Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2)(6)

I don't tell her that the tour is irrelevant. That the only thing that matters to me is that she has fun. Gets out of her funk. Moves on before she finds out I'm pregnant and drops everything to take care of me.

"I'm gonna mess it up," Violet says. "How can I possibly give a tour I've only been on once?"

"They don't know that, Violet. We've been over this. No one on that tour is going to know you don't know what you're doing. You can tell them whatever you want. Just smile and make sure you don't lose anyone during a bathroom stop and you're golden."

"I'm not sure." Violet hesitates.

"I know you could use the paycheck that Sutton Travel is going to give me for this tour. Which I'll transfer to your account." Violet sighs into the phone. "I also know that you're not an idiot and thus unlikely to mistake the White House for the Capitol Building. Just follow the cheat sheet I made for you."

"This is still a terrible idea," she mumbles, but I know she's going to do it. I can hear it in her voice and I know her almost as well as I know myself.

"It's a genius idea," I reply with a grin she can't see. It really is a genius idea. "Love you, Vi. You're my peanut butter."

"And you're my jelly," Violet replies and we end the call. It's a thing we do. A twin thing. One of us names something and the other has to respond with something that makes that thing better. Like twins, a matched set. I can't imagine what growing up without her would have been like and I'm hit with a wave of sadness that this baby is going to be an only child for a long long time. The foreseeable future is just the two of us.

Unless this baby is a twin. Two babies to bathe, burp and change. Two mouths to feed. Two favorite toys to keep track of instead of one.

Jesus, take the training wheels.

I remind myself the odds are statistically in my favor—for one baby, not two. I'm ignoring that statistics are in and of themselves bullshit. Statistically I should not have gotten knocked up the one time I had sex in months, but try telling that to the raspberry growing in my uterus. Wait, do babies grow in the uterus? The womb? It's the same thing, right? How do I not know this?

It's in my uterus, I decide and blow out a breath. Definitely.

I toss my carry-on into the back of a cab and slide in after it. The conference I'm attending starts on Monday but the charity event I'm crashing is tonight. If I can't get in and talk to Kyle then I'm at a loss as to how I'll reach him without involving lawyers. I'd like to get this taken care of today so I can focus on the conference and not on baby daddy drama.

It shouldn't be that hard to get in, right? I mean, it's a retirement event, not the Met Gala or the Victoria's Secret fashion show, it's not like it's a hot ticket. Besides, the article I read said expected attendance of five hundred. No one will notice little old me. I'll glide right in, find Kyle, explain what I need to and then slip back out. Quietly, just between us.

I breathe a sigh of relief because this is going to work. I know it's going to work, because if I can't get in and find Kyle then I'm at a loss as to how I'll reach him. But it's fine, because I have a good feeling about tonight, I really do.

Game on, Kyle Kingston.





4





Daisy





I check my reflection in the mirror to ensure there's no lipstick on my teeth or a swipe of deodorant somewhere it shouldn't be. I'm wearing a black dress and my favorite pair of heels. The kind of heels that led to the dick diet in the first place. The kind of heels men like wrapped around their waists. I look at them ruefully, knowing that tonight the only place they're headed is back into my suitcase the moment I'm done with this event.

I love this dress. It's floor-length, with a long high slit up the left leg. The material has a bit of sparkle to it and flows around my legs as I walk. Sexy, yet not skimpy on fabric or coverage. Tiny spaghetti-sized straps connect the front to the back, leaving my arms and shoulders bare.

My hair is up, the dark strands pulled into a low bun. Simple earrings and a basic black clutch. I don't own anything fancy enough for this event, but I've put together a good fa?ade. I've played up my makeup as befitting of an evening event, spending ten minutes on my eyes alone. Liner, blended shadows, mascara. My brows are dark like my hair, perfectly shaped and arched over my blue eyes, making them pop. My lips are covered in a matte berry shade.

I look good.

I scrunch my nose in the mirror at my vanity, but looking good soothes the sting of having to sneak into an event to track down a man. Ugh, stalking is so not my jam.

With a sigh I drop the room key into my clutch. The pocketbook is mostly for show, because showing up with just a hotel key in my hand would look odd. I'm not staying long enough to warrant bringing even a lipstick, so the only thing in there is my hotel key, my cell phone, a credit card and some cash, just in case.

I feel queasy, which is odd because it's evening and I've yet to experience any sickness during this pregnancy, morning or otherwise. Perhaps I have confrontation sickness, but I'm not normally one to waffle over confrontation. Then again, I've never been in a situation anything like this before, so I should cut myself some slack. With a deep breath I exit my room and make the walk to the convention center adjoining the hotel.