I didn’t reply. I raced out the door. My Manolos clicked along the sidewalk. In a second, I arrived at the intersection where the Park Avenue traffic whizzed by in both directions. The commotion confused me until my eye landed on the newsstand at the corner. I strode over and picked up the same tabloid magazine Addison showed me.
The enormous headline screamed to the world. Two in the Oven for the President’s Billionaire Bad Boy Brother. A glossy candid photo of me walking in the park with Gray covered the whole magazine, but I didn’t notice that. I focused on the date in the upper right-hand corner. Today was June 15th, and I married Gray on the first of May. I hadn’t had my period in over five weeks.
I slipped the magazine back into its place, but I made sure to do it slowly and carefully. I made sure I did nothing then or on the trip home to attract anyone’s attention. The last thing I needed was some paparazzi splashing another headline across the world about how irrationally pregnant I was acting.
What if that magazine was right? What if I really was pregnant? What would Tanya do to me then? I couldn’t paint Gray in a worse light than this. I could just imagine the headline then. President’s Brother Fakes His Own Wedding? No, wait, Billionaire Bad Boy Knocks Up Patsy Hooker. Or even better: Billionaire Bad Boy Bags Another One.
I had to slow down near Central Park to get myself together. My stomach fluttered thinking about it all. I didn’t even know if I was pregnant. I might just be late—very late, catastrophically late.
I couldn’t face Gray. I couldn’t bear to see the look on his face when he found out. That satisfied glow in his eyes would turn to icy hard disgust. He would turn his back on me. I would never again feel his silky skin. I would never kiss that tender place next to his heart. I would never fall asleep hearing his heartbeat in my ear when I laid my head on his sternum.
I couldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t tell him. I would take this secret to the grave. I stepped to the curb and flagged a cab. I got in and gave the driver his address. How much longer would I stay in his penthouse? When I started showing, I would move back to my parents’ house in disgrace.
11
Gray
I held the limo door open. Gabi shielded her eyes from the explosive flashbulbs popping off in every direction. I didn’t. I looked right into them. I confronted the paparazzi, took Gabi on my arm, and escorted her to the restaurant.
I nodded to the maître d’, who waved me forward, even though other patrons packed the entrance and waited for tables. Gabi took two steps when someone called out from behind us, “One more, Mr. Donovan.”
I turned around. “Okay. One more.”
The photographer crouched behind his camera and crunched up his face. “Let us see you kiss her. Come on, Mr. Donovan. Kiss her just once.”
I turned my beaming face on Gabi. “Okay. Just this once.”
She smiled when I took her in my arms and kissed her. More flash bulbs blew, and bystanders took out their phones to snap pictures. I took her arm again, and we followed the maître d’ inside.
I sat down at the quiet table in the back where the maître d’ gestured us into our seats. I pulled out Gabi’s chair for her, and we settled down to dinner. The maître d’ brought a bottle of the best Merlot, but Gabi waved him off at half a glass.
I cocked his head. “What’s the matter? I thought you liked the Merlot.”
“I do,” she replied. “I guess I’m just tired.”
I looked around. “Maybe you’re tired of this place. We’ve been here at least once a week for the last two months. Maybe we should try something different.”
“I like this place,” she told me. “Besides, you want to frequent the same place all the time so you can maintain your hold in the magazines. The paparazzi can’t take your picture if they don’t know where to find you.”
I shrugged. “They would find us, and maybe we would have a week or two of peace and quiet until they do.”
At that moment, a shout went up from the front door. The maître d’ put out his hand, but a young reporter already broke past him and rushed up to our table. He held his notebook in his palm and a pencil at the ready. “Can you confirm the rumor, Mr. Donovan? Are you and Mrs. Donovan really having twins? When are you due? How’s the pregnancy going? Any morning sickness yet? Have you seen a doctor? Have you had your first ultrasound?”
The maître d’ hustled over and snatched the man by the jacket. “Get away from them.”
The reporter struggled to break free, but I only beamed at him. I waved his hand. “Cut it out. You know it’s all BS.”
The reporter stopped putting up a fight, and the maître d’ hauled him out of the restaurant. The maître d’ came hurrying back, but when he tried to apologize, I brushed him aside. “Forget it. You did all you could. I saw that.”
The man vanished, and I took a luxurious sip of wine. I trained my gaze on Gabi, but she kept her eyes fixed on an invisible speck on the tablecloth.
I waited, but she didn’t look up. “Babe?”
She flicked the speck away. “Hmm?”
“Are you okay? That guy didn’t mean anything. You know how these reporters are.”
She didn’t look up, and she didn’t say anything.