Steeling myself, I take a deep breath and head to our portrait studio.

I can handle him.

I rap on the ajar door then push it open. “Knock, knock.”

The man waiting inside is the spitting image of the dog next to him—tall, graying, and angular. He strides over to me, Harriet in perfect lockstep.

His dark eyes are full of too much affection, and his smile is straight from a How to Try Too Hard handbook. “So good to see you, Roxy.”

“Hi, Henry,” I say carefully, unsure of what to expect from him.

He wraps his arms around me in a rather adhesive hug.

“How are you?” he asks earnestly, his nose getting a little too close to my hair. Let’s be honest, he doesn’t need to smell me to say hello or for any other reason. Harriet sniffs my thigh, but that I understand. Sniff all you want, girl.

“I’m well.”

He sighs contentedly into my neck. “It’s been so long.”

“Not really that long,” I say, remaining ramrod straight.

“Four months?” He separates slightly to meet my eyes.

“That’s not long in the scheme of things. Blink of an eye and all.”

“Harriet and I miss you so,” he says, and my gaze strays to the Weimaraner’s big brown eyes. Her tail thumps on the floor, and I believe her. She might miss me.

But Henry? He misses the idea of me.

We went on three dates. Count ’em. Three. We walked his dog on the first date, and at the end he told me we had crazy chemistry.

Not true. My chemistry was entirely with the canine—that girl can fetch, run, and give great love snuggles. But Henry was so much sweeter than anyone else I’d dated, so I agreed to a second outing.

Plus, Harriet.

That next time as we played mini golf, he wandered up behind me at the seventeenth hole, placed his head on my shoulder, and said happily, “I’m falling for you, Rox.”

Possibly that was just a Machiavellian strategy to knock me off my game. Because we were neck and neck until that confession. It took me six tries to get the damn purple ball past the windmill fans after that.

As we walked away from the final hole, I was cycling through my ready-made list of excuses to avoid a third outing, but I remembered the string of bad dates I’d been on before him, as well as the men who said they’d call and didn’t, the men who turned out to be secretly married, and the men who bored me to tears too.

Give Henry a chance, a little voice said.

When he asked me out once more, my little voice took over from the big one and said yes.

Stupid little voices. Don’t listen to them.

On that date, over eggplant curry, he asked me to marry him.

There was no fourth date.

“And how is Miss Harriet doing?” I ask, diverting attention to the canine, scratching her chin.

She rubs her snout against me and pants happily.

“Look at that!” he says. “It’s meant to be.”

Time to tap dance. “It means she wants her photo. I’m so excited you’re here for a picture.”

His gray eyes shine with the Cling Factor—it’s strong in this one. “I’m excited too. In so many ways.”

Oops, wrong approach.

I recalibrate, focusing on the practicality of the photo. “Why don’t you two sit on the couch? It’s perfect for a pair like you.”

“We look alike, don’t we?”

Most owners deny they look like their pets. But Henry embraces their sameness. “You sure do,” I say, raising the camera as he moves to the couch.

He smiles widely, leaning his head next to the dog’s. “Does that mean you think I’m handsome?”

This is why dating hates me. Dating and I never spoke the same language.

I don’t answer. I simply smile as I snap more shots, hoping against hope he doesn’t have a ring in his pocket and isn’t going to try to mulligan his proposal.

“Do you think so?” he asks, persisting.

I gesture for him to scoot over. “Just move a little to the left.” Dart, dodge, dance away. I can do this.

“Maybe kiss the dog too?” he offers, then brings his lips to Harriet’s snout.

“Sure, go crazy.”

He peppers kisses all over Harriet’s face as I capture them.

When we’re done, he moves closer to me again, asking to see the shots. I inch away as I show him the back of the camera.

But his eyes aren’t on the screen. They’re on me. “Roxy, what if I told you these pictures were just a way to see you again?”

Gee, I’d be so shocked.

I school my lips into my best all-business smile. “Thanks, Henry, that’s really nice to say. But I have a Great Dane who needs his toenails clipped, so I should go.”

The Great Dane isn’t coming till this afternoon.

Henry grabs my wrist. “Maybe I came across too strong last time. But look, I’m willing to slow the pace. Like Harriet—she can run, but she can also trot and walk. Would you like to trot with me?”

I don’t even want to crawl with him.

I hate to do this. I hate to use my situation for this purpose. But it seems I’m going to need the biggest guns today.

I set a hand on my stomach. “The thing is, Henry, I’m pregnant.”

His jaw drops. He opens his lips. He sputters, saying something that sounds vaguely like “Congratulations.” He grabs the dog’s leash and hightails it out of there onto Madison Avenue.

Wow. I never knew the baby in my belly would be so effective at warding off all the dates I don’t want.

Ironic, because those dates are the very reason there is a baby in my belly.

* * *

I grab my purse, checking to make sure I have crackers. They’re safe and sound. Fortunately, I’ve managed to avoid morning sickness for the most part. The only thing that makes me want to retch is too much perfume, and I have a hunch I won’t have to worry about that at lunch with two men. My brother texted me earlier to ask how I was feeling, and when my immediate reply was good but starving, he said I should join him for lunch, so I’m heading out to meet my brother and Miles.

Along the way, I text William to ask if he can order me a pasta dish and to remind him not to make any pregnancy jokes. I’m thirteen weeks along, coasting out of the first trimester, but I haven’t told anyone about the baby except family and my best friend.

When I do, the questions will come fast and furious, and I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for them.