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  Which is weird, because I didn’t drink last night while hanging out with Jessie and Eric at the Touchdown. So I shouldn’t feel hungover at all, but I do.

  To be honest, I haven’t felt great for over a week—I’ve been on cold and flu tablets for a few days now, but they’ve done nothing a thing to help me. And I don’t much like the idea of going to the doctor’s and getting antibiotics; they usually make me feel even worse for a few days before I get better.

  Still—a few days of feeling worse would be worth it if I felt amazing afterwards.

  But that’s not going to happen—not when I’m still thinking about Dylan.

  “Ugh,” I groan.

  I sit up in bed, gently banging my head against the headboard as I do so. I would rather think of just about anything else but Dylan first thing in the morning. Which is probably the reason why I’m invariably thinking about him, of course.

  Or maybe I just subconsciously associate him with feeling shitty. That seems like a pretty valid explanation.

  I haven’t seen or heard from him once since he stalked out of the Touchdown a little over two weeks ago, a nasty cut on his side, his stubborn pride left untouched.

  Part of me really, very much sincerely hopes he went straight to a hospital and got himself sorted out. But the rest of me is still so infuriated with him.

  He didn’t even entertain the idea of staying in Texas. That just simply wasn’t an option for him. Even though I thought we were truly getting close, that we could have maybe been more.

  I don’t even want to think about it anymore. One way or the other, I’m not enough to warrant Dylan staying in Texas.

  Of course, I’m not a hypocrite. I’m not willing to move for Dylan, but at least, I seriously thought about it before giving up on the idea.

  And if Dylan hadn’t walked out on me before—if his job isn’t the be-all and end-all of his life—then I may very well have relocated for him.

  But there’s no point in dwelling on what could have been in another life. I have to live the life I have. The life I love.

  I just wish that life wasn’t marred by unending sickness.

  Suppressing the urge to vomit, I force myself out of bed and into the kitchen for a glass of water and some more flu tablets, though I know they won’t do a damn thing.

  I take my time showering, brushing my teeth, and drying my hair—mainly because if I move too quickly, I feel liable to either puking or passing out on the floor.

  After putting all that effort into making myself a person again, I end up throwing on a camisole top and a pair of jogging pants, the kind of clothes I slum about in at home when nobody is there to see me.

  I check the time; it’s only just after nine in the morning.

  Looks like I’m committed to staying in the house all day, then.

  What an exciting Saturday.

  But feeling like this, I don’t really know where I could stomach going, anyway. I know I desperately need to restock my kitchen, and yet feeling this nauseous, I simply don’t have the appetite or the motivation to do so.

  Instead, I gingerly drop myself down onto my sofa and turn on the television, wondering what trashy daytime cable show or rerun of a generic comedy will be sufficiently entertaining enough to keep my attention for a few hours.

  Alas, it transpires that I won’t even be granted the small mercy of an uneventful, peaceful morning of not moving an inch from my sofa—because the doorbell rings.

  “Nooooo,” I groan, desperately wishing for the person at my door to go away.

  I don’t get up to answer, but the ringing doesn’t let up.

  Eventually, my phone buzzes, too, and I look to see who’s calling—Jessie.

  Knowing that she’s calling because she’s the one at the door, I ignore the call and force myself up from the couch, wincing in pain as I slowly make my way to the front door.

  When I open it and see the ever-bright and bubbly Jessie, I almost groan again.

  “Jessie, I’m really not in the mood for whatever it is you’re about to propose we do.”

  She gives me a sympathetic smile, then holds up a bag laden with groceries.

  “Let me in. I’ll make you lemon tea, and then you can decide whether you’re in the mood for what I’m about to propose we do.”

  I have half a mind to tell her to leave, but knowing that Jessie will outright ignore me, I let her in instead.

  “You look like crap, by the way,” she calls out over her shoulder as she busies herself in my kitchen.

  I flop back down onto my sofa.

  “Thanks for that. I wasn’t aware at all.”

  Jessie laughs, and then she forces me to engage in small talk as she prepares the tea. Admittedly, the smell of lemon helps to clear my head up a little and helps to negate the nausea.

  When she places a steaming mug of the stuff in front of me, and I take the first few, blessed sips, I feel even better.

  “Thank you.”

  Jessie sits down, and she smiles in sympathy when she realizes I’m not being sarcastic. But Jessie also seems a bit too fidgety as she sits there, waiting for me to finish my tea.

  I raise an eyebrow suspiciously.

  “What are you up to?”

  Jessie avoids my gaze. “Well…Eric and I, we’ve both noticed you’ve not been feeling great, and—”

  “And what? I have the flu. It happens sometimes. It has nothing to do with missing Dylan or anything stupid like that.”

  Jessie gives me a level stare. “I wasn’t going to suggest that. But it does have to do with Dylan, we think.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Jessie sighs, then heads over to the kitchen to retrieve something from her bag of groceries. When she returns, she places it on the coffee table in front of me.

  I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  It’s a pregnancy test.

  “Jess, I’m not pregnant.”

  “But how can you know? Have you taken a test already? Or did you use protection? Were you on the—”

  “No…to all of those,” I admit. “Well, we were so lost in the moment that we didn’t use protection the first time, and then it seemed a little stupid to use it after that.”

  “Brooke! One, you know better. Two, you know better! And three, how are you sure you’re not?”

  “I wasn’t thinking about anything like getting pregnant! I was just…I was just…caught up in the moment. I know it was stupid. So, so stupid.”

  Jessie smiles at me gently. She picks up the test and places it in my hands.

  “I’m not judging you, Brooke. I never would. But take the test. It would explain how shitty you’ve been feeling, at the very least.”

  “Yeah, and if it’s positive, it’ll make me feel worse,” I scoff.

  Jessie merely holds my gaze until I relent.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll take the damn thing. Is this why you were plying me with lemon tea?”

  “Only part of the reason. I also genuinely don’t want you to throw up all over your sofa.”

  I grimace. “What a lovely thought. Guess I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  It’s agonizing, sitting on top of the toilet seat waiting for the results of the test. It feels as if the bloody thing takes forever.

  Probably because I’m too scared to look at it.

  I just sit there, staring sightlessly at my bathroom door as I spin the test around and around in my hands, scared shitless by the possibility of seeing those two little bands that will make my life so much more complicated than it already is.

  But, eventually, even I can’t take the tension anymore, and I force myself to look.

  I stare at the result for a long, long time.

  Not long after, Jess walks over to knock on the bathroom door to find out, too.

  “Brooke? Brooke. Are you okay? What’s going on? Did you—”

  “It’s positive.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Are…are you sure? Did I hear that
correctly?”

  “Yes. I’m pregnant.”

  Chapter 33

  Dylan

  “Thanks, Lisa, I appreciate it.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Lisa—and her dark curls—leaves my new corner office.

  I grab the folder filled with all the documents that Lisa had just dropped off for me.

  One of the bonuses of being made partner is that you get to pick and choose which cases you work.

  No more giant caseloads and working back-to-back hours. Now I get to come and go as I please—and make more money at that.

  Life is good—even if it all feels incomplete.

  I toss the folder back down on my new mahogany desk and grab my cup of coffee.

  I watch the steam rise from the black liquid, and I find myself missing the vanilla hazelnut smell that I had grown accustomed to during my mornings with Brooke.

  Just thinking about her makes the scar on my side feel like it’s been freshly cut open.

  That evening at the bar played out time and time again on my end.

  I’m pulled from my thoughts by a firm knock at my door. I look up at the door—it’s definitely not Lisa—and yet I don’t have any scheduled meetings with the other partners.

  “Come in.”

  I’m immediately greeted by the sight of the person—or rather one of the people—I never expected to see.

  “Hey, Pickle.”

  It’s my father, of all people.

  He’s got a bright, welcoming smile on his face that reminds me of the one he had when I had returned home for Mom’s funeral.

  He’s dressed in a charcoal-colored Burberry three-piece suit with a white shirt and wine-colored tie—something I myself would wear.

  “Hey, Pops. What are you doing here?”

  I get up to my feet and walk out around my desk to greet my father with a hug and a mirrored smile.

  “What, I can’t come visit my son?” He laughs as his arms wrap around me.

  I find comfort in this embrace. It helps that he and I can do this even after everything that happened back in Fredericksburg. I had been concerned that what happened would drive a wedge between us.

  “You’re always welcome here, Pops. You know that,” I answer as I take a step back. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

  He laughs and rubs his hand along his chin. “Sometimes you’re too smart for your own good, son.”

  “So I’ve been told. Can I get you anything?”

  “Oh, no. I’m fine, thank you.”

  Dad walks deeper into my office and looks around it with an approving nod. His exploration stops when he reaches my floor to ceiling windows that look out over Central Park.

  “This is a really nice office you got here. I like the view.”

  “Thanks, but you’re still avoiding my question.”

  “Honestly, I came to check up on you,” he finally answers as he turns to look at me from over his shoulder. “And to tell you that I’m proud of you.”

  “Proud of me?”

  “Yes. I’m not proud that you got into a bar fight with Matthew Dunn, of all people, and then got ten stitches for it. But I’m proud that you did stand up for what you believed was right. Even if it meant taking me on.”

  I feel my lips turn upward in a smile, and a brief laugh rises up from my stomach.

  “Didn’t expect for you to be so…cavalier about losing.”

  “Well, you see, son, none of this was ever really about winning or losing or money.”

  I can feel the smile on my face fade, and I’m quick to close the door to my office to ensure our continued privacy.

  Something about my father’s tone has me thinking that there’s more to his visit than just coming to see me and congratulating me for a job well done.

  “Alright then, Pops, what was it about?”

  “I would say it’s about the same thing you and Dunn were fighting over.”

  Brooke? Dad’s motivations were Brooke? That makes no sense.

  “Enough with the cloak and dagger stuff, Pops. Give me a straight answer.”

  My father lets out a chuckle as he turns to face me completely, his hands slipping into his pockets as he does.

  “‘Cloak and dagger’ huh? Do you think I’m some kind of evil mastermind?”

  “Well, an evil mastermind would try to close a school so that he could open a shopping complex.”

  “It was never about a shopping complex, Pickle. My motivation and end game were, and are, far more altruistic. So to speak.”

  My eyebrow arches in curiosity, but I’m feeling disbelief more than anything else.

  Part of me thinks that perhaps he’s trying to save face, but then again, my father is hardly one to mask defeat. If he loses, which he rarely does, he owns up to it rather than hide behind petty excuses.

  It’s why I’ve respected the man so much growing up—and now as an adult.

  “Care to explain what those motivations were? Or what your end game was?”

  “It’s far less nefarious than you believe, Pickle. My end game was simply to see my son happy, with the woman he loves, grandchildren playing at my feet while I’m still young enough to chase them around the house.”

  There’s a softness and sincerity in my father’s voice that I don’t think I’ve ever heard before. And the smile on his face is one I haven’t seen since he and Mom had renewed their vows on their fortieth anniversary.

  It removes any and all doubt that he’s putting on a front—and that scares me.

  “You went through all of this to…just…what exactly? To get Brooke and me back together?”

  “In a manner of sorts.”

  My eyes close tightly as I run my hand over my face. “So, what would’ve happened if I lost and the merger took place?”

  “I would have simply built the town a new school,” he answers far more quickly than I expected.

  “But what about all the blueprints I saw? You went through a whole lot of trouble to make this fake complex look real.”

  “Oh, the complex is being built. But I had already selected a far better location long before this merger business came to fruition. And, truthfully, the school’s current location is not an ideal site for what I want to do.”

  “So…this was all just some big, elaborate plan to get grandchildren out of me?”

  My dad laughs, rather jovially, and nods his head.

  “That, and to make you see that you have, and always will, love Brooke. You two belong together, Pickle. There’s a reason your mother continued to treat Brooke like a daughter…or, rather, daughter-in-law after you left.”

  “It’s not that I don’t doubt you, Pops, but this…this is a lot to take in.”

  Dad closes the gap between us. He places his hands on my shoulder and looks me squarely in the eye.

  “I know it’s a lot on your plate, and all so suddenly, but think on it, Pickle.”

  He pulls me in for another hug, and I can’t help but smile. I’m conflicted, confused, and angry, but I smile my thanks to my father.

  “Now, I have some actual business to look after,” he says as he steps back.

  “Oh? You have business in New York?”

  “Nothing serious. Just some investments to take care of and to ensure that my future grandchildren are looked after.”

  I remain firmly rooted where I stand as my father walks past me to the door.

  It’s not until I hear the click of the latch that I turn to face him.

  “Pops! Wait.”

  Dad turns to face me, his lopsided grin—that I inherited from him—adoring his face as he does.

  “Did you really think all of this up and went through this huge, elaborate deception just so that Brooke and I would get together again?”

  His lips purse together, and there’s a playful glimmer in his eyes as he looks out over the Manhattan skyline for a brief moment.

  “Honestly…no,” he answers when his eyes shift back to me. “Your mother
did.”

  Chapter 34

  Brooke

  You know what they say about small towns—news travels fast.

  But I’ve never seen it travel quite as fast as when the news traveling has something to do with me.

  Or, more precisely, my baby.

  How such information got out is anyone’s best guess—I know Jessie and Eric would never blab—but all it would take is a pair of nosy ears overhearing a quick conversation between any of us to learn the truth. And there are a lot of them.

  So, in reality, I can’t even be mad that my secret is out.

  I’m merely tired.

  The initial stomach-churning nausea has thankfully passed, which I couldn’t be more grateful for.

  After the home test, I’ve gone to the doctor’s to confirm that I was indeed pregnant, half-hoping that the home test had been a false positive.

  Of course it wasn’t. And now, I’m pregnant with Dylan’s baby.

  The looks I get on the street vary wildly. Some look happy for me, as if they have secretly been waiting for me to be blessed with a child for years; some are concerned, as if they’re unsure how I’m going to manage with the baby; and some are outraged—the how dare I have a child out of wedlock kind of outrage.

  But, by far and away, most of the people who pass me by look deathly curious. And I know why.

  They want to know who the father is.

  Obviously, I know that it can only be Dylan, but to the rest of the town, Matthew Dunn is still a very valid candidate. Everyone knows that we’ve been on-again, off-again for years.

  And they don’t know for how long I’ve been pregnant.

  I don’t have it in me to let each and every one of them know who the father is, nor do I feel very much like shouting from the rooftops, “I let my heartbreaker of an ex knock me up and then run back to New York like the idiot I am.”

  Although that’s certainly how I feel.

  I haven’t told Dylan. Of course, I haven’t told him—I’d very much prefer for him to never know until the end of my days.

  I know that’s not likely going to last, but if at least a few years can pass before Dylan decides to come back to Texas—for whatever reason—then I can pretend my baby’s father is someone else. Who knows, I may well even be with someone else, which would only solidify the lie.