“Not anyone in your family.” He pushed one of the glasses across the counter and took the other for himself.
“How is she?” How do you think she is, moron?
Hunter shrugged. “She sounded okay, I guess, given the circumstances.”
Circumstances like being publicly accused of manipulation and deceit by a man she thought she loved after telling him she was pregnant with his child? He already regretted the words. Savannah lived life openly and spontaneously. Manipulation wasn’t part of her makeup. Good or bad, she held nothing back. He couldn’t say the same for himself. “She told you what happened?”
“I got the gist. I didn’t actually talk to her very long. I mostly spoke to someone named Sinclair, and if you’re inclined to keep your balls, I’d avoid her for the next little while if I were you.” He downed his drink and then gave a long, eighty-proof exhale.
Beau did the same and slid his empty glass back to Hunter.
His partner gave him a speculative look. “You ready to talk, or do you want to shut up and drink?”
Easiest decision he’d made all night. “Shut up and drink.”
…
“You’re too calm. I’m worried you’re in shock.” Sinclair donned oven mitts and opened her old, battered oven. The smell of apple pie wafted out even before she reached in and extracted the steaming pastry.
Maybe she was in shock, because Savannah fought an urge to laugh at the incongruity of Sinclair standing there in her high heels and racy black dress, now accessorized with flaming skull oven mitts and a piping hot pie. She didn’t give in to the impulse because of a strong fear that if she unleashed her emotions, she’d soon be sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m not in shock. I’m just—” She splayed her hands on the worn surface of Sinclair’s antique pine table and searched for the right explanation. “Tonight went about as poorly as it could have, but screaming and crying won’t improve anything.”
“And pie will?”
“They call it comfort food for a reason.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know how comforting a frozen apple pie from the gas station food mart is going to be.” She placed the pie on a trivet in the middle of the table alongside two forks, took off the oven mitts, and sat down across from Savannah. “Chances are it’s not going to stand up to your homemade version, but my options were limited, given it’s Christmas.”
“How bad can they screw up pie?”
Sinclair handed her a fork and then dug into the domed center of the flaky crust with her own. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Savannah dug in as well. They spent a moment blowing on the steaming forkfuls.
Sinclair inhaled. “It smells good.”
“It does. Looks pretty good, too.”
They took bites at the same time.
“Oh my God.” Sinclair’s face fell. “Worst pie ever.” She took another bite, as if she couldn’t believe what her taste buds were telling her. “It’s a crime against pie. It’s crap.”
“It is,” Savannah agreed around a mouthful of dry, hard apple chunks, synthetic, gloppy filling, and a crumbly sawdust crust. She swallowed and, to her horror, burst into tears. “A-and I’m the worst mom ever, because I’m feeding my baby crap.”
Sinclair was at her side immediately. “You’re not the worst mother ever.”
“I am.” Crappy gas-station pie was a ridiculous trigger, but now that the tears had started, she couldn’t seem to stop them. “What if I’ve just ruined pie for this baby forever?” She tossed her fork down. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I can’t do this on my own.”
“You’re not on your own.” Her sister took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “You will never be on your own. You’ve got me. Mom and Dad, Beau’s parents—“
“M-mom and Dad are so horrified they can’t even look at m-me.”
“They’re in shock—angry and disappointed you lied to them—but they’ll forgive you. They love you, and they’re going to love their grandchild. As for Beau’s parents, let Beau deal with them…at whatever point he pulls his chickenshit head out of his ass.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“He will.”
“Were you not just cursing him out thoroughly to his partner on the phone an hour ago?”