Pam took half a step back and reached up to frame Peter’s face with her palms, her eyes bright. “I’m not eligible…because I’m already pregnant.”
“What? What?” Peter asked, his whisper turning into a shout.
Pam nodded happily. “They were doing the preliminary exam, then did a blood test, and…oh my God. We’re having a baby, Pete!”
Andrew swallowed a lump in his throat as two of the most important people in his life held each other and wept.
They were so damned happy. Of course they were.
And that’s when he realized.
The happy moment unfolding in front of him wasn’t the result of playing it safe, of sticking to facts and logic. If they’d done that, they’d have listened to the dozens of doctors who’d told them that they couldn’t conceive. Instead they were happy because they’d been willing to put everything on the line to fight for what they wanted. Each other. A baby. A family.
And that sort of pursuit of joy was what Georgiana Watkins did every day. He’d been wrong. She wasn’t blindly waiting for some fairy tale; she was just smart enough to believe that she deserved it.
And she did deserve it. She deserved a happily-ever-after more than anyone else he’d ever known. But fuck, so did he. More important, he wanted it. He wanted the happily-ever-after. He wanted it with her.
Andrew had been wrong to imply that Georgiana didn’t have a brain, but she’d been wrong too. He was no Tin Man—he had a heart.
And it belonged to Georgiana Watkins.
Georgie
THURSDAY MORNING, OBSCENELY EARLY
Panting and thirsty as heck, I make my way to the bar. I could go up to the VIP section, where my crew has a table, but I want a club soda.
I’m also sick to death of having to fake a smile as though I’m having the time of my life. I’m not having a bad night, but honestly? It’s the first time I’ve been out with my friends since learning of my parents’ divorce plans and since my fight with Andrew, and I’m trying to get back to my happy place, I really am. But every smile feels plastic, every laugh hollow.
The bartender gives me attention immediately, probably courtesy of one of my more scandalous dresses, a V-neck black number that’s skintight and doesn’t provide much coverage up top or down below.
Marley told me to wear it. Called it a revenge dress.
And when I glance up and find a good-looking guy with brown hair and dark blue eyes making his way toward me, I realize what she means.
“Hey.”
I stifle a sigh. Such a great opening. “Hi there.”
“Jason. Dance?”
Seriously? I glance at the wall of the club, half expecting to find cave drawings etched into it. I would not at all be surprised if this guy’s next meal plan involved clubbing an animal and asking his female companion to pick berries.
But since I have no intention of being that female companion and, being perfectly sober, can stay true to that…
“Yeah, sure,” I say with a shrug. “I’ll dance.”
I let Jason lead me onto the dance floor, trying to ignore that his hands are both too big and too soft. Something I become even more aware of when he pulls me against him and…just sort of grinds.
I don’t even bother to sigh. What was I thinking, really?
Unfortunately, the song isn’t one I recognize, so I can’t gauge how much longer I have to endure the torture of his hands all over me.
I grit my teeth and run through my gamut of excuses, trying to find the one that seems the least rude.
Turns out I don’t need one.
Jason steps back so suddenly I nearly fall, but strong hands steady me.