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I have no good answer, and she sees that too quickly.

“That,” she says, pointing slightly between us, “is what I mean. You decide something in your head, and then the rest of us find out when you move.”

I should argue.

I don’t. Because she’s right, and because arguing with Maggie when she’s right is a waste of both our time.

“I’m trying,” I say.

Something shifts in her face. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But the anger loses some of its edge.

“I know,” she says, and that’s worse than if she had snapped at me, because I can hear how much she wants it to be enough.

For a while neither of us speaks. The car is cooling around us, the windows clearing slowly, and the space between us feels too full for such a small place.

She reaches for the door handle, then pauses. “You know what your problem is?” she asks.

“I suspect you’re about to tell me.”

“You’ve already decided the outcome of it before it even happens,” she says. “I think you’ve been like this for a long time now.”

“Are you calling me old?” I ask, raising a brow.

“No,” she says, then blushes. “Of course not. Why would you say such a thing?”

I just shrug.

She just sighs. “I just want you not to be stubborn for one hot minute.”

I’m just trying to protect you, I want to tell her. You don’t know what kind of a man Alester is. But I don’t and she leaves. She gets out, fixes her coat, and walks toward her building without looking back.

I sit there after she disappears inside, hands resting on the wheel, the engine quiet beneath me. The argument was not loud. It was not dramatic. It didn’t change the facts. Alester is still Alester, the contract is still there, the pregnancy is still uncertain in the one way that matters most.

But I feel the loss of her in the car anyway.

Not because she left angry. Because she left disappointed.

And somewhere along the way, without noticing the exact moment it happened, I have begun to care what Maggie Hanes thinks of me.

Chapter Fourteen

MAGGIE

At six weeks pregnant, I learn that morning sickness has terrible branding.

It’s not morning sickness. It’s whenever-it-feels-like-it sickness. It’s standing in line for coffee and suddenly hating the entire concept of milk. It’s opening my pharmacology notes and gagging because someone at the next table is eating eggs. It is, apparently, sitting across from Alester Chandler while he reviews the next few weeks of appointments and realizing I have about ten seconds before I embarrass myself on a rug that probably has its own insurance policy.

“I’m sorry,” I say, already getting up. “I need a minute.”

Alester stops speaking. He doesn’t look worried. He doesn’t look annoyed either. He only pauses, one hand resting on the open folder in front of him, as if I have temporarily interrupted a sentence he intends to resume.

“Of course,” he says.

I make it to the bathroom down the hall just in time.

It is not my finest moment.

The bathroom is quiet, spotless, and aggressively expensive. Marble counter, thick hand towels, a little tray with mouthwash and wrapped mints. I’m kneeling in front of the toilet, eyes watering, one hand braced against the wall, thinking that if I have to throw up, I would at least prefer to do it somewhere that doesn’t make me feel underdressed.