"It's complicated," I mutter. "I'll tell you about it later when it makes more sense."

"So you're hate-fucking some guy all week while I do your job? Is that what's happening here?"

"You're not exactly suffering, Vi," I snap. "Now why don't you tell me about Mr. Tall, Dark and British and stop harassing me?"

"Fine." She sighs into the phone as if I'm really inconveniencing her when she's the one who called me—specifically to talk about the guy. "He's nice," she finally says.

"He's nice?" I repeat. "That's why you're calling me? Because he's nice?" I was hoping she was going to tell me something filthy or ask for sex tips. "Weren't you just bragging to me about how great the sex is?"

"I was not bragging!"

"You so were and honestly, I was proud of you."

"Oh. Well, thank you. I think."

"You're welcome. So what's the problem? Is he boring?" Kyle's not boring. He's a little quiet, but it turns out that I've got a thing for the strong silent type.

"No, he's not boring," she insists. "Not at all. He makes me laugh."

"Are you bipolar or something? Is that hereditary? I can't deal with this right now." I drop the plate onto the countertop so I can focus on Violet's crazy talk. Also, I need my hands free to think. I was sorta hoping my kid would take after her because raising Violet was a piece of cake. I know this because I've overheard our mother say it a time or twelve. But now I'm concerned that she's nuts and has bad taste in men. "So he's hot, he's nice, and he makes you laugh. Is he dumb? Is that the problem? Sometimes the pretty ones aren't the brightest. I know it's not politically correct to say so, but it is what it is. But it's just a week, it's not like you're having his baby, so just let it go and have fun."

Kyle is smart. Really smart. I'm hoping the baby inherits that from him because honestly being smart never hurt anyone. Also it's sorta hot. Last night he had his head buried in his laptop and I asked him what he was working on. He was studying a report on the trade tariffs with China, which is just as boring as it sounds but I made him tell me about it anyway just to hear him talk.

"I like him," Violet blurts. "Okay? The problem is I like him."

"Ohhhh," I say slowly, because why on earth is that a problem? My sister really needs to lighten the fuck up. "Are you worried you're going to fall in love with him and have dumb children?" I suppose that is a real concern. Statistically it's a miracle my baby's daddy isn't an idiot, because I dated a lot of idiots before the dick diet.

"Daisy, he's not dumb. Can you focus, please? He's not dumb and we're not having children."

"You never know. Shit happens." Probably not to Violet though. Good twin, remember?

"Focus," she repeats.

"Okay, okay. So what exactly is the problem? He's hot. Good in bed. Smart. Nice. Makes you laugh and you like him. This is you living your best life, Violet. Embrace it."

"He asked me to have dinner with him."

Holy crap. So did my baby daddy and possible fiancé! We are so twinning right now. I wish I could tell her, because she loves it when we twin, but now is not the time. So instead I say, "Yeah, that sounds like a huge problem. Wear my navy dress. The one with the lace hem. I know I packed it."

"It's just that he was supposed to be a one-night stand, not make me fall for him."

"Take it from me, a lot of things happen that aren't supposed to."

"Was that meant to be reassuring?"

"Violet." I soften my tone because I need her to take me seriously. “None of this is a problem, trust me. This is the fun stuff. Go to dinner. Have fun. Screw his brains out. You'll figure the rest out later. Or he'll annoy the shit out of you before the week is over and the rest won't matter."

"Sage advice."

"It really is. And remember, sometimes the best things in life are unplanned."

"Like twins," she agrees. "I love you, Daisy. You're my cupcake."

"Love you too, sprinkles. Have fun!"

When we hang up I say a silent prayer that this British guy is worthy of Violet. Then I say another that she'll forgive me for keeping this baby a secret.

12

Daisy

Kyle picks me up at six on the dot. When we're in the car he hands me a box. A ring box. No words, just the box. Swear to God, it was just sitting in a cup holder in the console between us when he picked it up and handed it to me like he was passing me a stick of gum.

It's the ring. Like, the ring.

"Kyle, this is the exact ring I described to your sister and grandmother."

"I know. I hope it's what you wanted because you're stuck with it now."

"I..." I stare at the ring nestled inside the box. Then I stare some more, because I have no idea what to say.

"Unless you want to make up an elaborate story about something happening to this ring," he says drily. "Then we could pick out something else. If you prefer."

I'm still staring at the ring. He listened to me? He was actually listening to that crazy-pants story I told his grandmother? In detail? He listened and he committed the details to memory and then he went out and got the exact ring of my dreams?

Okay, so.

Exhale.

Logically I know there are at least four things at hand that need to be dealt with right now. Things of importance. But I'm feeling weirdly emotional.

The fact that Kyle changed before our date didn't help. And he did a full-on strip-tease with his tie that got me all worked up. By which I mean he took it off like a normal man but fuckkkkk, it was hot. You know that maneuver when they grab it with one hand and loosen the knot? Yum. Then he put on a pair of jeans, really soft jeans, before rolling back the sleeves of his shirt, which we already know does things to me. Pregnancy hormones are no joke. Also I'm a bit of a slut so I should stop blaming the pregnancy for everything.

Anyway.

My heart has swooned. It's flopped over into a full swoon. I imagine if I could see my heart right now it looks exactly like Tubbs looks when he rolls onto his back, belly exposed, paws in the air, like a morbidly obese sea otter.

I take it out of the box and slip it onto my finger. Unreal. He even got the sizing correct on my fictional fantasy ring. Except wait a second. The box is bearing the name of a high-end jewelry store so I think this freaking ring might not be as fake as the story I told when I described it. "Wait a second." I wiggle the fingers on my left hand. "Is this real?"

"Of course it's real. Do you think I'd let my wife walk around with a fake ring? I need to ward off every man in a five-mile radius, remember?"

For fuck’s sake with that again. "I was making you look good," I remind him. "You just left this sitting in your car while you came upstairs to change?"

"Relax. It's insured. I know how that gets you off."

God, it really sort of does. Which is new. I used to get really hot and bothered about men on motorcycles or, worse, musicians. I wonder if I'm having a biological response to being pregnant? Like some women nest, going crazy cleaning their homes before the baby arrives. Maybe my uterus got all excited by the introduction of nest-worthy sperm and is now trying to get me on board for the kind of partner who reads about taxes for fun.