Page 54

I have a job, which means money and health insurance. Security, if I stay pregnant.
Except … I can’t keep my job. I can’t continue working at Kensington Consolidated.
My brain’s been shielding me—or maybe it’s just too shocked to process—that there’s a second half to this equation. This wasn’t an immaculate conception, and I’ve only been with one guy since Isaac and I broke up back in the spring.
I’m not just pregnant. I’m pregnant withKit Kensington’s baby.
Kit, the billionaire playboy.
Kit, Lili’s brother.
Kit, my newboss.
The electric kettle shuts off, the lowclickbarely registering.
I’m too busy retracing all the decisions that led here. I shouldn’t have taken the job at Kensington Consolidated. I shouldn’t have gone up to Kit’s room. I shouldn’t have gone to that party in the Hamptons. I shouldn’t have worn a light-colored dress that night.
If I’d just kept my legs closed around him, like I’dswornto myself I would, this never would have happened.
But I can’t change any of those past choices.
I’m pregnant with Kit Kensington’s kid.
No matter how many times I repeat that insane sentence in my head, the shock value refuses to wear off. It’s the most insane statement I’ve ever heard, and it’s my new reality.
And Ineedthe shock value to wear off because I need to figure out what the fuck to do about it. I have to face Kit at work tomorrow, which I was already nervous about, thanks to our most recent conversation. Him becoming my boss after our summer tryst was bad enough. But I’mcurrentlypregnant. I’m carrying around the evidence it happened, and if I stay pregnant, it’ll become obvious.
Saying the words seems impossible. I try, in the relative quiet of my apartment. They come out in an intelligible whisper. I can’t imagine saying them to someone. And Ireallycan’t fathom tellingKit.
The knot in my chest draws tight again.
I don’t have to tell anyone, I remind myself. This could stay a secret—my secret—forever.
But that doesn’t seem like a solution. No relief hits when I consider ending this pregnancy. Not to mention the prick of guilt about making that decision without consulting Kit.
I finally pour the boiling water over a bag of chamomile before carrying a mug of tea over to the couch. The steam coats my face with a fragrant mist, making me feel sleepy. Or maybe my body has simply burned through all the adrenaline it’s capable of producing for the time being. Worrying is exhausting.
I curl up on the couch, hands cupped around hot ceramic. One drops, my warm palm pressing against my flat stomach.
I’m not ready to have a baby. Eight months doesn’t sound like nearly enough time to prepare for the rest of my life to change.
And I seriously doubt the billionaire who knocked me up during a one-night stand and who’s spending his weekend partying in Vegas wants to tackle parenthood.
Which leaves me … where?
15
Today, she’s wearing a dark green blazer. Yesterday, it was a lilac blouse. Monday, a navy cardigan.
I don’t know when I started cataloging Collins’s outfits. I never consciously decided to. But every morning, when I walk past her desk, I take a mental snapshot. Throughout the day, I think about her sitting outside my office. And by the end of the day, I’ve memorized her appearance.
“Morning, Collins,” I greet.
She glances up from the computer screen as I pause besideher desk. “Morning, Kit.”
“Feels like fall out,” I state.
The weather. I’m bringing up theweather, like an unoriginal idiot.