I could tell from the looks on my friends’ and sister’s faces that I did not manage to make my point across with tact or finesse.
“Is that all we’re good for? Making our so-called men happy?” Sailor asked with a humorless smile on her face. “I’m only a former Olympic archer and the owner of one of the biggest food blogs in the country. What do I know about running a business or having a life outside of marriage?”
She was, indeed, all those things. But she had also married into a wealthy family and had come from one, so she had nothing to prove to anyone.
“And I’m just a doctor.” Aisling took another sip of her tea. “Definitely not as earth-shatteringly important or influential as you.”
Persephone, who didn’t have a day job, was the only silent one, so I made a point of turning toward her to say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Like what?” She sat back, looking perfectly composed and unaffected. “Oh, I may not work nine to five anymore, but I throw fundraiser events that raise millions of dollars for kids with needs, women’s shelters, and animals who’ve been abused. I feel incredibly fulfilled and don’t need anyone’s permission to call myself a feminist.”
Okay, maybe they all had a point.
“A woman is a woman.” Persy put a hand on my shoulder, and I wondered since when had the roles reversed? She’d become the wise and worldly one, and I the one in dire need of advice.
“A woman is a wonder. We are programmed to do and be everything we want to be. Don’t sell yourself short. Whatever Devon saw in you is still somewhere inside. Look for it hard enough, and you’ll find it,” Persy added.
Could I really salvage what I had with Devon?
The Whitehalls wanted me out of the picture. And Louisa was going to be a royal pain, pardon the pun.
But other than them, what else stood between me and Devon?
Nothing. Or rather no one—other than one person.
Myself.
I left Persephone’s house, driving on autopilot back to Devon’s apartment, which was in the same Back Bay neighborhood.
Drumming my fingers over my leg and thinking about my conversation with the girls, I took a right on Beacon Street, onto Commonwealth Avenue, then continued up to Arlington Street.
When I stopped at a red traffic light, a motorcycle cut through the line of traffic out of nowhere. The rider put himself between me and a Buick in front of me, blocking my line of vision. His face was hidden by a black helmet, and he wore a black leather jacket.
I let out a scream, my right leg hovering over the accelerator, wanting to run the human shit stain over before he pointed a gun at me.
But the guy took something out of the front pocket of his jeans—a note—and slammed it over my windshield.
The text was printed in Times New Roman.
LEAVE BOSTON BEFORE I KILL YOU.
THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING.
That was it.
I was going to fucking murder somebody.
I threw my car into park in the middle of traffic, grabbed the gun from my purse, and pushed my door open.
Helmet Guy shook his head, roared his engine, and drove off before my hand touched the sleeve of his leather jacket.
Tearing the piece of paper from my windshield and pocketing it, I promised myself, whoever it was—I was going to make them suffer.
When I got back home, Devon was there.
He looked like he’d been there for a while, freshly showered and wearing designer sweatpants and a white V-neck.
I didn’t immediately tell him about what happened.
He seemed happy and eager to spend time with me.
Besides, I was going to handle it. The police were out of the question—they were useless, and after the reluctant response I’d gotten from them when I filed a complaint, I wasn’t planning to go there again. But I was going to visit Sam Brennan tomorrow at his apartment and tell him he was going to offer me his services, whether he wanted to or not, or I would tell on him to his wife.
Even the shaky experience I went through this evening wasn’t enough to throw me off balance. Usually, an encounter like that meant I had a couple of weeks at least of radio silence from whoever wanted to scare me.
“Hello to my favorite person in the entire world,” Devon greeted me warmly. I melted into a puddle of hormones and leaned into him before he crouched down to kiss my belly through my hot-pink blouse.
“Oh. You meant her,” I murmured.
He stood up to his full, impressive height, giving me a wink. “And hello to the woman who carries her.”
“So we are now in agreement that it’s a girl.” I kicked off my heels. Pregnancy was great, but that didn’t mean I was going to start becoming best buddies with Lululemon and—God help us all—Crocs.