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He leans back against the wall. “No matter what we say, they will write what they want. That’s what gossip rags do.”

Unfortunately, he’s right.

We are shown to our table on the top floor. The view is breathtaking, but it’s just not worth the hassle of the media and paparazzi.

We order drinks. He insists on champagne. I plan to stick to sparkling water.

“You can’t let me drink champagne alone.” His voice is soft, cajoling, in that tone that used to get me to do anything he said.

Jesus, I was dumb.

“Please, go ahead. Don’t deprive yourself on my behalf. You said you wanted to talk.” I take a sip from my water.

He sips on his flute. “I miss you. I know I messed up before, but things are different now. I realized that I can’t keep going the way I was. I don’t want to be that guy that loses the girl he loves because he’s immature and can’t keep it in his pants.”

I don’t roll my eyes like I want to. “You know what’s funny? You’re always one hundred percent sure, and you always look the part. But we end up here every single time. It’s exhausting.”

“I know I make it hard for you to believe me…”

I scoff. “You don’t make it hard. You make it impossible. And I don’t care anymore. There’s no point in belaboring that. No matter what you say or do today, we’re done.”

“You have to believe me. I’ve changed. I’m a hundred percent determined to be a one-woman man. I’ll go to therapy. Whatever it takes to get us back—” His eyes round as he stares past me.

In the next second, a beautiful woman with olive skin and eyes greener than mine stands next to our table with her gaze peeled on him like a GoldVein knife.

“I guess this must be your agent.” She hooks a finger toward me. “I guess I’m your publicist, then.”

“Naomi, what are you doing here?”

She leans in. “I’ve been calling you for two weeks, and you seem to think you can ignore me. I’m six weeks late, Mateo. This…”—she points at her belly—“is not going away.”

Shock takes over. She’s late. He’s here with me, begging for a chance, and she’s pregnant.

I let out a giggle. They both turn to me.

Naomi looks like she wants to snatch me by the hair. In that moment, I realize everyone in the restaurant is looking at us.

I don’t do scandals or scenes—at least I didn’t before the other day. And with my new project starting today, I don’t want my name associated with Mateo’s bullshit anymore. There’s only one way out of this.

I stand and throw my arms around her. “Naomi, long time no see.”

She stiffens in my arms.

I talk fast, whispering in her ear, “Please don’t make a scene. I don’t want him. You can have him. If you sit at the table with us, I will leave in the next ten to fifteen minutes. The headline tomorrow will be how I went out with the two of you as a friend and gave you my blessing. If you make a scene, the three of us will be on the cover of every paper, and you’ll look like a side chick because everyone knows he’s always trying to get back with me.”

Her arms go around my waist. “Fine, but you are leaving, right? Because I will make a scene if you don’t.”

“I give you my word and a Birkin bag.”

We sit together.

“I love your blog,” Naomi says. “I follow all your recommendations. That last piece on affordable meets high-end changed my shopping ways.

I chuckle. “My sister-in-law is an expert at putting together outfits that look expensive on a budget.

Mateo gulps down his champagne and mine, looking like he wants to barf the whole time.

“Aww. He must be feeling first-trimester sympathy nausea,” I say to Naomi.