the game nights with Mr. Darden where she steals something just to make him come looking for her. I’ve seen her fall apart—and held her—when she lost her parents, when a client got handsy and smacked her around.

She’s one half of my ride or die.

I wrestle with my emotions, part of me wanting to be happy for her. But the other side is terrified of losing her. “Do you love him?”

She smiles slowly, the sincere one. “Oh, honey, I don’t have a heart, but he makes it beat. I like him a whole, whole lot.”

My throat tightens. What can I say to that?

I push down my anxiety. “If you stick me in some god-awful fluffy southern bridesmaid dress, I will stab you in the eye. I do not do bows on my ass.”

She throws her arms around me. “Honey, your dress will be couture and make you look fabulous. Now open that gift before I have a hissy fit wondering what it is.”

“Fine.” I tear the brown paper, open the box, and gasp at the gold necklace. The chain shimmers in the sunlight from the windows, highlighting the two-inch teardrop emerald in the center. On either side are two slightly smaller topaz jewels. My fingers rub the stone in the middle. It’s his eyes: green with yellow sparks. “Tuck,” I whisper.

“So pretty, and oh my God; nothing says ‘I want to fuck you’ like shiny jewels.” She claps her hands. “Just looking at them makes me hot.”

“It matches his eyes.” I ease the necklace back inside the velvet box and pick up the handwritten note.

For the beautiful girl I met by chance . . .

Merry Christmas Tuck I picture him writing the words. It’s sweet. So very sweet. I’m chewing on my lips as a woman waltzes into the lobby.

Courtney. My eyes narrow, forgetting the necklace. She stops for a moment, tightens her lips when she sees us, and then puts her nose in the air. As she disappears around the corner to the elevators, I stuff the necklace in my satchel and motion for Cece to follow me.

“What’s going on?” she asks as she stands.

“Remember when we crashed Daniel Radcliffe’s party in the West Village?” I say as we fast walk to the elevators.

“I do love me some Harry Potter, and he was so sweet. Adored his wife. You made out with one of them, right?”

“Um, that was you, with her, while he watched.”

“Huh. Fun party,” she says. “Okay, so we’re following the supermodel. No matter what happens, I’m your human shield. Like Captain America, only better. My life before yours—oops, I meant your life before mine. Believe me; I will take that bitch to the ground and stomp on her with my Jimmy Choos.”

“Never doubted you.”

We ease inside the elevator like two church mice. Several residents are there, and as we go up, they get off on their floors. Courtney has already punched in the code for the penthouse and scrolls on her phone.

We reach the penthouse level, and she looks up, eyes flaring. “Hey, what’s going on? You need a pass code for this level.”

“But, darling, you already punched it in.” Cece wiggles her fingers at her as we dart into the hallway.

“And why are we doing this exactly?” She crooks her arm in mine.

“Um . . .” My heart jumps in my chest, not because we pulled one over on Courtney, although that was deliciously fun, but because . . .

Dammit. Because I want to see him.

I stop for half a second to fluff my bangs and check my lipstick. I’m about to knock when a shirtless Jasper flings open the penthouse door. “Dude. I thought you were my bracelet delivery, but hey, I fucking love company! Come on in!”

Rather bemused, we follow him inside and enter a three-storied marbled foyer. The walls are stark white with a modern-looking chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

He chuckles. “In person, Snow White and Princess Bride together. I love it. Welcome to my temporary home. I’m in the process of getting a kick-ass place below this. It’s gonna be awesome when it’s done. Big T is going to miss me; he just doesn’t know it.”

Cece gives him a smooch on the cheek. “Congrats, Prince Cupid. How is Prince of Princes? I hope he misses me.”

“Deacon? I can text him if you want.” He pulls his phone out and wiggles it.

She puts her hand over her chest. “Sadly, I’m taken, but give him a kiss for me.”

“He enjoyed his evening with you,” Jasper says.

“Did you have sex with Deacon?” I whisper out of the side of my mouth.

“I’m wonderful without sex, honey. He’ll never forget me,” she hisses back.

Jasper clears his throat and smiles. “So what’s up? You ladies just out strolling and popped by?”

“Yes. Is Tuck around?” I ask.

“They snuck up on the elevator,” Courtney grouses as she marches in the foyer, her four-inch heels clicking against the marble. She hangs a short pink fur coat on a hook and tosses her handbag on an ottoman.

“We missed our floor and kept going,” I say.

“You did it on purpose,” she snaps.

“Get over yourself, Courtney. These girls are always welcome.” He turns to me. “Big T is out, sorry, but stay. I got a new margarita machine I’m playing with. It’s my present to myself, and it’s fabulous. How about a drink? I’ve got strawberry, pineapple, or regular?”

Cece waltzes past Courtney. “How kind of you! You pick my flavor, Jasper. Extra tequila, please.”

“Francesca? You want one?” he asks as we follow him deeper inside the penthouse to an open plan with a den and kitchen. I take in the white leather furniture and heavy glass tables, the floor-to-ceiling windows that show Central Park and Manhattan. A white fur rug is in front of a split fireplace that opens to a room lined with bookshelves.

My eyes widen at the metal-fenced staircase that leads to the upper levels. Jeez. I mean, yeah, it takes up three stories and some of the rooftop, but it’s a freaking mansion in the sky. My apartment would fit in the den-and-kitchen area alone.

“Strawberry, please,” I murmur faintly as my anxiousness ramps up.

He’s rich. He has power. He had me investigated. He has freaking lawyers.

“Francesca, are you sure you want alcohol today?” Cece says as she elbows me and nudges her head at the margarita machine.

“Oh, right. Nothing for me, then. I’m going to a gallery later,” I tell Jasper as he moves around the kitchen, gathering supplies.

“Big T mentioned that Darden hooked you up.”

I nod, then explain how I meet with clients, get an understanding of what they want, and then shop for them at various places.

He motions us to take a seat. We ease down on high-back caramel-colored leather stools around a granite island. He tells us about the machine, how it holds three pitchers at a time with different blending and shaving settings. He talks fervently about how the machine makes mojitos, piña coladas, daiquiris, and mudslides. I hide my smile at the mess he’s making as he digs out strawberries, pineapples, and limes from the fridge. Juice drips down his hands as he gathers them together and puts them in the pitcher along with tequila and other liquors. He explains the deal he got on the machine—a thousand dollars—about the game they won last week, about his new car he ordered (an Aston Martin). He stops to take a breath. “I feel like I’m doing all the chitchat, sorry. What’s up with you guys?”

Before we can reply, Courtney plops down on a kitchen stool next to me. “I’d like a margarita too.”

“Say pretty please,” he says.

She flicks a strand of honey-colored hair. “Pretty please may I have a regular margarita.”

“Fine.” His arm muscles flex as he pours ice in the machine, his gaze on her. “Did you find a place to stay? There’s a hotel a block away. I’ll pay if you’ll go. Pretty please.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow to see my parents in Florida for Christmas, but I’ll be back to harass you.” She smirks. “Did you find a place?”

His brown eyes glitter. “I live here. I was invited. You just showed up with a bag and some fake tears.”

He turns the mixer on, the sound of ice drowning out whatever Courtney’s reply is.

“I’d like mine with salt on the rim,” she says when he sets her drink in front of her.

“Try sugar,” he mutters. “It might make you nicer. Better yet, eat a chocolate bar for me, huh?”

“Go to hell, quarterback.” She glares at him. “And put on a shirt. No one wants to see your six-pack.”

“I do,” Cece says.

“Same,” I add.

“Thanks, guys, and Courtney, get it right. It’s an eight-pack.” He slaps his abdomen, then shimmies his hips.

Biting my lips to not laugh, I watch the back-and-forth between them with bated breath.

He gives Cece a strawberry margarita, then me a sparkling water. “Ladies. Enjoy.” He does a bow with a hand flourish.

I look around, and a gasp comes from me. In the hallway is . . . “Oh my God. Is that a . . .”

“Yes, it is. Come on; I’ll show you,” he murmurs. “I need a break from a certain someone anyway.” He leads me to the hallway and out of hearing range.

“Jackson Pollock?” I breathe as I take in the large painting.

“Yep.” He chuckles as he sips from his margarita. “It gives me a headache, but people freak over it.”

Illuminated by museum-style lights, the canvas glows with muted blues and greens that slather the surface. “This is embarrassing, but tingles just went down my spine. I’ve seen them before at museums, but wow, to think Pollock painted this, and it’s here.”

“Looks like a kid did it to me. I can whip one out for you and sign Pollock’s name to it, if you want?”

I grimace. “We can’t be friends anymore. Bye. It was nice knowing you.”

I pretend to leave, then come back and gaze up at the work. “Sorry. I can’t walk away from Jackson Pollock.”

He laughs. “You came back for me, darling.”

“Sure. You’re like a baby dolphin at feeding time. Adorable.” I pinch his cheeks, and he practically swoons at the attention.

He grins, then points at the painting. “Tuck’s mom gave this to him for his twenty-fifth birthday. He stares at it a lot. Gets all moody and stuff. Tuck likes to talk about Pollock. Apparently, he had mental issues and was an alcoholic. He died in his forties driving drunk. He hit a tree near his house.” He stops, frowning. “Whoa. Tuck’s father died in a similar accident.” He winces. “I shouldn’t talk about him when he isn’t here, but he’s my best friend, even if he doesn’t know it. I worry . . .” He stops.

“About?”

A pained expression crosses his face, and he shakes his head. “My guy . . . he needs something good in his life right now. Jesus, let’s change the topic. I’m gossiping like the old ladies at my church back in Utah.”

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It doesn’t take much for me to talk. You talk now.”

As we look at Tuck’s art, I tell him about some of my favorite pieces I’ve seen in New York. I ramble about Titian’s Venus and the Lute Player, his sensuous, naked women. I thought he might like that, but when his eyes glaze over, I switch. “Then, there’s Monet and his Bridge over a Pond of Water Lilies. The peace, the pastel colors, the soft brushstrokes—”

He holds up a hand. “Enough with the TED Talk. I heard naked, then started thinking about sex. Brushstrokes is the same.”

“I used to tell Brogan about art so he could go to sleep. Cece enjoys it. She loves art.”

“Ah, yeah, Brogan. Big T found out he’s your roomie. I thought he’d be weird about it, but . . .”

I stiffen. “There was no plan to meet Tuck.”

“I believe you, but I don’t want anyone to hurt him, ya know?” He exhales. “He likes you.”

“Does he?”

He gets a text on his phone and pulls it out. “Whoop! Someone is bringing up my bracelets! Keep looking around; I think there’s a Georgia Somebody Famous drawing down the hall.”

He disappears, and I keep walking until I find a Georgia O’Keeffe drawing. When my bladder chimes, I keep walking, hoping to find a restroom. I’m about to try a door when Courtney steps out of one, a handful of lacy fabric in her hand.

“Hi,” I say, startling her. I study the garments in her hand. “La Perla? I recognize that blue bra. I have a taste for expensive lingerie.”

She glances down at the clothing, her face reddening. “You caught me. I was picking up my things from Tuck’s room.”

I have a hard time believing her, especially after the bookstore, but he is a man, and she’s beautiful. “Oh.”

She shrugs a delicate shoulder. “Don’t look surprised. Tuck is open with me. I’m aware of your history. He told me how you spilled tequila on him, then Jasper made a bet to seduce you.”

I wave my hand. “There’s a debate on who seduced whom.”

Her lips tighten. “Fine, whatever, I see your appeal—you have that whole mysterious, artistic vibe, but Tuck and I go way back. What you have with him is a night at a disturbing place.”

Her words bring a swell of bitterness I didn’t expect. She’s been living here for weeks, seeing Tuck, eating with him, talking to him.

Swallowing thickly, I remind myself of who he is.

A playboy. With a yacht.

I’m not going to get in a pissing match over Tuck with a supermodel.

I nod. “We’ve had sex since the club, no bet involved.” I point at her lingerie. “I wore those exact panties, but in a thong. Where’s the restroom?”

I’m. So. Mature.

She stammers as I walk away, find the restroom, do my business, and then exit back to the den. Cece sits on a stool, laughing at Jasper as he pours more margarita into her glass. She sees me and pauses. “Honey? You all right?”

“Nope. Are you ready to go?” I grab my satchel.

“No way! I thought maybe you two would stay for dinner,” Jasper says. “I can’t cook, but we can order out.” He’s holding a box but sets it down. “It’s my last night in town. I’m off for Christmas.”

“I’m back!” Tuck’s voice calls from the foyer. He stalks into the den wearing jeans and a long-sleeved green cashmere sweater that clings to his arms.

His eyes widen when he sees me, his gaze lingering. “Francesca.”

To my frustration, my blood heats.

“Big T!” Jasper heads his way, his hands spread wide as he engulfs him in a hug. He lets him go and grabs the box. “Check it! Our bracelets came in! And we have company!”

“Cool,” he murmurs, then looks around the kitchen. “You guys tried out the machine. I missed it.” He looks back at me, his gaze quizzical.

“Hi,” I say. “Sorry to come uninvited. We hitched a ride up with Courtney.”

“They’re leaving,” Jasper says with a pout.

As if there’s no one else in the room, Tuck walks straight to me. “Stay awhile.”

A frantic feeling swirls in my veins.

As if he reads my mind, he steps forward and touches my bangs, a rueful look on his face. “I miss the widow’s peak.”

Some of the tension I brought into the room from my interaction with Courtney eases. “I miss your scruff,” I admit grudgingly.

“You came to see me.” There’s satisfaction in his tone as his hand wraps around my shoulder for a brief moment, then brushes down my arm.

Courtney chooses that moment to come back into the room. She sees Tuck and dashes to him and throws her arms around him.

He untangles her and sets her to the side. “Hey. We have guests.”

“They snuck up,” she replies, cutting her eyes at me.

I get right to the point. “Courtney says she’s having sex with you.”

A dead silence fills the room. I hear Jasper grunt from the kitchen. Carrying a pitcher of margarita, he slams it down on the counter and walks toward us.

Courtney gapes at me, eyes blinking. “I can’t believe you said that!”

“She says and does inappropriate things all the time,” Cece murmurs as she slides in next to me. “You should have seen her at Daniel Radcliffe’s party. She made out with his wife.”

“Shield up, Captain America,” I mutter under my breath.

“It’s not true,” Tuck says as his jaw twitches. “Courtney, why would you say that?”

She sputters. “I—I don’t know. I was worried—”

Jasper takes Courtney by the elbow and spins her to face him. “What kind of trick are you trying to pull, Courtney?”

“I didn’t mean it!”

“She did,” I say sweetly. “She showed me her lingerie as she was leaving his room.”

“It was my room,” Courtney says. “It was a joke. I was just kidding!”

Jasper’s nose flares as he glares at her. “You’re an insecure, stupid little girl. Grow up, okay? Grow the fuck up. Or you might lose Tuck and me! Just because he’s seeing someone else doesn’t mean you’re not important! Do you know Tuck? Huh? Do you? He’s a friend for life. Till the end. He went through some shit with you, and that’s the only reason you’re here right now. This is too much, just too much. I’m so pissed at you! His room? You haven’t been in his room. Lingerie, my ass! Go to your room, get online, and find an apartment!”

She runs from the room, tears spilling down her face.

“She’s moving out, Tuck. I’m going to find her an apartment myself. One far, far away from Wickham!” He storms off to the back.

Cece whistles. “We must do this again. With music next time.”

“We have to go,” I say. “I’m working tonight.”

“I’ll show you out,” Tuck says as we head to the foyer. He opens the door, and once Cece is out in the hall, he takes my hand and pulls me aside.

His fingers lace with mine, his hand warm and protective. “I’m sorry about her. She was with me the night Lollipop showed up, and I’ve given her too much leeway.” He pauses. “She’s attempted to get in my bed, but she’s been turned away.”

“Ah.”

One arm curls around my waist as his fingers card through my hair. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah?”

“You got the necklace? I heard there was a delay in delivery from the front desk.” His hand tightens around my waist. “Look up, beautiful.”

I gaze up at him—and get lost a little in his stormy eyes. I press my face into his neck. Jesus. I’m a sap. I can’t resist this. Someone make me stop!

“What are you doing after the gallery?”

I shrug.

“Come up when you’re done. I’ll text you the code.”

Visions of us in bed dance through my mind. I swallow, searching for strength. “Back to the necklace. Thank you. It’s beautiful, but I can’t—”

I’d been reaching inside my satchel, but he takes my hand. “Don’t,” he says sharply. “The necklace was meant for you. It’s a Christmas gift.”

“I can’t keep something that . . .”

“Reminds you of me?”

“No. I . . .” I stop, feeling uncentered by his annoyance. Focus, Francesca. “Keeping it makes things complicated.”

“We are complicated.” He frowns. “Look, you know what I’m about. We’ve discussed it. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

Men do hurt me. The ones I care about.

My lashes flutter. I care? “No one sets out to hurt someone in the beginning.”

He drops his hands from me, a cool look on his face. “Text me when you want to see what this is. See you around.”

Then he gives me a little shove over the threshold and shuts the door in my face.

“He literally pushed me out.” I look over at Cece. “What just happened?”

Cece taps her foot in the hall, then exhales noisily. “Good gracious, you tried to give the necklace back! Yes, I was eavesdropping, you stupid hussy. You don’t return a Christmas gift. It’s clear the man is waiting for you to make the next move, and you, honey, don’t have a clue. You know what you are?”

“A hussy? Oh, look at the time. I need to rush.” I pick my steps up.

“You’re nuttier than a squirrel at a peanut festival. I know because we have a national peanut festival in my hometown. The squirrels race here and there with their tails swishing, not knowing if they’re gonna poop or sneak a peanut.”

“Forget squirrels. You gave him my cell number. I’m still pissed about that.”

“You can’t make up your mind.”

I change the topic. “Aren’t squirrels rodents? Gross.”

She shrugs. “Squirrel scat is the size of a grain of rice. True fact. Mr. Darden made me watch the nature channel after I stole his pen.”

I snort. “Is there a Ferris wheel at your festival? Cotton candy? Oh, those funnel cake things?”

Cece swishes down the hall like a beauty queen, the strap of her black Chanel purse draped over her shoulder. “It’s quite the shindig, so no making fun of it, yeah? I won Miss National Peanut my senior year in high school. I was so pretty everyone hated me to bits.” She smiles. “I loved it! The attention. The boys. The crowns and sashes.” A sigh comes from her. “My dress, oh my dress; it was divine—all white with a sweetheart neckline and jewels. You know how good I look in white. Gah, I’m going to be a beautiful bride.”

“Like an angel.”

She waves her hands. “You’re distracting me.”

“You distract yourself. Squirrel.”

She huffs. “Forget me; let’s circle back to Tuck. You’re holding maybe ten grand in jewels and tried to give it back!” She pauses, her voice lowering. “Besides, if you’re not gonna wear it, you could always pawn them and use it for baby Cecelia.”

“Back to this peanut festival. When is it?”

“You’re trying to change the topic.”

“I bet you were gorgeous in that dress . . .” I eye her.

“The festival is in October. See, all the other girls wore these fall colors, but I wanted to stand out. Mama raised me right. ‘Forget learning to cook and shoot guns,’ she told me. ‘Dress how you want, be yourself, and when he’s mean, kick him in the balls and move on.’”

“I’m sad we missed the festival. Let’s go next year, take the baby, and show those Alabama girls how New York does it. You wear something white. I’ll wear black with lots of makeup. Baby Cecelia will be in couture. Yes?”

“I’m getting married in the fall.”

Right. My stomach lurches. “Maybe you can get married at the peanut festival.”

She studies me. “Once you make up your mind, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“When Edward cheated, you refused to see him. He was a dick and deserved to never have you, but some girls would have listened to him, maybe tried to work it out. You slept with Tuck, and that was it. No more is allowed. You’re stubborn.”

“Edward and I were over the moment I opened the supply-closet door.”

“Okay, that was a bad example. What I mean is you make up your mind and don’t budge. All I’m saying is maybe you should tell Tuck about the pregnancy.”

Unease tingles over me. Maybe, just maybe, part of me has thought about telling him; then I remember how sure he was in the bookstore. “Why would I? His goal is to retire and hang out on his yacht with beautiful women. He’s a player, Cece. He doesn’t want kids, and I appreciated his honesty. Toss in the fact that I got pregnant on two forms of birth control the night we met—well, he’s going to think I trapped him.”

“Fine. I’m just worried about when I’m in California and you’re here. Who will you have to turn to babysit in a pinch? To grab some diapers at the store?”

I try to picture Tuck in CVS buying baby stuff and can’t.

“I’ll have Darden and Brogan.”

She snorts. “Darden and diapers? Please. And Brogan needs to go back to med school. How’s your money situation? I keep offering you help, but you won’t take it.”

Because it’s her retirement, and even though she’s going to marry Lewis, I don’t want her going into a relationship without an escape route. He bought her a house, yes, but her name isn’t on that deed. What if it doesn’t work out for them?

I’ve looked over my savings, and I have enough to cover my part of the rent and school loans until May or June, but after that . . .

Anxiousness rises, and I shove it down.

It will work out.

I can make my own way. I’ve been doing it for years.

We walk to the elevator and get in. I punch our floor. “Tuck isn’t interested in long term, and babies are forever. He doesn’t want to know.”

“You can’t be sure.”

I stiffen, frustration rising as I face her in the elevator. “Cece. Think about it. He’s famous. Everyone knows him. He’s on television. What if he completely rejects her as a person? What if he never wants to see her—and she knows? How do I explain that to her?” Tears pool in my eyes. “I know what that’s like, okay. I don’t want it for her.”

A sigh comes from her. “But, honey, you’ve always wondered about your parents. Maybe it’s better to know something and be sad than know nothing at all.”

“I turned out okay,” I say faintly as I finger the locket around my neck. Someday I’ll put the baby’s picture in it. I’ll have her name engraved below mine on the back. When she asks about her father, I’ll . . .

I don’t know what I’ll do.

My stomach flutters again, and I gasp. The first time I thought it was a fluke, but . . .

I grab Cece’s hand and put it on my belly. “She’s moving! Isn’t it too early?” I fumble with my phone and look up when a baby kicks, excitement rising as I read. “It can happen!”

Cece squeals and bends down to my stomach. “Hi, sweetie pie. This is your auntie Cece. Someday I’ll buy you a debutante dress. White. You’ll shine, baby girl.”

We didn’t notice the doors opening on our floor. Both of us are smiling down at my belly as Cece coos. It’s the throat clearing of Widow Carnes that makes my eyes fly up.

Darden also waits for the elevator. He weaves on his feet, then straightens and points his cane at me. “Miss Lane! You’re pregnant?” I’ve never seen him gasp like a fish, mouth opening and closing, but it’s happening.

Widow Carnes lets out a grunt. “I knew I overheard Herman say something!”

“She is,” Cece says sweetly, and I groan.

“Thanks, Cece. Really. Now the entire building will know!” I call out.

Widow Carnes blinks innocently. “But why do you mind, dear? People are more modern these days. No one cares.”

“I care,” I mutter.

Darden glares at Widow Carnes. “This doesn’t leave the four of us.”

“Of course, Felix.” She bats her lashes at him. “I hope this means you’ll be coming to our next book club in the lobby, yes? We can sit together.”

“What’s the book again?” he practically spits.

“The Notebook. History and a little romance. You’ll love it.” She titters.

“Heavy on romance,” I correct. “He’ll hate it.”

He looks at the ceiling, then tersely agrees. She smiles at him, gets on the elevator, and leaves.

“You never let me call you Felix,” I mutter to Darden, hoping to distract him from the pregnant girl in the hall.

He turns to me, clearly not going wherever he had planned. I swallow, feeling like a teenager in front of her dad. Yes, I had sex. Yes, I’m pregnant.

“Well, Miss Lane, this certainly explains a few things. Who’s the father? I’d like a word with him. Now!”

My stomach flutters again, and I gasp. “Oh! She moved again. Probably because you yelled, Mr. Darden.”

He blinks at me, dumbfounded. “What?”

“The baby. It moves inside the uterus, and you can feel it.” He never had any of his own, so I feel the need to explain.

“I know that,” he snarls.

“Do you want to touch my stomach? It could stop any minute, so you better hurry.”

He shakes his head fervently, but at least I’ve distracted him. Score.

I kiss him on the cheek, then run for my apartment, leaving Cece behind. She calls out for me to wait, but I’m gone, leaving her to deal with Mr. Darden—which might not be the best idea, considering how she’s blurting things out left and right, but I’ll take my chances. I need to get myself together before I talk to him.

I open the door and flip the lock. Miss National Peanut can dig out her own keys.

I dash for my room, remember I want food, run back out to the kitchen and snag Brogan’s chips, and then make it back to my room and lock my door before she’s even made it to the den. With a satisfied exhale, I plop on my bed.

She knocks. “Why are you running from the kitchen?”

“I’m sick of the food police,” I call out. “I could legit starve.”

“Jesus. The salt-and-pepper chips again?”

“It’s been a tough day!” Crumbs fall out of my mouth. “You didn’t help matters!”

She is quiet on the other end, then says, “I’m sorry I’m leaving, Fran. It’s going to break my heart to not see you every day. You’re true blue, my little boo bunny.”

“Not today,” I grouse.

I hear her sigh. “Sorry I announced your pregnancy to the widow and Darden. You can escape this, you know—get away from Tuck and not worry. Move with me to Palo Alto. Beautiful weather, warm salt air, walks on the beach. Wouldn’t baby Cecelia look divine in a white bathing suit?”

I munch on a chip and lie back on the bed. “I hate sunshine and beaches. This is home.”

“I love you,” she says in her sweet voice.

My heart cracks. “I’m going to get ready for the gallery now, so . . .”

“Have fun, and score some deals.” I hear her footsteps walking away, and tears threaten. Her walking away feels like a metaphor for when she really leaves.

Before I can think too hard about it, I send a text to Tuck. Thank you for the necklace. I love it. I chew on my lips and fire off another one. I saw your Pollock. It’s amazing.

I toss the phone down and let out a squeal. I said I was going to keep our relationship light, but I’m slipping into the unknown.

I blow out to the ceiling, then starfish on my bed and then cover my face.

I tap my fingers, waiting for a reply that never comes.

After quickly showering and changing into an ankle-length strapless black maxi dress and three-inch crystal stilettos, I am about to head out to the den when my phone pings from where I left it on the bed.

I jump on my comforter and grab it. I want it to be Tuck.

You missed seeing my girl when you were here. This is my Cherry. Attached is a pic of a small brown dog on a bed. Tuck holds her, a wry grin on his face when he took the selfie.

I dart to the bathroom, take the moth I’d seen earlier on the windowsill, and send him a pic of it on my shoulder. Meet Moth. He doesn’t eat, poop, or bark.

He sends me a pic of him without his shirt while lying on his bed, so I send him one of me in my dress. He replies with one of his feet, and I laugh, then threaten to block him if he sends more feet pics.

You shoved me out your door, I send him later as Herman gets a cab for me.

I was pissed.

And now?

I’m glad you have the necklace. When you wear it, think about us.

Us?

I put my phone away and watch the passing lights of Manhattan.