Ledger: I know everything about you, princess, including the fact that you love Antoine’s lobster risotto.
He’s right. I do love that.
Me: Fine. I’ll come over tonight.
Ledger: Good. I’ll see you at home. And Savannah?
Me: Yeah?
Ledger: I love you.
Me: I love you too.
I set my phone down, still smiling, and try to focus on work. But my mind keeps drifting. To him. To the life I’m building with a man I barely knew a month ago.
Then something occurs to me. I pull up the calendar on my phone and scroll back. Count the days. Count them again.
I’m late. Not just a day or two. More than a week. My heart starts pounding.
No. It’s just stress. Stress can mess with cycles. That’s normal.
Except I’m also nauseous every morning. And exhausted. And my breasts have been tender for days.
Oh God.
I grab my phone and search for clinics near the office. There’s one three blocks away that does walk-ins. I can go during lunch, be back before anyone notices.
The morning drags. Every email feels like it takes an hour to read, and the meetings are torture. By the time noon rolls around, I’m ready to crawl out of my skin.
“Going to lunch?” Jenna asks as I grab my purse.
“Yeah. Need some air.”
“Want company?”
“No. I mean, I’m just running an errand. I’ll be quick.”
She gives me a look but doesn’t push. “Okay. Text me if you need anything.”
I take the elevator down to the lobby, my heart racing. The building is busy with people leaving for lunch, and I weave through the crowd toward the exit.
That’s when I see him.
Alexi.
He’s walking into the building, talking on his phone, looking exactly like his father with that same confident stride. He’s wearing jeans and a leather jacket, casual in a way that makes him look even younger.
My stepson. Who’s twenty-two. Only three years younger than me.
I duck behind a group of people heading out, keeping my head down. This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman hiding from a kid who’s barely younger than me. But I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t face him and make small talk and pretend I’m not completely weirded out by the fact that I might be pregnant.
He disappears into the elevator, and I slip out the door before he can see me.
The street is busy with lunch traffic. I hail a cab and give the driver the clinic address, then sit back and try to calm my racing pulse.
I feel like I’m being watched. It’s paranoid, I know. But as the cab pulls away from the curb, I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s eyes are on me.
I glance out the rear window, but there’s nothing unusual. Just cars and people and the normal chaos of New York.
