Tearing myself away from pregnancy websites has become a real challenge.

There are things I need to know. Like, is it normal at fifteen weeks for my boobs to turn into bazongas?

Because holy knockers. Look at these melons.

As I google breast-size changes, my eyes pop at the slew of information. It’s common to go up a cup size or two, especially if it’s your first pregnancy.

I thought the breast ballooning would come later, but hallelujah. These are some ta-tas to sing about. As I get ready for the reunion, I turn to my side in the mirror, admiring my larger assets. I smooth a hand down the soft green fabric of my dress, hunting for the first signs of a baby bump now that I’m fifteen weeks along.

I stop below my belly button. Is that it? That soft little pillow that my belly’s becoming?

To be fair, it’s a little hard to tell. It’s not as if the bump has to fight its way past a shredded six pack to be seen. I’m naturally soft in the middle. Yes, I exercise, and Krav Maga is a good friend of mine. But I also don’t believe in deprivation, so my belly regularly savors good food and tasty desserts.

I grab some earrings from my bureau, fasten on a slim silver necklace with a tiny dog-bone charm that Mackenzie gave me when I opened Fluffy & Fabulous, and slide into black leather pumps.

I return to my laptop to shut down the browser tabs. I’m a big believer in hiding the evidence. You never know, right? My mother drilled into me to take morning showers, look your best when leaving the house, and always wear clean underwear. Maybe this compulsion comes from the same place.

If the cops come for Lord knows what reason, I don’t need them to see my Saturday afternoon habits include a fiesta of standard pregnancy sites, crazier pregnancy sites, pages of lingerie for C-cups, trivia questions on pop culture and sports facts, photos of lemurs, and, oh yeah, the website for Joy Delivered. I might have ordered a new five-speed, dual-action vibrator on account of being a teeny bit . . . frisky.

Time to shut down all these little windows to my soul.

But as I click on the last tab for my email, I spot a new message from Genevieve. My nerves spike as I open it.

Thank you again for your interest in our building. Your application is still under review. We received the additional documents you sent, and we appreciate the references from your clients. Please note, we have many applicants for this apartment, and we are endeavoring to find the best fit for all the residents.

I groan in frustration, sticking my tongue out at her email. I shut that tab too. Best to put the apartment hunt out of my mind. You’d think having a solid income and a sterling credit report would be all you’d need to land a good place to live. But I’ve learned it takes a kind of alchemy to nab a decent pad in this city.

Grabbing my clutch, I check the time on my phone. Miles said he’d be sending a car for me in five minutes, so I expect the new text on my phone to be from him.

But it’s from Mackenzie.

A smile spreads immediately, since I always love seeing my best friend, and I especially appreciate her stealth skills in commandeering my ride. As I set my hand on the doorknob, Alan speaks.

Me-owwwwww.

That’s his “pretty please, may I have some catnip” cry, so I answer the call, pinching some of the herbs into a small dish and placing it on the floor.

With his tail high, Alan saunters over, and Gloria darts up from the couch, trotting behind him. He reaches the treat first and hisses at her, then dips his chin to the herb. The second the little leaves touch his face, he’s purring, and that’s Gloria’s cue that he won’t whack her with his claws.

She dips her face to the dish and lights up with him, rolling on her back, getting a cat high.

“You two have a whacked relationship. You know that, right?”

They ignore me.

I leave, the door clicking behind me, then head to the street where I find my trivia partner poking her blonde head out the window of a stretch limo and waving like a madwoman.

“Did you commandeer my wheels, girl?” I call.

She nods proudly as the chauffeur emerges. “When I heard Miles ordered you a stretch limo, I had to steal a ride.”

The chauffeur says hello and opens the door for me, and I slide in next to my loony friend. “Are you coming along to the reunion? Miles didn’t mention that.”

“Miles didn’t mention that,” she parrots in a singsong.

“Why is that funny?” I ask, laughing.

She wiggles her eyebrows as I sink into the soft leather seat. “The way you say it makes it sound like you and he are a thing.”

“We’re not a thing, and you know it.” I eye her getup—jeans and a button-down blouse. She doesn’t look like she’s going to an event. “But are you coming along?”

She shakes her head. “Kid duty for me tonight. I promised Sam I’d introduce her to the glory of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Can you believe she hasn’t seen it?”

I shudder. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“It’s a tragedy. But fortunately, it’s one Kyle and I can remedy, so we plan on indoctrinating her into the awesome tonight. Anyway, I just wanted to ride in luxury for a few minutes. I’ll jump out when we’re across town.”

“Will this be a moving escape? Do you plan to open the door and tumble, Jason Bourne–style?”

She slugs half her glass of champagne as the driver pulls away from the curb. “’S possible.” She taps the glass. “This is tasty. Shame you can’t have it.”

“Six more months till I can get drunk again,” I say dryly, since we both know I’m not that keen on the stuff even when I’m not with child.

She eyes my body from knees to chest, checking out my outfit. “You look hot. Admit it, you kind of see this as a date,” she says, continuing the theme she began when I mentioned earlier in the week I’d be attending this reunion.

I shake my head. “I’m just going as . . . Miles’s friend.”

She arches a brow. “But that’s a date dress.”

“It’s an event dress,” I correct. “If you invited me to your reunion, I’d wear this as well.”

“Are you trying to get me to test the theory?”

I laugh. “No, but if you ever need a shield at your reunion, I’d do you the service too. There. Fair enough?”

“Fine.” She harrumphs then finishes the bubbly. “But are you going to tell him about the thing growing inside you?”

I let out a deep breath. “I don’t know. If it feels right, I guess. I honestly don’t know if I’m ready to start telling everyone yet.”

“Because of your mom?” she asks softly.

She’s nailed it. “I love her, but she’s judgy, and she gets in my head. I don’t want to have to hear everyone’s opinion like I have to hear hers. Maybe that’s why I haven’t told many people, as much as the fact that it’s early days.”

“I hear ya. When I was pregnant, I definitely felt there was far too much explaining to do.”

I laugh softly, knowing where she’s coming from, since the father of her child is her gay best friend. He’d believed he was bisexual up until one drunken night in college when he told Mack he’d never had sex with a woman and wanted to know what it was like. As Mack tells the story, that sexual encounter resulted in two things: he learned he preferred men, and he accidentally put the bun of Kyle in her oven. “You understand, then, why I want to keep it my secret for a bit? It’s not like Miles needs to know. We’re not a thing. I don’t have to tell him.”

She hums. “True, but I’ve seen the looks the two of you give each other at parties.”

A butterfly dares to flitter through my chest, and I should keep the question bubbling up inside me locked down. But it dances across my lips, as I ask, “What sort of looks?”

A tingle races over my shoulders as I wait for her to answer. Does he give me the looks I want him to give?

Wait, wait. I can’t want him to give me looks. Except I sort of do.

Mack lifts one corner of her lips slyly. “Flirty looks. Dirty looks. Sexy looks. I-like-you looks.” Peering closely at me, she asks, “You don’t realize how the two of you are when you’re together?”

The tingle transforms into a swoop, having the audacity to zip down my chest, like a skier shooting down an Olympic trail, fast and hell-bent.

I shake my head. “I don’t think I do.”

“Roxy,” she chides.

“Mackenzie,” I say, firing back at her.

“C’mon. You know you guys have this vibe.”

I glance out the window as the limo weaves through blessedly light Saturday evening traffic, then I turn back to her. “Fine. I mean, it’s not as if he’s hideous.”

“He’s sort of the opposite, right?” She winks.

I wag a finger at her. “Don’t try to lead the witness.”

“You’re already there. You’re led.”

“Fine. Maybe we click, click, click. But there are a million stumbling blocks. Or, really, two big ones.” I count off on one finger. “One, I’m pregnant.” Then a second. “Two, my brother. He branched out on his own a few years ago, and Miles is one of his first clients. I'm not going to do anything to rock the boat.”

Mackenzie nods. “I understand that. You never know if things might go badly for him if it turns south.”

“Exactly. What if something happened, and Miles turned into an asshole and fired William?”

“I don’t think he’s that high in the Asshole Factor, as you would say, but I get it—it’s the unknown.”

“Also, back to point number one, I’m pretty much like anthrax to men right now.”

“Maybe Miles likes anthrax.”

I crack up, shaking my head, remembering how Henry shot straight out the door like his ass was on fire when he learned of my condition. “Doubtful.”

She glances out the window. “I need to execute my jump-and-roll any second. But watch out for this ‘click, click, click’ you’re talking about. It can turn into something like that. Look at Miller and Ally.”

When the limo pulls over, Mackenzie gives me a hug and takes off to join the kids. Briefly, I think of Miller and Ally, two best friends who clicked so well recently that they’ll be walking down the aisle to Pachelbel’s Canon in the fall.

But that's not going to happen to me. I pat my stomach. I have a built-in man-shield.

When I reach the high school, I thank the driver and head inside, walking past the soft blue and white lights in the main entryway, which is full of trophies and plaques from winning teams and National Merit awards. I follow the signs and the silver streamers, turning into the auditorium.

I find Miles behind a stage that has probably witnessed high school graduations, speeches, and musicals. His eyes take a leisurely stroll up and down my body. The way he stares, every zone in my body feels erogenous. Especially the boob zone, where he spends more time than usual.

When he slides his gaze up to my face, he looks hypnotized, then he shakes it off and brings me in for a hug. “So glad you’re here, Rox. Now go enjoy the show, and I’ll find you the second we’re done.”

Once it starts, I do enjoy the show. I never saw the Heartbreakers in concert when they were in their heyday. I’ve never been a concert person. Not that I’m opposed to music, but my mother set a precedent when I was in eighth grade and my friends had a chance to see P!nk perform. I asked her if I could go, but the next day I had to take the prep school entrance exam, so the answer was no.

“It’s a better use of your time to stay in and study,” she’d said.

That’s what I mostly did in high school, listening to music on the radio as I worked through math problems and wrote essays on the Vietnam War. The Heartbreakers kept me company that way. Later, when Miles became a solo artist, I’d find myself humming his tunes when I heard them play in Starbucks, or while riding the escalator at Bed Bath & Beyond.

I became a fan, but I’m not a fangirl like some of the others here tonight. I don’t just mean the women. The Heartbreakers have fanboys and fangirls, singing along, belting out tunes. They’re crowding the stage, and the security guards hired when the Heartbreakers were confirmed for the event are standing on alert, arms crossed. Fortunately, there are no bras or panties thrown at the stage, nor briefs or belts either. I’m glad Miles’s high school class is full of fans but not crazy groupies.

The music reverberates in the gymnasium as the trio of gorgeous brothers sings love songs and fun songs and sexy songs while disco balls twirl from the ceiling and strobe lights flash.

When the set nears the end and they dive into one of Miles’s most popular solo tunes, a love song called “Today,” I swear his eyes find mine in the crowd as he sings about yesterdays and tomorrows. The way he sings turns the tingles into sparks, and I’m feeling it now for sure—that click, click, click of my heart, or maybe it’s my hormones.

Whatever it is, my breath comes faster as I dance.

When the show ends and the band thanks the crowd, that’s my cue to find him backstage. He’s sweaty, and I’ve never found sweat so sexy before. He drapes an arm around me, drops a kiss to my cheek, and says, “Hey, sexy bodyguard.”

My voice is a little breathier than I expect as I reply, “Reporting for duty.”