Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2)(15)

"You're sure? No one else is in the running?" God, I wish I could take that back. That didn't come out right and I have no right to make any insinuations. Besides, I'm well aware that odds are, it's mine.

"No, jackass," she says, bending to pick up her dress. "I just thought I'd stop by and let you know I was having a baby that isn't yours."

"I'll get you a shirt," I say when she starts to step into the dress.

"Don't bother, I'm leaving."

"We're talking," I remind her, stepping out of the bathroom to grab a T-shirt from my closet. She follows me, apparently deciding against fighting this fight, with her dress still clutched in her hands. I take it from her as I hand her a shirt and she slides it over her head without further complaint.

Then we step back into the master bedroom and stare at each other, silent. I assume she's waiting for me to begin the conversation I keep asking for.

"Are the sore tits going to be a thing the entire nine months, or…?" Nice icebreaker, asshole.

She slow-blinks at me. "Really?"

"I was just curious."

"Read a book, dickbag."

I nod. Right.

"The condom might have been old," I finally volunteer. I rub at the back of my neck, waiting for her to say something.

She slow-blinks at me some more. "Might have been old? Have you seen yourself in the mirror? I'm supposed to believe you were walking around with an old condom in your wallet? You're so attractive it makes my eyeballs hurt to look directly at you. And you radiate sex vibes." She holds her hands up in the air and wiggles her fingers in what I think is supposed to be a demonstration of what a sex vibe looks like but mostly just looks ridiculous. "Your sex vibes lured me into breaking my diet but I'm supposed to believe you"—she pauses here to emphasize the word you while running her eyes up and down my body—"kept a condom in your wallet for so long that it went bad?"

"Something like that, yeah."

She exhales like she's over this night and possibly me along with it, which is problematic, all things considered.

I need time to think about how this is going to go. I need a Plan B.





7





Daisy





Hmm. My sheets smell so good. Did I change detergents? No, no, I'm not at home, I remind myself. When you travel as much as I do your first ten seconds of consciousness are spent reminding yourself what city you're in.

Philadelphia.

Wait. Wait. Wait, wait. Oh, God. I spent the night at Kyle's. After I had sex with him. After I told him I was pregnant. After I busted into that party pretending to be his fiancée.

Ugh.

Why did I do all of those things? Why, why, why?

I think these pregnancy hormones are making me hornier than usual, which is stupid. So stupid. I'm already pregnant, I don't need a boost to my sex drive. You'd think that biology could do you a favor and be like, Already pregnant, let's have her lose all interest in sex. But no, it's the opposite. Unless the favor is making me even more interested in sex so that I can at least enjoy myself while already knocked up. Like a two-fer.

Oh, biology. You horny bitch.

I wonder how long I can keep my eyes closed pretending I'm still asleep? I smell coffee, so I think he's up. Except I'm sure I just felt movement on the bed, so maybe he made coffee and came back to bed? I'm for sure being stared at right now, I can feel it.

Okay. Get this over with. Open your eyes, get dressed, leave. Maybe have sex with him again before you leave. If he's into it. Like one for the road. But that's it, just one more time.

Gah, no. No more sex with Kyle. Or anyone else. For a long, long, long time. I'm back on the dick diet no matter what my hormones think.

I open my eyes and find two staring back at me.

Except they're not Kyle's.

It's a cat.

I wonder if I'm having some kind of pregnancy-induced psychosis? I mean, it's not as if cats are particularly rare but it just seems really out of place here. I sit up, trying to get my bearings. This is one hell of a nice-sized bedroom. There are windows along two entire walls stretching from nearly floor to ceiling. They're covered now by some kind of light-blocking shade, but they weren't last night so I know that a view of downtown Philly stretches as far as the eye can see. Nightstands on either side of the bed. A pretentious chaise lounge sits in the corner near the balcony. The bathroom was equally ridiculous, all marble and high-end finishes.

And a cat.

What little I saw of the place last night as I flung my shoes off and picked the first doorway that looked like it led to a bathroom looked much the same. A glossy high-end condo. Hardwood floors that were most certainly not pre-fabricated but more likely milled from some exotic tree and stained on site. Million-dollar views. Custom everything.

I think the cat might be low-key obsessed with me because it's still staring at me. It's fat. And orange. Super cute. Just really out of place in this condo. It's like finding a polar bear on a tropical island.

We didn't have any pets growing up. My dad was allergic. At least that's what my mom said. Honestly, I think she just had her hands full with me and my sister. Mostly me, to be fair. Violet was perfect, I was the handful.

God, I hope being a handful skips a generation.