Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2)(11)

"Shut up, Wyatt," Kyle snaps, not even bothering to look in his direction. Instead he straightens, his grip on my fingers tighter than it was a moment ago.

"I think we're sitting for dinner soon," Kerrigan interjects. I glance around to see the majority of the people crowding the bar just minutes ago are gone, having moved on to the main room set for dinner.

Oh, no way. No way I'm sitting through a dinner for this farce. In and out. The plan was in and out. Find Kyle, tell him we needed to talk, get out. Besides, there's no way Kyle is going to allow this to continue through an entire dinner, right? He's probably only gripping onto my hand so tightly because he's waiting on the police to arrive and arrest me for breaking and entering. Or disorderly conduct. Or insanity.

"You know what, I'm not feeling that well," I announce, trying to loosen my fingers from Kyle's grip. As I say it I realize it's true. I feel off. Wrung out. Queasy. Oh, God, really queasy.

"We'll catch up with you inside," Kyle tells Wyatt and Kerrigan, dismissing them as I yank my hand from his with more strength. I don't stop to partake in any polite goodbyes, I run. At least in my head it's a run. I'm wearing heels and a long dress so it might be more of a power walk or a weird prance. I ditch the glass of champagne on a high-top cocktail table and glance anxiously for an exit sign, a trash can, an ice bucket, something. Anything.

I make it behind the bar before I throw up, into a trash can while crouched behind the counter hidden by anyone who hasn't yet made their way into dinner. The trash can is filled with bits of lemon rinds and empty liquor bottles. Neither smelled offensive to me until right this moment. Now they conspire against me, making me heave again.

Kyle is behind me, a flash of what-the-fuck surprise on his face the last thing I saw before I bent to my knees and hurled. Around us bartenders are cleaning up, empty bottles echoing as they hit trash cans I'm not barfing into.

A few moments later the nausea passes. I've never experienced anything like it before and I'd very much like to never experience anything like it again. I've been sick a few times with this pregnancy, but sporadically. Most of the time when I've gotten nauseous I've been able to find a quiet place to sit still and ride it out and it's passed without me having to vomit the entire contents of my stomach.

Kyle's hand trails lazily up my spine, reminding me of his presence. When it's clear I'm done being sick his fingers come to rest at the nape of my neck and he leans in, lips again to my ear, though I don't think anyone is watching or listening to us at the moment.

"You crazy fucking bitch," he hisses. "Are you drunk?"

There is no end to my humiliations today, it would seem.

"No." I shake my head both in denial and because I want his hand off of me. "I'm pregnant."





6





Kyle





"It's eight PM."

That's what I finally come up with after staring at Daisy for endless seconds and only after she's added a sarcastic, "Congratulations," to her announcement, presumably to let me know it's mine. It. A pregnancy. A baby. Mine.

"Goddammit," I hiss.

"Sorry, I'm not in charge of how morning sickness works. Nor was I in charge of the condom. Asshole."

That fucking condom.

"Watch your mouth."

"Watch my mouth? Are you serious right now? Do you hear yourself?" It's clear she's feeling better, her color returning along with her attitude. I get her out of the party and into an elevator before she balks, shooting me a dirty look and yanking her arm from my grasp when I hit the button for the lobby.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere we can talk."

"Yeah, fine." She exhales loudly as if being around me is a real trial for her. "Let's get this over with."

Get this over with? It's a fucking baby, this is far from over. I lean against the elevator wall and stare at her, in disbelief that she's here, at my grandfather’s goddamned retirement party. A retirement he prolonged for a decade while I worked to prove I was ready to take over the company.

I get her outside and into my car without any further arguments. She looks sad. Sad and pissed off as I glance at her in the passenger seat of my car while we're stopped at a light. She's not saying anything, her head turned slightly down and her fingers tapping nervously in her lap.

"Couldn't get enough of me, could you? That was a hell of a way to make a re-entrance into my life, Daisy." This stunt of hers puts me in a bad position. It might have been possible to control this story with Margo, I could rely on her jealousy to keep her from spreading the news. But Wyatt? Fuck. He'll drop this supposed engagement into every conversation he has tonight. I can't damage-control this.

Daisy's head snaps up, eyes flashing. "I couldn't get hold of you. Do you have any idea how hard you are to get hold of?"

I don't actually.

"I'd have sent you a message on Facebook, but you don't have an account. Who doesn't have a Facebook account, Kyle?"

"A lot of people don't. I'm surprised you have one. Statistics show the majority of millennials are on Snapchat and Instagram."

"You don't have a Snapchat," she grits out between clenched teeth. “Or an Instagram. Or a Twitter." She's stopped clenching in order to raise her voice an octave with each social media account I do not have. She's also pointing at me as if she'd like to stab me to death with her finger. "There's literally no way to get hold of you. Do you have any idea how annoying that is?" She exhales loudly and flops back into the seat, arms crossed and knee bouncing. There's a long slit in the material of her dress, her bouncing knee making the material slide and exposing her left leg to mid thigh. Behind us a car honks, the light green. My attention is distracted by smooth skin, a shapely thigh and keeping my hands to myself.