California Girls(57)

Jake looked more wary than interested. “All right.”

She quickly explained about Bernie and the artificial insemination. “It’s only been a few days, but I don’t want to take the chance and drink right now.”

Jake stared at her. “You’re telling me you’re pregnant?”

His voice rose with each word until he was speaking loud enough to cause other patrons to turn and look.

“No, I’m saying I might be. I—”

He stood. “Yeah, this isn’t going to work for me. I have no idea what the hell Cassie was thinking. Jesus.”

Before Zennie could remind him Cassie didn’t know, he was gone, leaving her sitting alone. Seconds later the server returned with their drinks.

Zennie thanked her even as she realized Jake had taken off without paying for his drink. Nor had he wanted to listen to her explanation. As far as first dates went, it certainly wasn’t her best.

She took care of the bill and left. As she drove home, she replayed the disastrous few minutes, finding the situation more humorous than disappointing. Her mood lightened even more as she realized that she had the perfect excuse for not dating: she might be pregnant.

“I might be pregnant,” she whispered aloud, taking the concept on a test drive. Really, she might be and if she was, she couldn’t be dating. No one would understand—Jake was proof of that. So where did that leave her?

Alone, she thought as she pulled into her parking space. Happily and blissfully alone. She didn’t have to date anymore, not until she knew if she was having a baby and if she was, then hey, not for months and months.

She hurried inside, practically giddy with a sense of freedom. No more small talk, no more worrying about what to wear or if she’d shaved her legs that day. She could do what she wanted and the hell with a man. She could learn Italian or spend more time with her friends or figure out what she wanted from her life. She was free!

As Zennie stood in the center of her apartment, she wanted to spin or cheer or do both. What she did instead was to really look at the small space and wonder if she should start thinking about buying a condo. Just her, for her. She could get exactly what she wanted and not wait for some guy to transform her life. Because if she needed changing, by God, she was going to do it herself!

Word of Nigel’s affair seemed to be spreading more slowly than Finola would have thought. Apparently not everyone hung on TMZ’s every word. Of course not everyone had a husband sleeping with Treasure, so there was that.

Monday she got through her show without anyone saying anything. Afterward she had an uncomfortable meeting with her producers where she was forced to tell them what had happened. They said all the right things, offered support and promised to talk to her should anything change, which was about the best she could hope for.

Rochelle did research on personal bodyguards, something Finola didn’t want to deal with but knew she had to consider, if the press got out of hand. She took the information and promised to contact one of the companies the second she felt threatened. Rochelle made it clear she thought Finola should have one on call before then, but Finola wasn’t ready to make the decision.

By three o’clock, she’d left the Burbank studio and was heading southwest toward Beverly Hills. She’d taken a second to log into Nigel’s work computer to check his surgery schedule. She didn’t know if he was back from his South American ski trip or if he hadn’t left yet and she didn’t care. All that mattered to her was the bastard was in town and she was going to confront him.

She left her car with the medical center’s valet and took the elevator up to Nigel’s plush offices, grateful there weren’t any photographers around. Apparently Nigel wasn’t stalk-worthy.

She’d looked up what kind of surgery he was doing that day and knew when it was going to be finished. The first thing Nigel always did after surgery was to go to his office and dictate his notes. He might be a shitty husband, but he was a good doctor, something that didn’t give Finola the least amount of comfort.

She breezed into the waiting area, waved at the perky receptionist and kept on walking. While she was fairly sure that everyone on staff knew about the affair, she was still his wife and there was no way they would try to keep her out. Not at first anyway. By the time they came up with a plan, she would be long gone.

She heard the receptionist scramble out of her seat, but ignored the movement and headed directly for Nigel’s corner office. She pushed on the partially open door and saw her husband at his desk, dictating into a small recorder. When he spotted her, he paused the recording. She closed the door and let the rage overtake her more sensible emotions. Power and strength would be required, she told herself. The next few minutes would be difficult but she was going to survive them.

“Finola, what are you doing here?” Nigel asked, coming to his feet. “I’m at work.”

His emphasis on the last word made her smile.

“Really, Nigel? Are you at work? Is this where you do your work things and have I violated that?” She waved her hand. “By the way, the office is lovely. The color scheme, the tasteful art. Hmm, who decorated this office for you? Your wife?”

“Stop it,” he growled. “What are you doing here? You can’t just waltz in here like this.”

“Your days of telling me what I can and cannot do are long over. At least I had the courtesy to wait until you were done with surgery for the day. I could have come early—shown up right before you had to do something important, but I wasn’t that much of an asshole. Only you are.”