“You were right, I don’t want to know.”
“Told you.”
“Aren’t you a little worried you’re leading this girl on? She seems to be getting attached to you—I mean, you’re going breast pump shopping.”
“I know.” I nibble on the corner of my mouth. “I actually feel kind of bad, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t like faking this pregnancy since so many people try so hard to get pregnant, and there’s no way in hell I’d ever act as if I’d miscarried to end all of this pregnancy stuff. Remember Aunt Rina? She had five miscarriages and holding her hand through them with Mom was devastating. The more I think about it, the more uncomfortable I feel.”
“So maybe . . . tell her the truth.”
“Are you insane? Huxley would lose the deal for sure.”
“What are you going to do when you’re supposed to start showing and you don’t?”
“I don’t know. But you don’t start showing until around thirteen weeks or so with your first baby, right?” At least, that’s what I read when I looked it up last night. I press my hand to my forehead. “God, I’m in such a mess.”
“Has more happened?”
I bite down on my index finger. Yesterday, Kelsey was gone most of the day running errands and interviewing another supplier since the one we contacted hasn’t gotten back to us yet. Therefore, I haven’t talked to her much.
Actually, I haven’t spoken to her at all.
She has no idea what happened this past weekend with Huxley.
Hell, I barely have a grasp on what happened, but this is something I’d normally tell my sister right away. But after the rooftop, I wasn’t sure what to do. I felt . . . weird.
As if something wasn’t right.
And I know it wasn’t what I did, but more so what happened after. I wanted more, so much more with him, but, for the life of me, didn’t know how to express it. He’s been so hot and cold with me, so inconsistent with how he treats me, that I’m scared. I like him, a lot, and I’m unsure what that means for us, for me. I’m not sure if I can make a move, if I can tell him. If he even wants more with me.
He didn’t kiss me on Sunday when he had the perfect opportunity to do so. We were drenched from the rain, and there was nothing around us but nature. If he was going to kiss me at any point in time, it would’ve been then, but he didn’t, which leads me to believe that he has no desire to shift this relationship in any way. He’s told me he’s not wanting to blur the lines. He’s also told me he wants me to be happy. But why? Why does that matter to him, if I don’t really matter to him?
I joked about our agreement replicating that of Pretty Woman, me being the less whore-y version of Vivian, but instead of Vivian being the one who doesn’t kiss on the lips . . . it’s Huxley.
And if I learned anything from that movie, it’s that kissing means so much more. It carries weight. Kissing connects you on an intimate level and Huxley doesn’t want that. It’s evident. He might want my body, but he doesn’t want me.
Which, in return, makes me feel weird. But does that mean I want him?
“Lottie, you there?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I clear my throat. God, why am I getting emotional? I shouldn’t be getting emotional.
“What’s going on? Did something happen that you’re not telling me about?”
Wincing, I look up to the sky as I say, “I, uh, I might have done some things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Um, you know, like . . . I might have given him head in the shower, and then possibly dry-humped him on a roof.”
“What?” Kelsey screams into the phone. “Lottie, are you serious right now?”
“I wish I wasn’t.” I let out a deep breath. “God, Kelsey, I don’t know what’s happening to me. It all started with our pitch. He chose us, Kelsey. He chose us over Dave, and that, God, that crippled me. When I saw Dave show up, I thought we’d have to reschedule—that our chance was gone again—but he took our meeting instead, like he promised. It put a dent in the negative thoughts I had of the man. And then, this weekend . . .” I let out a deep sigh and rest my head against the brick. “He was different. Softer, didn’t have the edge he usually does. He joked, laughed, teased. And, yeah . . . he did more things than I care to admit.”
“Holy shit, Lottie. What does this mean?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, completely shocked I’m about to say this out loud. “It means I like him.”