"Uh-huh." Sasha leans into frame. "Is that why you kissed him?"
"I told you that in confidence."
"And we're very confident that you're into him," Riley says. "Also, we're dying for details. How was the kiss you barely mentioned last week? Was there tongue? Did he—"
"Oh my God, stop." But I'm smiling. "Yes, there was tongue. Yes, it was amazing. And yes, I'm completely screwed."
"Screwed in the fun way or the pregnant way?" Sasha asks.
My smile fades. "Both?"
"Emma." Riley's expression turns serious. "You need to tell him. Like, soon."
Updating them the day I took the pregnancy test was necessary. But now, I sort of feel trapped.
"I know,” I reply. “And I will. After the product launch in a few weeks—"
"A few weeks?" Sasha interrupts. "Em, you're going to be showing soon. You can't hide this forever."
"I know that. But I need to prove myself first. I need to show that I earned this job, that I deserve to be here." I sink onto the bed. "If I tell him now, everything changes. People will talk. They'll assume things."
"They're going to assume things anyway," Riley points out gently. "At least if you tell him now, you control the narrative."
"I just need a little more time."
They exchange a look that I can't quite read.
"Okay," Sasha says finally. "But Emma? That man clearly cares about you. He's not going to react badly."
"You don't know that."
"We already got the gist from your texts on the plane. We know he flew you across the country—privately, and took care of you when you were sick. That's not nothing."
She's right, but I'm not ready to admit it yet.
"I have to go," I say, checking the time. "Dinner's in an hour and I need to look professional and not like I spent the morning throwing up."
"Good luck," Riley says. "And Emma? Tell him soon. For your sake and the baby's."
After we hang up, I sit there staring at my reflection in the mirror.
They're right. I know they're right.
But telling Donovan means risking everything—my job, my reputation, whatever this thing is that's developing between us.
And I'm not ready for that.
Not yet.
The restaurant is sleek and modern, all glass and chrome with a panoramic view of Lake Michigan and the downtown skyline, the city glowing in gold and white against the dark water.
Stemware so thin it looks like crystal air. Marble floors that catch reflections of heels and polished shoes. Muted jazz curling through the room like silk.
And Donovan is already here when I arrive.
Standing near the bar, waiting, as if he owns the oxygen around him.
Clad in a tailored charcoal suit, he looks devastating. His hair is swept back from his face, the salt-and-pepper strands catching the glow of the chandelier above him.
