She doesn’t look styled so much as finished—like she woke up this way and the world simply adjusted around her. And somehow, impossibly, she’s smiling at me like we’re already on the same side.
“How’s the baby? How are you feeling?” She glares at Nick. “Why isn’t she lying down? Why is she working?”
“I—” Nick is barely able to speak when she flicks him into silence with a wave of a hand.
“Dom is not dumb, but he’s not the brightest bulb, but then, darling, most men aren’t.”
Nick groans. “Jesus.”
Daisy squeezes my hands. “I’m here to help. Feed you. Make sure you rest. Possibly smother him if he gets too overbearing.”
Between Daisy and Nick, I don’t think he’s the overbearing one, but I’m not telling her that. She’s scary…in the nicest way, but she is. So, when she ushers me upstairs like she’s been doing it her whole life, I let her, leaving Lucille’s in the not-so-capable hands of my baby daddy.
My life is turning into a soap opera right in front of my eyes.
She sets me down on the couch. “Feet up. I don’t care if you feel fine. I don’t trust pregnant women who say they’re fine.”
I do as she orders because she’s not asking. I don’t think this woman knows how to ask. I want to be just like her when I grow up.
“Tea.” Not a question.
I nod. “Sure.”
My unfamiliar kitchen doesn’t bog her down. She puts the kettle on. Finds teabags. Finds cups. Even some cookies.
I settle into the couch and smile, because this is nice. Being taken care of for no reason other than the fact that I exist. I don’t have to charm Daisy or placate Nick—like hell I’m ever being nice to him again—and yet they’re both hovering, attentive,generous. Yes, I’m carrying Nick’s baby, and that probably tips the scales, but it doesn’t take away from the tenderness of it.
“You both are bossy,” I observe.
She grins. “That’s because I trained him.”
While the kettle heats, she talks…nonstop. About Lucille’s. About how charming it is. About how she once produced an indie movie about a florist, and they had to ship in fresh plants every day because they kept dying.
I watch her, still trying to reconcile this glamorous, luminous, Oscar-winning Hollywood producer with the idea of the woman making tea in my kitchen.
She brings back two cups and hands me one. “Chamomile. No caffeine.”
I take a sip. It’s perfect.
“So.” She settles into the chair across from me, and crosses her legs. “You fainted. Scared the hell out of my brother. He’s pretending he’s fine about it, but he’s not. Happened to me when I was pregnant, and Forest lost it.”
“You, too?”
She nods. “Some of us just don’t know when to stop and take a break. I know how that goes, so I felt duty-bound to come over.”
She studies me, not in a way that feels invasive—more like she’s taking stock. “You don’t look like the kind of woman who enjoys being fussed over.”
“I don’t,” I admit, stroking my belly, more entertained than I should be. “But…it’s not all bad. I’m actually enjoying it…sometimes, which is weird.”
“Welcome to pregnancy. It’s a hostile takeover.”
We sit in companionable silence for a moment, the city humming outside the window.
Then she says gently, “You don’t owe me anything, Enya. But I want you to know something about my brother.”
I tense. Is she now going to drop the façade and tell me that I’m not right for Nick?
“Dominic is…difficult.” She traces the edge of her cup with a finger. “He’s controlled, stubborn, emotionally constipated, and absolutely convinced that he can fix just about anything.”
