Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“My liquid crack. How’s Zoe today?”
“Don’t you fucking dare hit on her.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He grins at me and walks to the door. “She’s not my type, anyway.”
“She’s not too young and too dumb, you mean?”
He shrugs like I’m not wrong. “Coming?”
“I need to use your bathroom.”
“Enjoy.” He shoves his feet into shoes and disappears, leaving me alone in his apartment.
I sit and there trembling for a moment. I stare out the window, trying to get myself together. Why am I having this reaction? Jealousy courses through my veins and all I want to do is scream.
Was that girl prettier than me? Does he want to fuck her more than he wants to fuck me? Because he wants to still—at least I think he does—but ever since the wedding, we haven’t mentioned it, not even once. Not even in passing.
We still tease. We still joke. But he carefully, so carefully, avoids any mention of physical contact.
And he sleeps with half the goddamn city.
I storm into the bathroom, pissed as hell, and slam the door. I lock it and wipe steam from the mirror.
I look tired. I look stressed.
I take a pregnancy test from my purse and stare at the plastic wrapped stick.
What the hell am I doing?
Before I let myself overanalyze, I sit down, rip it open, and do my thing. Once it’s finished, I set it on the counter and stare.
What the fuck am I doing?
This is not an ideal situation. Far from freaking ideal. But the fact of my circumstances vis-a-vis being entirely knocked up only occurred to me last night, and I need to know if I’m pregnant or not before I can keep going about my life. I’m sure I’m not, and my period is just abnormally late, and I’m getting mild cramping and I’m bloated and I feel fucking hot all the time for no reason.
It’s definitely not Baptist’s child implanting itself in my uterine wall and demolishing my hormones.
This is dumb. This is so dumb.
And yet the fact of my situation stares me in the face.
I’m standing in Baptist’s bathroom probably twenty minutes after he fucked some random girl taking a pregnancy test that, if it’s positive, will absolutely ruin my life and probably ruin his too.
Goodbye, Thompkins Webb Productions. Goodbye, my dream of working with Tony Cowan.
Hello, new baby.
I close my eyes and count the seconds until I open them again.
And scream.
Literally scream.
Because the test is positive.
“No, no, you’re fucking kidding me. Absolutely not.”
I take another one. Positive. I’d take a dozen more, but I only bought a two-pack. I stare at the twin tests and feel my life ending. I feel it in my fingers and toes, a buzzing, tingling, existential horror.
I’m pregnant with Baptist’s baby.
“He can’t know.” I look up and stare at myself in the mirror. “He can’t know,” I repeat.
Worthless asshole playboy Baptist. Selfish, angry, pride-filled Baptist.
If he knows I’m pregnant, he’s going to fire me and run away as fast as he can.
That man is allergic to commitment. The only thing he cares about is this production company, and even then, I’m not so sure. He seems more interested in chasing after UPenn coeds than he is getting Cowan in a room and signing all the necessary documents.
I splash water on my face and close my eyes.
Cowan is real. I spoke to his assistant on the phone a few days ago. I watched Baptist FaceTime with the director a week before that. The movie is real and Cowan truly wants to get it done, and Baptist has the money.
I should know. I set up all our business accounts and got the company registered. I know exactly how much we have—and it’s enough.
This is happening.
My dream is actually happening.
But I’m pregnant.
I touch my stomach and take deep, shuddering breaths.
I’m not going to cry. Not right now, not when I’m so close to meeting Cowan for the first time and really getting into this industry for real.
No more bullshit. No more working for someone else. As much as we joke, I’m an equal partner with Baptist—he even put my name in the title.
I can deal with the baby later. I have nine months to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. I let out a long breath, adjust my makeup because of course I screwed it up, then head out, the tests shoved back in my purse and all evidence safely hidden away.
“You’re late,” Baptist says as he stands leaning against my car. “Zoe said she put your coffee on my tab.” He holds out a hand. “Three-fifty, please.”
“You can put it on my tab then, dick.” I shove him away from the door and he laughs as he goes around and gets in the passenger side.
I can tell he wants to discuss his new redhead girl toy some more but I keep him on task. We go over what we’re going to say to Cowan, how we’re going to make sure he’s serious about getting this movie done, and all the little logistical details we need to hammer out with the director.