I draw in a breath, nodding slowly. Then I turn and look at Trevor. “Can I crash in the guest room?”

  I see the flicker of his eyes as he glances toward Ollie. Then he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course you can.”

  Chapter Nine

  I dream of Ryan.

  Holding me. Soothing me. Stroking my hair.

  His lips brushing my cheek. The feel of his breath on my ear as he whispers that he loves me. That he’s sorry.

  Love you, too.

  I’m not sure if I’ve said the words aloud, but I am sure of the touch of his hands on my skin. Then the pressure of his lips at my neck. “Jamie,” he murmurs as his fingers slide between my legs, then stroke me with such a feather-light touch, that I’m quite certain I’ll go completely mad from pleasure.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again, and this time I know it’s not a dream. I keep my eyes closed, though I do smile. Just a little. I want to see how far this apology will go.

  I’m wearing nothing but an extra-large FBI t-shirt that Ollie lent me, and he stops teasing my clit just long enough to pull it up, revealing my bra. His eyes meet mine—and I see the realization of why I’ve started wearing a bra to bed dawn in his eyes.

  Slowly, he unfastens the hooks, then lets it fall open, revealing my breasts. He meets my eyes one more time, and the desire—and love—I see on his face just about melts me. Especially when he closes his mouth over my breast and gently teases my nipple with his tongue.

  At the same time, his magic fingers start playing with my clit again, teasing me to arousal, then thrusting inside so that I arch up, a line of heat seeming to run between my breast and my core.

  Slowly, he starts kissing his way down, nipping and licking and teasing my skin, until his tongue replaces his fingers and I rock my hips, more turned on than I can ever remember being, my mind in such a muddle of need and lust that I can barely even say a silent thank you to the pregnancy hormones that are zinging and sizzling inside me.

  “Hunter—Hunter, please.” I’m long past want. This is need. This is survival. Because I swear if he’s not inside me soon, I will wither and die.

  He lifts his head, and in that moment, his expression entirely fits that nickname.

  “Now,” I beg. “Oh, god, please now.”

  He doesn’t hesitate, and I cry out as he thrusts deep into me. Claiming me. Filling me. I hook my legs around him and cup my hands on his ass, urging him deeper, every thrust bringing me closer and closer until I feel his body tense and let go, coming with him as the power of our shared orgasm shatters me. He collapses beside me, breathing hard, then pulls me to him.

  And then, as the ocean-swell of the orgasm drains out of me, I start to cry, the tears flowing hot and heavy as Ryan holds me in the safety of his arms.

  I cling to him until I’m bone-dry inside. Then I sniffle and pull away. There’s a box of tissue on the side table, and he passes me one. I take it, dab my eyes, then blow my nose.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, once my throat is no longer clogged with tears. “I’m a huge mass of hormones. A total mess.” I shrug. “But when aren’t I a mess?”

  “You’re not a mess. You’re you. And I love you. You know that, right?”

  I nod. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I really thought—” I draw a breath and sit up against the headboard. “No, that’s not true. I didn’t think. Not about you. I just wanted answers. To have a doctor tell me I was really pregnant. How far along I was. All that stuff.”

  I bite my lip as I reach for his hand. “I didn’t think of you until after. But I swear—I swear—I would never in a million years do anything about it without telling you first.”

  He lifts my hand and kisses my palm. “I know that. I do. And I’m sorry about before.”

  I roll on my side and hook my leg over his. “You were freaked out. Believe me, I get it.”

  “That about sums it up.” The tinge of humor in his eyes fades, and I know what he’s going to say even before the words are out of his mouth.

  “Do you want the baby?”

  I open my mouth to say that yes, of course I do. But then I close it again. I know that’s what he wants me to say, but the truth is that I don’t know. “I want the movie,” I tell him. “The baby doesn’t seem real. Not yet.” I blink, fighting tears. “I guess that makes me a horrible person.”

  His expression is as tender as I’ve ever seen it. “No,” he whispers, stroking my hair. “It makes you honest. And right now, with your career taking off…”

  I think about Ryan with little David. About all those years when he was essentially Moira’s dad. About how many times I’ve watched him playing on the beach with Nikki and Damien’s kids.

  Ryan was born to be a dad. And that means that even though I’m entirely clueless—or I was before I became Aunt Jamie to Nikki’s tribe—I can do this. Because Ryan will be there to have my back.

  “It doesn’t matter about my career. I—”

  “What the fuck, Jamie? I know how hard you’ve worked. How long. Do you think I want you to sacrifice that?”

  “If it’s a choice between a baby or a movie?” I shrug. “Yeah, Ryan. I think maybe you would want me to.”

  He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again. “Jamie,” he says, and I hear real pain in his voice. But I know that I’m right.

  Thankfully, that doesn’t matter.

  Slowly, I grin, then grin even wider when I see the way his eyes narrow in confusion. “The good news is that we can have both.” I move his hand from my waist to the already-showing baby bump. “They can’t fire me for being pregnant. Ollie said so. And what with him being a lawyer and all…”

  Ryan says nothing, and for a moment I’m afraid that I’ve fried his brain. “Ryan?”

  I see his throat move. “A baby?”

  I nod, then laugh happily.

  And for the first time, I’m not freaked out at all.

  Chapter Ten

  “This isn’t what I signed on for,” Raine says. “We’re going to have to revise huge chunks of the script to accommodate all that.” He says the last with a wave to me, as if I’ve morphed into nothing more than a baby incubator.

  “Maybe a few minor adjustments,” Carson says. “But mostly we’ll cheat some angles and go in with CGI.”

  He looks at me, and I nod.

  I hadn’t been at all surprised when Matthew had called me in for this meeting. After all, we’re going to have to deal with the pregnancy somehow. But I hadn’t been prepared for Raine to be so deep into asshole-mode.

  Thankfully, I have both Evelyn and Ryan with me. Considering the way my hormones are hopping, I’m just as likely to burst into tears as I am to stab a letter opener through Raine’s asshole-infused heart, and Ryan may well have to hold me back.

  “It’s bullshit,” he says. “This is a long shoot. She’s going to be ready to pop by the end.”

  “It’s under control,” Matthew says, his voice stern.

  “What about pushing the shoot until after the baby’s born?” Evelyn asks.

  “Come on, Evelyn,” Matthew says. “You know better. We’ve already locked in the international locations. Not to mention scheduling conflicts among the cast members and any number of other problems.”

  “Hell, yeah, that would be a conflict,” Raine says. “I’ve got a prestigious little erotic thriller I lined up after this with Annalise.”

  “Annalise?”

  Raine turns to Ryan, his expression like an exterminator facing a scorpion. “My co-star. The chemistry that’s going to be in that movie will be off the charts.”

  “His girlfriend,” I add. “I’m sure you two will have fun filming that. After we wrap Dead Certain.”

  Raine shrugs. “We will. And you’ll be changing diapers.”

  My stomach does a flip-flop, and I squeeze Ryan’s hand. The asshole’s not wrong. And I tell myself that’s the way I want it.

  “But, hey,” Raine says, suddenly jovial, “like you all said, we can work with this. I mean it’s a big deal having a baby. So, you know. Congrats.”

  “Thanks,” I say, though I’m quite sure there wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in the nicety.

  “And it’s been a while, but folks remember. They’ll be keen on seeing you and I cozy up on the screen. And,” he adds with a glance toward Ryan, “considering our past, there’s going to be a lot of folks who wonder if the baby is mine. Sorry, Rye.” He leans back in his chair, his expression smug. “That’ll be good for buzz, and buzz gets folks in theaters.”

  To his credit, Ryan doesn’t respond or move a muscle. Better, his expression suggests that Raine isn’t even worth noticing. And that, I think, is absolutely true.

  As for me, I force myself to say nothing, but I’m squeezing both Evelyn and Ryan’s hands so hard I might be crushing bone.

  Raine stands. “Good meeting,” he says, then sweeps out of the office.

  The moment the door closes, the air seems clearer. I let go of my support team and lean back with a sigh.

  Matthew moves to the chair Raine vacated, and Carson leans against the wall.

  “I’m assuming you still want to do the movie,” Matthew says.

  “Are you kidding? You know that I do. Though I am truly sorry for the machinations it’s going to put you through.”

  “He’s an asshole,” Carson says. “But he’s right about the script. We’re going to have to tweak some of the action scenes. Your action scenes.”

  “I don’t think so,” Evelyn says. “Just use her double.”

  Carson nods slowly. “I’ll give it a fresh read tonight. Let you know what I think. Bottom line,” he says, looking straight at me, “is that we want you. You’re perfect for the role. You were our gal long before Raine. And we will make this work.”

  * * * *

  I meet up with Moira after the meeting, and she laughs and cheers as I tell her about my studio win. “Fuck Bryan Raine,” she says, which sums up my sentiments exactly.

  She insists that we start looking at baby furniture, and since Moira’s already a perfect sister-in-law and will undoubtedly be an incredible aunt, I agree. I expect it to be surreal, like we’re choosing furniture for a giant doll house. Or perhaps a model home. “And this, oh young and eager couple, would make a delightful nursery.”

  Except it’s not like that at all. It feels strangely real, and I can even picture it in the smallest bedroom. The one that’s filled with junk. We’d have to move out the boxes, of course, and paint the walls. Maybe a sunny yellow. Yeah, it would work. I can see the furniture in there.

  The furniture. But I don’t see a baby.

  Part of me, though, really wants to.

  I shake the image out of my head and drag her out of the store. We’re in the car heading home and talking about nothing in particular when I get a text from Gabby Anderson saying that she’s in town and wants to see me and Nikki.

  “Who’s that?” Moira asks, after my phone reads the message aloud.

  “Remember the crazy story I told you after Ryan and I got back from London?”

  “About his first wife—bastard never even told me—and the whole switched identities thing?”

  “And the millions of dollars at stake, and the people getting killed.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Story of my brother’s life.”

  I have to grin. She isn’t wrong. “At any rate, Gabby’s the one who was smack in the middle of it.”

  “Oh, wow. Tell her to come to dinner.”

  Since that sounds good to me, I dictate a text back, telling her that Nikki’s in Palm Springs for a few days with Damien, but that she should absolutely come hang at the house tonight with me, Ryan, and Moira.

  About fifteen seconds later, she sends back a thumbs up and a confetti emoji.

  I’m not exactly the hostess type, so my plan for dinner is to have Ryan pick up takeout. I call him next and suggest Italian.

  “But since you’re doing the schlepping, get whatever you want.”

  “Is Italian a craving or a suggestion?”

  “Just a suggestion.”

  “Then I might—”

  “Oh, wait!”

  He chuckles. “Yeah?”

  “It wasn’t a craving, but now it kind of is. Pasta. Caprese salad. And, oh, that really light, crusty bread.”

  “I think we can manage that.”

  “And there will be four of us. Gabby’s in town.”

  “That’s great,” he says, and though the enthusiasm in his voice is real, I can’t help but wonder if seeing Gabby will just be a reminder of that old mission of his that started it all. A mission he considers his biggest failure.

  By the time we’re back at the house, I’ve dispelled the notion. Ryan spent a lot of time with Gabby in London. And, frankly, I don’t see how Gabby could bring anyone’s spirits down. I’ve known her since college, when she used to hang with Nikki and me. She’s one of the nicest people I know, and she didn’t deserve all the shit that went down.

  Ryan’s home and dinner’s staying warm in the oven by the time Gabby arrives, and the first thing she does when she crosses the threshold is put a box of printer paper in my arms. “What’s this?”

  “My life,” Gabby says, her wide eyes twinkling. “Our adventure. The whole thing.”

  “You wrote a book?”

  She tucks a lock of curly, near-black hair behind her ear, then nods, looking like a proud parent. “I’m calling it Doppelgänger.”

  I meet Ryan’s eyes, and we both grin. “That’s perfect,” I tell her. “Absolutely perfect.”

  “Your story?” Moira says. “So it’s about Ryan’s first marriage and everything that went down the last time Jamie and Ryan were in London.”

  “First wife?” Ryan shoots a stern look my direction before turning to Moira. “How do you know about that?”

  She shrugs. “Jamie told me a few months ago. How could she not? It’s one hell of a story.”

  “And don’t tell anyone else,” Gabby said, laughing. “Who’ll buy the book if they already know the twists?”

  “Fair enough.” I hold up the box. “So you’re saying I won’t want to read this because I already know it?”

  “I hope you do want to. But I need you to either way. I really want your comments before I submit it. It’s already sold—the publisher bought it off a five-chapter proposal—but I don’t want to send in the entire thing until you guys have a chance to comment.” She looks between me and Ryan. “Do you mind?”

  “Hell, no,” he says. “This will be great.”

  “Absolutely,” I say, then put the box down and give her a hug.

  “Can I?” Moira asks. “I mean, I don’t know the story in detail, so I’ll know better than those two what might be confusing.”

  “Of course. And I’ll take any comments you have at all.”

  “This will be fun.” Moira turns to look pointedly at Ryan. “It will fill my useless days.”

  “Useless days?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she lifts a brow and stares down her brother.

  “What?” he says. “You think griping in front of my wife will get you what you want?”

  “How will I know until I try?”

  “What’s going on?” I ask, shooting Gabby a look that I hope says sorry, it looks like we’re diverting over to family drama for a moment.

  From the way she grins, I think she gets it.

  “My elder know-it-all-brother won’t give me the now-open job of being his assistant because he thinks I’m making a mistake leaving a job that I hate.”

  “You don’t want to be an assistant, Moira. That’s not your path.”

  “A, you aren’t me, so you don’t know. And B, all I want right now is a paycheck. I’ll figure out the rest of it later.”

  “I hear ad agencies pay well.”

  “They do. And some people love working in advertising. But for me, it was soul-sucking. Do you really want a sister with no soul?” She turns to me. “Would you even let me babysit if I have no soul?”

  “She has a point,” I say, managing not to laugh.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Ryan says. “That way Gabby doesn’t have to suffer.”

  “Fine,” she says. Because Moira, like me, understands Ryan well enough to know that she’s already won.

  Dinner is low-key, especially since we decide to take the food outside to enjoy the warm, lovely night. The conversation bounces from topic to topic. Everything from advertising to spies to why there’s a green flash at sunset. After, Ryan opens a bottle of wine, then gives me a shrug that translates to sorry. He softens the blow by offering me cranberry juice.

  I’m fine without wine, though. When Dr. Albright confirmed the pregnancy and gave me the list of dos and don’ts, I almost lost my shit when she got to the wine, beer, and liquor section. Not because I had to give it up, but because I probably drank gallons of the stuff in the last few months.

  I’m a wine with dinner girl, after all. Or, more accurately, a wine anytime girl. And that means that the little niblet spent eight entire weeks fermenting in my uterus. Not to mention being bombarded by useless birth control pills for those weeks when I had no clue.

  Fortunately, the doc had seen that kind of hysteria before, and promised me that the niblet was fine. I believe her. Or, at least I tell myself I do.

  Guess I’ll know for certain in a few months.

  “Jamie?”

  I look up to realize that Moira had stood while I’d zoned out.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “I said we should go search the kitchen for dessert.”

  My stomach rumbles its approval, and I follow her into the kitchen.

  “I think I have some frozen brownies I could heat up.”

  “Are you doing okay?”

  I frown, because clearly this is about more than dessert. “I’m fine. Why?”

  “I just—I mean, well. I—”

  “It’s okay. Just spit it out.”

  “I mean, you did go to a clinic. Were you thinking about an abortion?”

 

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