I hesitate and hold the bag up. “You knew somebody would be there, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. Lucille is my aunt.”

  “She’s your aunt? She’s got to be at least—”

  “Ninety-two, yes. Did she offer you cookies? Lucille is quite the baker.” He gestures impatiently. “Give me the mask.”

  “Lucille didn’t offer us cookies.” I stare at him in total exasperation. “She tried to kill us.”

  He frowns, head tilted. “That’s strange.”

  “Imagine how I feel. She came downstairs with a shotgun—”

  “Ah, you met Hank. Named after her late husband. He was a real bastard.”

  “—and started shooting. What is wrong with your family? Why do you people love to shoot things indoors?”

  “It’s tradition.” He turns to me fully and crosses his arms. “Where’s the mask, suit?”

  “It’s broken. I smashed it when your insane aunt was shooting at me with a gun named after her dead husband. Sorry.” I toss him the bag. He catches it, frowning curiously, and looks inside.

  “That’s a shame. It really was late republic-era Roman. I suppose it belonged in a museum.” He shrugs, walks to a trash can, and throws the entire bag inside.

  I stare, mouth hanging open. “Even broken, it’s still an artifact!”

  “Forget the mask, suit. You messed up. You did not do as I asked and now my life is harder because of it. What will you do to fix this?”

  “Fix this?” I stare at the bastard. “I’m not fixing anything. I’m actually about to walk away and never speak to you again.”

  “That’d be a shame.” He turns to the pigeons again, watching as the animals scurry around and peck at the bread. He seems completely nonplussed about the shattered mask and barely cares that I’m threatening to walk from this film. I’d be willing to bet my threat isn’t the first time a producer told him they were going to run from something he’s involved with, and I doubt it’ll be the last.

  “This was a mistake.” I turn to leave, prepared to go crawling back to Drake Entertainment with my tail between my legs, when Cowan calls my name. I hesitate, try to come up with a good reason to keep going, but something makes me turn.

  “I’ll sign the papers. We’ll make this movie, no more games. But you need to do something about that mask.”

  “I can glue it. That’s about all I have to offer.”

  “No, suit. I want you to do something.” He smiles slightly, eyes narrowed and harsh. “I want you to do something you want.”

  “I’m sorry, excuse me?”

  “You’re scared. I think you might be the most terrified person I’ve ever met. I want you to do something you really want to do, but you’re too afraid to actually go through with it. I don’t care what it is or what it means, all I need is for you to break through your stuffy, pathetic, repressed, bourgeois life, and do something real and brave for once. Put yourself out there. Make a mistake.”

  “Almost get killed by a crazy old lady?” I glare at him, trembling with rage. “You don’t know me. You don’t know me at all.”

  “You’re scared even now. Admit it, suit, you’re standing there thinking about what you might do and you can barely bring yourself to consider acting. That’s what I want from you. No more thinking or worrying. I want you to act for once.”

  I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. He’s right that there are a dozen things I should do, but don’t want to. Things I want but remain completely terrifying. Things I’m afraid might ruin my life.

  Like tell Baptist about the baby.

  “Why are you doing this? What the hell do you care what I do?”

  “I’m fascinated by people who choose to break past their self-imposed restrictions. You are the most restricted of anyone I’ve met in some time, and we happen to have this little arrangement together. And so, if you want me to sign the papers and begin the film in earnest, you will act.”

  “Bastard. This isn’t worth it.”

  “Good.” He grins happily. “That’s the point.” He turns away and produces more crumbs from his pocket. He tosses them to the birds and the birds go wild, pecking and pushing at each other to get at the food.

  I’m dismissed. I’m a passing idea now. I turn away and glance at the trash can. Inside, an ancient Roman mask is sitting in pieces. Screw it—let it stay there. It’ll rot in some dump. Maybe it’ll be unearthed in a thousand years by some far-future archeologist studying our broken present.

  He wants me to act. And there are a dozen things I should act on. Desires, needs, wants. All of them pressing in on me like trash compactors.

  I could call my mother and tell her off for leaving Max.

  I could go to Max and have that talk with him about how he’s been feeling that I’ve been too afraid to start.

  I could go to my father and tell him—well, a lot of very bad things.

  Instead, I take out my phone and call Baptist.

  He answers right away. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. He’s feeding the birds again.”

  “Did you tell him what happened?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “Meet me for a drink.” I close my eyes, hating myself so much, my fingers pressing against my belly. “We’ll discuss it.”

  He’s silent for a few seconds. “Are you sure it’s appropriate to meet beyond work hours? You’ve studiously avoided that for weeks. Ever since—” He doesn’t finish that sentence. We never, ever finish that sentence.

  “Don’t be an asshole. Come meet me.”

  “I’ll text you an address. Don’t worry, Webb, I’m buying.” He hangs up and I’m left there standing on the sidewalk thinking about my mess of a life and the unborn baby growing inside of me and how I’m going to tell Baptist without throwing up.

  * * *

  “Do you have a date or something?” Max frowns at me over his laptop as I stand in the living room in front of the floor-length mirror, checking my dress.

  “Is something wrong with my clothes?” I frown back at him. “I’m just meeting Baptist for drinks.”

  His eyebrows go sky-high. “No, nothing wrong with the dress, it’s just that—you don’t wear that to work stuff.”

  I know what he means. The dress isn’t overly revealing or anything like that, but it’s formfitting and flattering, and it’s the sort of distraction that I actively try not to bring into my life with Baptist these days.

  Except for tonight, apparently.

  “I’m trying to be more casual,” I say, which is a lie, I’m definitely trying to do anything I can to make Baptist think more about me than the baby in me, if that makes sense.

  “Right, well, good luck with that.” Max laughs to himself.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I’ve seen you and Baptist together. You’re basically dancing.”

  “Dancing?”

  “Ignoring the obvious. Pretending like nothing is happening. Dancing around the truth. Denial is a better word, but I like dancing. You know, moving around each other, but never getting to the point.”

  “The point being?”

  “You guys like each other.”

  “Max.”

  He shrugs and laughs. “See what I mean?”

  I sigh and turn to face him, arms crossed. I have to be at the bar in ten minutes and I’m already running behind. “Hey, are you going to be okay on your own tonight?”

  “Sure, I’m fine. I got a Minecraft game going with some friends.”

  “Maybe you and I can do some stuff. You know, brother and sister time.”

  “Whatever, that’d be cool.”

  I hesitate, frowning a bit, studying my brother. He’s watching the screen and clicking away, and I’m so close to asking him what I really want to ask. Are you okay? But I can’t seem to do it, because I know the answer.

  No, he isn’t okay. He’s very far from okay.

  “Love you,” I say, heading to the door.

  “You too,” he mumbles.

  I glance back one more time. I’m going to have that talk with him. I’m going to ask him how he’s doing, how he’s processing Mom and Dad and living with me and all that, but not right now.

  One mess at a time.

  I leave, hop in an Uber, and make it to the place only a few minutes late. Baptist is sitting at the bar sipping something brown. It’s dim, not too loud, lots of wood and metal and young professional types in nice clothes. The bartender’s got as many piercings as he has tattoos, which is a lot.

  “There you are, Webb.” Baptist turns to me—and his eyes widen. “And hello to you.”

  “Baptist.” I sit in the chair next to him and order a club soda with lime.

  “Not drinking tonight?”

  “Keeping my wits about me.” But mostly I can’t because I’m pregnant with your baby. “Something in the way you’re looking at me suggests I should.”

  He laughs and tilts his head. “You shouldn’t tease. You know it only makes me feel as though I have license to say all the things I’ve kept bottled up.”

  “Like what?”

  “Jokes about your lips, mainly.”

  “My lips?”

  “Mouth, tongue, teeth. That region.”

  “Sounds awful. I’m glad you’ve kept it to yourself.”

  He takes a sip and shakes his head. “No, Webb. It’s not awful at all.”

  I shiver as my drink arrives and take a sip. Baptist is studying me closely and I know what he’s thinking. I’m dressed up and looking better than I’ve looked since the wedding, and he knows damn well why. I’ve kept to ponytails, messy buns, sweats, and sneakers, mostly because I can’t stand the way he looks at me and I don’t want to make it worse.

  Like it is right now.

  I should’ve come here wearing that nightgown Cowan’s aunt had on.

  “All right, Webb. You tell me how things went with Cowan, and I’ll sit here and enjoy looking at you in that dress.”

  “Prick.” I close my eyes, sigh, and give him the rundown. He listens intently and only glances down at my body a few times, which is better than I expected. When I finish, he seems angry all over again.

  “We have to stop this. He knew that unstable old bat was in that house.”

  “We could’ve knocked, you know.”

  “Webb, don’t defend him. He fucking knew.”

  “You really think he’s that much of a mastermind?”

  He shakes his head and takes a long sip. “I think he’s that much of a gambler. With his own life and the lives of those around him.”

  “We’re fine though.”

  “Barely. I told you I wouldn’t put you in danger, and I meant it.”

  “We’re not walking away.” I stare at my drink, working on the courage I need to broach the subject. I want to do it—I really want to do it. Not just because it’s the right thing to do, but because I believe it’s the right thing. Even still, the idea of saying the words out loud, of telling Baptist that I’m pregnant with his baby, feels like the most terrifying thing I could do.

  “No, we’re not.”

  That surprises me. I expected him to argue with me again, but he’s staring intently in my eyes with a look I don’t quite recognize. It’s intense, like he’s working through something internally, and he holds my gaze for another moment before turning away and taking another long sip.

  “What changed?”

  “I thought about what you said in the car.” He hesitates, searching of the words. “About wanting something.”

  I didn’t expect this at all. I lean closer to hear him over the sound of other people talking. “What do you want, Baptist?”

  “You know my background. My father owned the Keswick Theater for years until he sold it to the Crawford family. All those years, I stood backstage with my old man and watched the acts, from the singers to the comedians to the rock bands, and I decided I wanted to do that one day. I wanted to get up there and entertain. I wanted to be so talented I could fill a theater with people and keep them engrossed in me for hours. I was desperate for it back then, but as I got older, I realized I don’t have the talent.”

  I don’t know what to say. It’s not all that uncommon—a lot of people in our business started out wanting to be on the artist side of things—but I had no clue Baptist felt that way.

  “What happened?”

  “Life happened. I grew up, went to school, met Ansell. I joined Drake Entertainment and realized I could still fulfill my dream, only in a way I never pictured before. That’s what we’re doing here, Webb. That’s why I won’t walk away from Cowan if you don’t want to.” He looks at me then, his gaze heady and serious, and I’m leaning so close that I can smell him, musky and sweet, his breath glazed with whiskey and mint. “But the moment you’re done, I’ll walk away. I’m serious, Webb. The second you don’t want to put yourself through this shit anymore, we’re through.”

  “You’d give up what you want for me?”

  “I’d give up Cowan, but I won’t give up you.”

  I open my mouth to say something. I open it to tell him that I’m pregnant, that I’m carrying his baby and I don’t know what I’m going to do about it, but there are no words.

  Instead, I lean closer, and I kiss him.

  Chapter 9

  Blair

  It’s stupid. It’s about the dumbest thing I could do. Kissing him right now is only going to make everything so much more complicated, and we can’t deal with complicated, not with Cowan’s eccentricities making everything infinitely more difficult and my looming pregnancy.

  But the kiss lingers. It’s slow, and deep, and when I’m done, he leans his head against mine and looks into my eyes.

  “Come home with me.” His voice is a soft, velvet whisper. It’s not a request. It’s a demand, one I’m compelled to obey, because I know I won’t tell him the truth about the baby.

  Because there’s something else I really want. Something else I’m terrified to act on.

  He throws cash onto the bar and takes my hand. I let him lead me outside, excitement building down every inch of my body, the anticipation of what he’s about to do to me like a lightning rod for all my emotions. His place is a couple blocks away and we decide to walk, my hand lingering in his, every fiber and every hair electrified. This is dangerous, this time between the kiss and what’ll happen in his apartment, and what’s hanging between us is precarious. We could lose it or let it break.

  I shouldn’t do this. Max is waiting at home—I have to text him and tell him I’ll be out later than planned—and god, this is so complicated. If I were smart, I’d make an excuse and run.

  Instead, in the shadows of an empty high-end shoe store, he kisses me again. He holds it there, his tongue on mine and his hand on the back of my neck, and I’m sure I won’t turn away.

  I want this.

  “Just for tonight,” he says as we stumble into his apartment. “Just tonight.”

  “Just tonight,” I echo. I let him push me against the door and kiss my neck. His hands roam my skin as he pulls up the hem of my dress. I moan into his mouth as his fingers dig into my tender thighs and get closer, closer. He bites my lip and pulls my hair, and finally he strokes along my pussy slowly, so fucking gently, and it sends jolts of desire into my spine.

  “Sometimes I think fucking you that night was a dream,” he whispers as he unzips me. I let my dress fall away with a shiver and his eyes roam down my skin. “It was too fast and too dark. I wanted to savor you, and now I get the chance.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” My heart’s racing and I want to hear him say the words. I know already—I can see it in his eyes and taste it in his kiss—but there’s something about the melody of his voice that makes me drip with excitement.

  “Every filthy thing I’ve dreamed of between that wedding and today.”

  “You’re not supposed to have those thoughts. We made a deal.” Even though I have those thoughts too, so many of them.

  He smirks and unhooks my bra as he kisses my collarbone. “I’m not supposed to act on them, Webb. I can think whatever I fucking want.” My bra falls away and he releases this utterly annihilating groan of delight and excitement. The idea that my body can make him react that way is still incredible, beyond novel, and I gasp as he takes my wrists and pins them above my head.

  He kisses me harder and faster and I melt into that mouth. Too many thoughts swirl in the back of my mind, all my worries and fears, and slowly they vanish as his mouth moves down to my neck, down to my breasts. His tongue rolls around my nipples and bites them and sucks hard, and I moan, chin tilted up toward the ceiling, as he keeps me pinned, but drops to his knees.

  He releases my wrists and spreads my legs. I stare down at him as he marvels at my body, kissing my stomach, my belly button, my hip bones, before moving down to my inner thigh. He’s so powerful, like a jungle cat curled into himself, and my skin shivers with anticipation. “I want to enjoy this,” he says quietly as he slips my panties aside. “If that first time was about hot, impulsive passion, I want tonight to be about a cold, simmering desire. I want you feeling this for days. I want you thinking of it for weeks. I want this night to be a sweet memory you call on whenever you’re alone.”

  “Is that what you really want? You want to leave your mark on me?”

  He shakes his head and licks me, top to bottom. I gasp in pleasure as his tongue lingers on my clit. He teases me with his fingers, staring into my eyes as I grip his hair.

  “I don’t just want to fuck you, Webb. I want to devour you. Do you know the difference?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, but the truth is no, I don’t know the difference, but I want to find out.

  “Every delicious inch of you,” he murmurs as he licks me again, softly and teasing. “Every incredible inch of you. I want to know what you sound like when you come so hard you’re nearly blinded. I want to see your back arch, your skin sweat. I want you to be filthy for me, Webb. I want my cock in your throat, your spit on my shaft, my cum on your tongue. I want to hear my name slip past your lips like you’re praying. I want it all and so much more.”