Page 80 of Pucking One Night Stand

“Okay,” I nod. Then squint. “Your nose. Seems... umm, a funny shape.”

He kisses me again and breathes against my lips, “Don’t you worry about it.”

***

The rest of the day, I’ve been practically floating on some sort of romantic, airbrushed, Hallmark cloud. Even if I did have to dart into the restroom and throw up straight after Blake and I… well, you know. Made up.

My body apparently didn’t get the memo that emotions plus being pregnant don’t count as actual food.

God knows what my dad’s going to say. I haven’t seen him since this morning, and he wasn’t home when I got back earlier. Which is just as well, because it wouldn't have taken a rocket scientist to know that conversation wouldn't have ended well.

Right now, I’m in my room. Clean and showered with my hair washed and blow-dried into shiny submission. I’m sitting at my dresser, leaning into the mirror as I put the finishing touches to my makeup. A little highlighter. A touch more mascara and lipstick that says “sultry” but not “desperate.”

I cap the lipstick, press my lips together, and smirk at my reflection. I look like trouble.

Good.

I stand, walk to my drawer, and pull out my bag. Small. Black. Slinky. Just like the dress. It’s more decoration than function, but it’ll hold my phone, keys, and the one breath mint I’ll pretend I didn’t bring just for him.

I scoop my phone and keys from my tote on the bed, slide the phone into the bag, keys in hand, and walk to the door.

Descending the staircase, halfway down,oh, no. I hear the front door open.

And there he is.

Dad.

Standing in the entryway. Not happy. Not even fake happy.

Great. I just knew his doting, gentle-father mood wouldn't last. I can't imagine what he must have thought when he heard, and there's no way he couldn't have heard about the little stunt Blake pulled this afternoon.

I hit the last step, and he narrows his eyes. “Good. I hoped I’d find you here. In my study. We need a chat.”

Yeah. That’s not happening.

I breeze past him, give him a quick peck on the cheek, and open the front door, tossing over my shoulder, “Sorry, I’m late.”

“CASSY—”

I close the door behind me. Click. Press the fob on my keyring.

My car flashes, obedient and silent.

I slide into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and drive off, leaving the looming fatherly confrontation in the rearview mirror.

The Vegas Strip is buzzing as I merge into the flow of traffic, my dress sticking slightly to my thighs against the leather seat.

What did he say the name of the road was? El Camino?

It’s a little past the Strip, the glitz giving way to quiet side streets and low-slung houses that somehow feel more honest.

Slowing down, I scan house numbers. 2776. 2778. 2780.

Then—there. Blake’s truck is parked on the driveway next door.

I pull up behind it and kill the engine, letting the silence settle.

One glance in the rearview mirror. My lips are still perfect. My hair is still holding. Eyes, well, they’re not screaming run, so I’lltake that as a win. I actually look good. Like, nail-him-to-a-wall good.