The touch of his lips was still imprinted on hers as Shane led Priscilla outside, the door to the Philly Marry-Me Chapel closing behind them as they stepped onto the sidewalk.

Whatever she had imagined feeling when Shane Olson finally kissed her—a sort of affectionate amusement over his lack of technique the probable forerunner—the deluge of hot, unbridled lust that had flooded her body had been entirely unexpected. Maybe it was the tender way he had held her face or the deliberate, reverent way he’d initially touched his lips to hers. Maybe it was the touch of his choppy, excited breath on her sensitive skin or the way his arms—those strong arms that she felt a longing for even now—had encircled her, hauling her firmly against his body. Maybe it was the hot, satin slide of his tongue against hers or the undeniable ridge of his erection straining against her thigh through his pressed khaki pants. It didn’t really matter why…but Priscilla had been thrown entirely off-balance by their kiss, and she would have stood there kissing him forever had Pastor Don not cleared his throat, loudly and repeatedly, in an effort to interrupt them.

In fact, she’d been so limp and speechless when Shane had finally stopped kissing her, she’d been able to do little more than lean her forehead against his shoulder, trying to catch her breath. In the end, it was Shane who’d taken his wallet out of his back pocket and given Marcel a credit card to pay for the ceremony and his ring. Then he’d taken her hand, grinned at her, and led her outside without a word.

What had just happened?

Where on earth had that kiss come from?

And were there others like it hidden inside of him, just waiting to be set free?

“So. We’re…married,” he said softly, his fingers still woven between hers as they stood side by side in the dusky light staring at the street.

“Uh-huh,” she murmured, still reeling.

“I don’t know what I expected, but it felt…serious, didn’t it?”

“It definitely got real in there,” she agreed. “Husband…wife…partnership…forever.”

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t…”

“What?”

“I didn’t know we’d have to kiss,” he said, looking down at her as she turned slightly to catch his eyes. “Did that surprise you?”

Yes, it had caught her off guard, but what was way more surprising was how much his kiss had affected her. Her nipples were still hard and peaked. She could feel the dampness of her panties. Her heart fluttered endlessly, no doubt because her body was desperate for more.

“Mm-hm.”

“Did you mind?” he asked.

She’d promised to be honest about all things. “No. I didn’t mind.”

“I can do better,” he said quickly, his eyes serious.

“I doubt it.”

“Oh,” he muttered, his eyebrows crashing together, his fingers trying to untangle from hers.

Damn it.

“Shane,” she said, tightening her fingers through his, refusing to let them go. He looked down at her, his expression caught between embarrassment and anger. “It was a good kiss. Really good.” She watched as his face relaxed, her eyes lingering on his lips with a yearning that ached. “I only doubt you can’t do better because it was already really good.”

“Well, I’m going to try anyway,” he said, his eyes darkening to black as he dipped his head to claim her mouth again.

This time, she felt less gentleness and more urgency in his actions—in the way he dropped her hand and wrapped his arms around her, jerking her against him. She wound her arms around his neck, opening her lips wide to his seeking tongue, moaning with pleasure as it explored the hidden spaces of her mouth, sliding against hers as his fingers curled on her lower back.

Had she misjudged him? Underestimated his experience?

Was he a stiff businessman by day and some sort of closet sex fiend by night?

Because she could barely hold onto a thought, she was so swept away by the sensations he roused within her. She felt off-balance. She felt a little lost, the overconfidence that had made it easy to laugh at him replaced with something deeper and more frightening: tendrils of hope unfurling deep within her.

Pulling away from him, she broke off the kiss and leaned her forehead on his shoulder as she had inside, wanting him to hold and reassure her, needing to know that whatever was happening between them, he was experiencing it too. She didn’t want to feel alone.

“I didn’t expect it to be like this,” she whispered.

“Like what?” he asked, rubbing her back.

“Hot.”

She felt him clench his jaw against her temple. “I did.”

Leaning away from him, she looked up into his dark, dilated eyes. “You did?”

“The chemistry was always there, P.” She was ready to test that chemistry again—hell, all night long. But he changed gears suddenly, dropping his arms from around her and asking, “So what’s the plan? When should we tell your father?”

Back to business. She sighed, missing his touch already. “I thought you wanted to wait a month. For Margaret’s sake.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “That’s best, isn’t it?”

“I’ll talk to her first. Try to explain.”

“What will you say?”

“I don’t know yet.”

His eyes slid to her abdomen. “Is the truth not an option?”

“Not yet.”

“Friendship, then?”

“How do you mean?”

He shrugged. “We became friends last fall when you worked at your father’s office. You overheard what happened at Forrester last Friday. Marry a Story daughter or I lose my chance to run the company. You swooped in to save the day. Out of friendship.”

For no rational reason, she thought she might scream if he used the word “friend” one more time…especially after kissing her twice like the world was ending and the only way to save it was by playing a rousing game of tonsil hockey.

“Well, you’re a slick liar, Shane Olson.”

“I don’t lie,” he said quickly, his eyes flashing. “We certainly got to know each other a little last fall, didn’t we? Friends might be pressing it, but we’re certainly acquainted, and acquaintances are a sort of friend, aren’t they? You did overhear what happened. Your father does want me for a son-in-law. You did ask me to marry you. Where’s the deceit?”

In how you’re making me feel, she thought. In how my heart jumped when Pastor Don called me your wife. In the way my body is standing here wishing—with every passing second—that you’d stop talking business and kiss me again.

“Priscilla?”

“I guess you’re right,” she said.

“So when will you tell her?”

She sighed. “We have a brunch date next Saturday. Maybe then.”

“And based on her reaction, we can choose a time to speak to your father. How do you think he’ll feel about our…um, eloping?”

She shrugged. Better than he’ll feel about a bastard grandchild.

“Fine,” she murmured. “Honestly, I don’t really think he’ll care. Probably be glad he saved money on a wedding and reception.”

“Great,” he said, nodding like they’d just signed a contract on the dotted line and it was time to move on to postdeal pleasantries. Her own mood, however, had become increasingly sour.

“Great.”

“So do you have dinner plans?”

“What, now?”

He nodded. “I’m not busy. Want to get a bite?”

“Oh, are we done with business now?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she snapped. “You just shift gears from kissing to negotiations a little quickly for my taste.”

“I just wanted to get the details sorted.” He cocked his head to the side, but his eyes were wary. “Can we just—look, there’s a pizza place up the road. I bet you’re hungry. Come on.”

“Thank you for marrying me. I don’t want dinner. I’m going home.”

He grabbed her hand as she tried to leave and spun her around. “We agreed this was complicated. We agreed it was a temporary arrangement. It’s best if we don’t make it more confusing.” He paused, his eyes dropping to her lips momentarily before he lifted them. “I got carried away, but I shouldn’t have kissed you a second time. I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

Her jaw dropped, and she wrestled her hand from his. “Lead me on?!”

He threw up his hands. “I’m saying everything wrong.”

“I’ll say!”

“Look…” He ran a hand through his hair, looking exasperated. “You’re…you. A self-proclaimed rolling stone. A wild child. The black sheep. Zero interest in your family’s business. Wasting your time with clay and finger paint.”

“What?! Wasting my—?”

“Getting yourself pregnant by a married man, then marrying someone else to secure your inheritance. You have no insurance, no way to support yourself except living off of—”

“Now wait a sec—”

“—an inherited trust fund you never even earned. You had every luxury, every opportunity, and what did you do with it? You indulged yourself as some kind of free-spirited Van Gogh. Well, fine. You only had yourself to worry about. But now you’re having a kid, Priscilla, and what’s your big plan?” He paused for a moment before answering his own question: “Living in a barn for a while until you get the urge to wander! What kind of life is that for a child?” he demanded, throwing his hands up in the air and barking, “Grow up!”

She gasped in shock, and her heart was beating so fast, she felt light-headed. She curled her fingers into fists, certain they were drawing blood from her palms.

“You’re a self-righteous fucking prick A judgmental, clodhopping snob,” she spat.

He flinched, clenching his jaw before looking away from her.

“And—and you’re a toadying suck-up!” she continued. “An unrepentant social climber who probably didn’t fit in at prep school, bussing tables in the dining hall and feeling sorry for yourself when your classmates headed off to Aspen!”

“True enough,” he whispered, his eyes hard, his lips tight.

“So frightened of abandoning the”—she used air quotes—“the ‘life goals’ you established when you were ten years old, you probably have no idea who you are or what you truly want as an adult man. You know what’s really sad, Shane? I doubt there’s anything in your life you care about as much as my father’s business. That’s ridiculous, if you ask me!”

“Wow.” His eyes were wide and stunned as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you done?”

She was panting from the exertion of such a hateful speech. When she felt moisture on her cheeks, for a moment she thought it was raining, but a glance up at the clear sky told her that she was crying. She swiped at the tears with her fingers, her posture rigid with fury.

“You think I’m a total douche,” he said softly, his face hard to read as he stared at her.

He looked so shocked, so hurt, her heart clenched with compassion, hating herself for unleashing such a venomous tirade on him after he’d done her such a big favor. Damn her hormones and damn him for kissing her and making her want so much more than they’d agreed upon.

“No,” she whimpered, taking a step toward him, reaching out to touch his arm. “I don’t. I didn’t mean—I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay,” he said, stepping back, just out of reach of her grasp. His eyes looked deeply into hers. “I wasn’t easy on you either.”

She took a ragged breath. “Just because I don’t have my whole life planned out doesn’t mean I’m going to be a shitty mother.”

“I never said you were going to be a shitty mother,” he said softly. Reaching up, he rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m not so hungry anymore.”

She exhaled a rough, shuddering breath. “Me neither.”

“Where are you parked?”

She gestured down the block with her chin as she dug her keys from her purse. “Down the block. Not far.”

“I’m the other way.”

“Shane,” she said, fingering her wedding ring and feeling more tears burn her eyes, “when will I see you again?”

“You’ve got the marriage certificate,” he said. “Send me a copy if you want me to enroll you on my insurance. When you’re ready to talk to Margaret or your father, let me know.”

“Okay.”

“I guess that’s it,” he said softly.

“I guess so.”

She started walking toward her car but felt awful about everything he’d said to her and she’d said to him. She wasn’t comfortable leaving things so angry and unresolved between them…but when she turned around to talk to him again, he was already gone.

***

For the next week, Shane didn’t hear a word from Priscilla.

Not that they’d been in much contact before their wedding, but they’d texted a few times about the license and the ceremony. Now? Nothing but silence, and he had to finally admit that he was sorry for the mean things he’d said to her, and also…yes, damn it, he missed her.

He’d been way too harsh, calling her out as he had, but he wasn’t particularly good at mincing words. No matter how much he wanted her, no matter how blinding his attraction to her, getting involved with her outside of an agreed-upon contract would be a mistake. She was bringing a baby into her mess of a life, and he resented her lack of preparation on behalf of her child.

But it wasn’t just that.

Pushing her away felt safe. Felt smart.

He was feeling too much for her that day—buying her a wedding ring and flowers, saying the serious, poignant words that bound their lives together, if only legally. And those kisses they’d shared? He’d woken up more than once this week, his penis rigid and straining, his body longing for something he shouldn’t want from her.

It might not make any sense, but he resented her for the incredibly confusing feelings he had since they’d reconnected. She’d whooshed into his well-ordered life like a hurricane, asking him to marry her, fighting with him, challenging him, making him feel more than he’d felt in a very long time—promising to help him achieve his goals but all the while distracting him from them.

She made his heart race. She made him feel helpless. He wasn’t used to it. He liked it and didn’t like it at the same time. Part of him wanted to lean into the wild excitement of Priscilla. The other part knew it would be wiser to stay away.

So he’d pushed her away, leading the conversation from their wild attraction to business matters and trying to protect himself by hurting her with harsh words. He was a douche, and he owed her an apology.

Things at the office weren’t much better either.

Douglas managed to slip “ticktock” into just about every interaction they had, and Margaret was avoiding him like the plague. Well, truth told, he was avoiding her too. It made him incredibly uncomfortable to remember his proposal-gone-wrong. When he combined that disastrous night with Priscilla’s painfully spot-on words outside the chapel, he was awash with shame.

Was she right?

Was he just a social-climbing clodhopper cleaving to a plan he’d made for himself as a child? Had he lost his way—and a bit of his dignity—chasing after a dream that was due for reevaluation?

He didn’t like the notion that he was stuck with a destiny that he hadn’t reexamined out of fear. He hated the idea that he’d wake up forty or fifty or seventy years old one day and realize he’d sold out his life for a childish dream that should have been revisited and revised through adult eyes.

He’d yelled at Priscilla to “grow up,” but maybe she wasn’t the only one who needed a fresh perspective to figure out the right plan for her life.

Musing on these very difficult and troubling questions the following week when he stepped onto the elevator, he was startled by Margaret, who darted in to join him just as the doors started to close.

“Shane,” she said, stepping inside and facing front. “Hello.”

“Margaret,” he said, feeling his cheeks heat up.

She turned to him. “We work in the same office. We can’t keep avoiding each other.”

He lifted his chin. “I don’t see why not.”

“I didn’t hear a word you said in the car that night,” she admitted, her shoulders slumping. “But I think I missed a lot.”

“You did,” he said. “Worse still, you agreed to it.”

She sighed. “I was embarrassed that I’d spaced your entire speech.”

“I have to admit,” said Shane, turning slightly to her, “part of me is relieved to hear you say that. If you’d humiliated me on purpose, it would have meant I’d seriously misjudged you.”

“Do you really believe a marriage of convenience would have been a good idea?”

“I want to run this company,” he said. “You do too.”

“And marrying me would have achieved that end?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“If you’ve misjudged anything, it’s my ambition,” she said gently. “I would never marry someone without love. I need much more than a marriage built for the convenience of Story Imports.”

Which is exactly what I have, he thought grimly, Priscilla’s words about him being a “toadying suck-up” reverberating in his head.

“I can understand that.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry if I put you in an awkward position.”

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” she said, offering him a small smile.

They were quiet for a moment as the elevator opened on the seventh floor, then closed again when no one joined them.

“Did you know I own a vineyard?” asked Margaret.

“I didn’t. Where?”

“About an hour from here. I go there every weekend.”

“Is that what you want to do? Run a vineyard?”

“Yes,” she said. “Eventually.”

This was a surprise. After Alice had quit her job at Story Imports, he’d assumed that Margaret was the willing heir apparent to her father’s business. She had an MBA and the right skill set, and she certainly worked hard at Story Imports. What was the point of working so hard toward a goal if you shifted gears and chose to do something else instead?

Unless, he thought bitterly, your original goal was conceived when you were ten years old and hasn’t been reevaluated since.

“I’m going to call it the Five Sisters,” she said.

“You already have a name for it.”

She nodded.

“Then why are you still working here?”

“My father expects one of us to work here. Alice tried but left, as you’ll recall . . . Betsy works at my uncle’s branch of Story Imports in Boston. Jane’s in med school, and Pris—well, Pris is Pris.” She laughed.

There was a certain relief in hearing Priscilla’s name said aloud when he’d said it so often in his head this past week. But Margaret was doing the same thing he’d done to Priscilla: making generalizations about her because of her appearance and unconventional life decisions so far. Hearing someone else do it—even her sister, who loved her—made him bristle. What right did he—or Margaret, for that matter—have to judge Priscilla? So what if she didn’t have her eye on running Story Imports or starting a vineyard? So what if she was more artistically inclined and less business minded? Planning her life to the hilt just wasn’t her style. It didn’t give him and Margaret the right to look down on her.

He sighed, thinking about one of the last things she’d said to him on Friday: Just because I don’t have my whole life planned out doesn’t mean I’m going to be a shitty mother. Overwhelmed by the sudden longing to apologize to her for making her feel bad, he flinched, clenching one hand into a fist by his side.

“I mean, she isn’t exactly suited to an office,” said Margaret.

“I really wouldn’t know,” said Shane, turning away from her.

“Wouldn’t you?” pressed Margaret as the elevator doors opened and they stepped into the atrium lobby. “She worked here last year. You must have seen her around.”

Talking about Priscilla this way felt all wrong, and he took a deep breath, offering Margaret a polite smile before glancing at his watch. “Margaret, I have an appointment tonight that I can’t—”

“Of course,” she said, putting out her hand. “No hard feelings?”

“None at all,” he said, clasping her hand and pumping it gently. “Friends?”

“I hope so,” she said. “Just don’t ask me to marry you again.”

His eyes widened for a moment before he forced himself to chuckle. “I promise.”

As he started away, she called to him, “Shane!”

When he turned, she caught up with him. “Do you still have those tickets for the fundraiser at the Institute of Contemporary Art gala next weekend?”

He nodded. They’d planned to go together.

“Are you still up for going?”

“Together?” he asked.

“Well, yes…and Pris,” she said. “I’ve been so busy, I’ve barely seen her since she got home. She loves art, and I’ll bet she’d like to go…if you don’t mind escorting both of us.”

Actually, he was relieved. It would be the perfect opportunity to give Priscilla the apology she deserved.

“I don’t mind at all.” He smiled at Margaret, the gesture coming easily as he thought about seeing her sister again. “I’ll pick you both up next Saturday at seven.”

***

A week later, Priscilla rushed to the bistro Margaret had chosen for brunch, a muumuu covering the soft swell of her stomach, her hair in two comfortable braids, and her nerves jittery from the news she was supposed to share with her sister about marrying Shane two weeks ago.

It had been a long fourteen days of self-reflection as she settled comfortably into the stable apartment and temporarily made it her own. Shane’s words haunted and plagued her, and she couldn’t help rolling them around in her head over and over again:

A self-proclaimed rolling stone. A wild child. The black sheep.

Zero interest in your family’s business. Wasting your time with clay and finger paint.

Getting yourself pregnant by a married guy, then marrying someone else to secure your inheritance.

No insurance, no way to support yourself except living off an inherited trust fund you never even earned.

Living in a barn for a while until you get the urge to wander.

And the most damning of all…

What kind of life is that for a child? Grow up!

It wasn’t a very flattering look at her life. She just wished that it was inaccurate. She wished she could write it all off as meanness or prejudice or Shane being a judgmental asshole, but she couldn’t…and that hurt most of all.

He was right.

How she dressed was her business, and she’d always have an interest in studio art despite his aspersions—and frankly, fuck him if he ever took a potshot at her personal interests again—but the rest? It added up to selfishness and irresponsibility, indulgence and instability. And it was all true.

He hadn’t called her a “shitty mother,” but she’d felt like one after she’d added up his words and found that they were honest and accurate. It was time for her to grow up.

If she didn’t change her ways, there was every possibility she would be a shitty, self-absorbed mother, and after having experienced what Priscilla considered the shittiest mother the earth ever had to offer in her own, she refused to let history repeat itself. She didn’t need to be the most conventional parent alive, but she wanted her child to grow up feeling safe and secure in a loving, stable, accepting environment, which meant that for the first time in Priscilla’s life, she was going to need to make some changes and prepare to put someone else’s interests above her own.

The big question, however, was…how? How did someone who’d always been a “flibbertigibbet” become a responsible parent-to-be overnight? It felt daunting. She barely knew where to begin.

Flinging open the door to the restaurant, she shelved these tough questions until later, looking for her sister in a sea of Saturday brunchers.

“Pris!” called Margaret. “Over here!”

Her sister sat at a bistro table in the back and lifted an elegant flute of mimosa. She wore her hair in a neat ponytail and had on a powder-pink sweater set and pearls.

“Hi,” she said, kissing Margaret’s cheek.

“How’s life?” asked her sister.

“I moved into the apartment over the stables, so that’s been keeping me busy.”

“You what? You have a perfectly comfortable bedroom at home!”

Priscilla gave her a look. “Would you want to live alone with Daddy at Forrester?”

Margaret cringed in response, taking a big sip of her drink.

“I rest my case,” said Priscilla. “Besides, Daddy’s on the warpath as of last night. I’m guessing it has to do with you, since he kept muttering your name at dinner the way he did Alice’s after she walked out of Story Imports last year.”

Margaret sighed. “I was fresh. He fired me.”

“No way! He fired you from Story Imports?”

“Yep.”

“You going to go grovel for your job back?”

Margaret shook her head. “Nope.”

“What will you do instead?”

“Remember the little vineyard I bought a while back?”

Priscilla nodded. It was a sweet piece of property a little more than an hour from Philly in the country.

“Well, I’m moving out there as of Monday. I’ll be staying there from now on. I’m going to work on getting it up and running.”

“Meggie!”

Her sister smiled, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Bad idea?”

“Amazing idea! I’m so proud of you!”

“So I won’t be around as much for a while,” she said. “I’ll be…busy.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” said Priscilla, stopping a passing waitress to ask for a cup of decaf coffee and a glass of ice water. She picked up her menu to figure out what she wanted for brunch, and when she looked up, Margaret was staring straight ahead, unfocused, her eyes dreamy, her chin resting on her palm, her face soft.

Oh, God.

Oh, no.

Priscilla knew that look. She’d seen it enough during their childhood when Margaret had stared moon-eyed at their neighbor, Cameron Winslow. That was Margaret’s look of love.

A chill went down Priscilla’s spine, and her breath caught as her mind flitted seamlessly to Shane. It was two weeks since she’d seen either Margaret or Shane. Had they reconciled? Had his marriage to Priscilla stirred up something inside of him that led to a rekindling of his relationship with Margaret? They saw each other every day at the office, after all. Priscilla’s heart thundered in defiance of these thoughts as she worried her lower lip between her teeth.

Realistically, Priscilla knew she had no claim to him, aside from her legal status as his wife. But the words “husband” and “wife” had become very real to her over the course of the past two weeks. The thought of him kissing—or fucking—anyone else, especially her sister, made her heart clench in agony. He didn’t belong to her, but part of her had already claimed him, or wanted to. The taste of sharing him would be bitter.

She swallowed. “Meggie?”

Margaret looked up, focusing on her sister. “Sorry. Daydreaming.”

“Who is he?” asked Priscilla, averting her eyes by taking a muffin from the bread basket between them and slathering it with butter.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on,” she said, shoveling the muffin into her mouth in one huge bite. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“You’re disgusting,” said Margaret. “Can you swallow before you talk?”

Priscilla made a show of swallowing, then swiped her napkin across her lips. Her heart raced, but she tried to keep her voice level. “You only get distracted like this when you’re thinking about a boy. Who?”

Margaret shook her head. “I’ll tell you if it actually goes somewhere, okay?”

She searched Margaret’s face but found no answers. She couldn’t take it. She had to know. “It’s, uh, it’s not Shane, is it?”

“What? No!” snorted Margaret, screwing up her face and shaking her head.

The bolt of relief that shot through Priscilla made her so dizzy, she flattened her palms on the table and took a deep breath, grateful for the arrival of the waitress who placed her drinks on the table.

“Ready to order?”

Margaret asked for strawberry crepes. Priscilla ordered the same.

“Speaking of Shane, however,” said Margaret, tilting her head to the side, “he’s taking me to the Institute of Art gala tonight. Just as friends, but it’s bound to be awkward after…everything. Come with us?”

Priscilla hadn’t seen Shane since their wedding, but her heart swelled with longing. She was desperate to see him, to make things right between them. But they’d left things in such a bad place, saying such hateful things to each other. Would he even want to see her?

“I don’t know.”

“Are you busy?”

Priscilla shook her head.

“Then come! I already cleared it with Shane…besides, you’d be doing me a huge favor.”

I already cleared it with Shane. The words gave her just enough courage to accept Margaret’s invitation.

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll come.”

“Yay! Hey,” said Margaret, her eyes teasing, “what’s the deal between you two anyway?”

Here’s your chance! Tell her!

But instead, she lost her nerve, cramming another muffin into her mouth and muttering, “No deal. Nothing.”

“What the heck, Pris? Are you eating for two or something?”

The words sounded like screeching brakes in her ears, and she jerked her face up to meet Margaret’s eyes. She froze, with bits of muffin dropping from her mouth onto the white tablecloth.

“What do you mean?” she asked, the words garbled.

“I mean there isn’t a world shortage of muffins. You don’t have to eat them all today.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Right.” She laughed nervously, chewing the wad of crumbs in her mouth as adrenaline still shot through her body.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” said Margaret. “Back in a flash.”

Priscilla nodded, reaching for her glass of water and gulping it down. The sharp, awful panic she’d felt at Margaret’s innocent question had given her a valuable glimpse into her own fears about telling her family about the baby. They would see things the same way Shane did. They’d see irresponsible, ridiculous, selfish Priscilla bringing a child into an unstable life.

And suddenly it was important to her that she not announce her baby’s impending arrival under such inauspicious circumstances. She needed to make some changes, to get her life into a better place so that news of her child would be greeted with open arms of celebration, not rolled eyes, harsh judgments, and long sighs of disapproval. She needed to come up with a plan for her life, and she needed it now.

“Earth to Pris!” said Margaret, taking her seat. “There’s something going on between you and Shane, and I want to know what it is. Spill it.”

Priscilla raised her chin. “There’s nothing to share.”

“Come on. You and he are, I don’t know, electric around each other. It’s like . . .”

This was the same thing that Shane had observed—they had chemistry. In fact, they’d always had chemistry, since the first time they’d locked eyes on each other at the office last fall. But it surprised her that Margaret had noticed too. Was it really that powerful? That obvious?

“He’s not really my type,” evaded Priscilla, gesturing to the waiter to bring her more water.

“That doesn’t always matter.”

True enough. I’m not his type either, but that kiss…those kisses…

“Pris?”

“He doesn’t approve of me,” she said.

“When he looks at you, his eyes say different.”

Did they? Do they?

She stared back at Margaret, realizing how much she wished—hoped—her sister’s words were true, how much she wished that Shane could see beyond her unconventional appearance to her heart. She wanted to be a good mother—the best mother—and right then and there, she made the commitment to herself and her baby: she would do whatever it took, change as much as needed to ensure her baby had a loving, stable childhood.

Feeling emotional, she reached across the table for Margaret’s hand. “Please don’t . . . I mean, try not to judge me, Meggie. No matter what happens. No matter how things look. Okay? Because I promise I’m trying my best.”

“Hey,” Margaret said gently, squeezing Priscilla’s hand, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she said, sniffling softly. “Life throws curve balls sometimes.”

“Why’d you come back from France? The real reason. Tell me what’s happened. Let me help, Pris.”

Priscilla bit her lip, sucking it into her mouth before letting it go. “You really want to help me?”

“Of course. Always.”

“Then promise not to ask me any more questions for now,” she said softly, making her own silent promise to tell Margaret, and the rest of her sisters, about her marriage and baby when the timing was right and not before. She would speak to Shane tonight—she needed a little more time to rearrange her life so that their marriage and her pregnancy wouldn’t be met with exasperation and derision. “Just help me dress like you for the gala tonight. I want to look like you. I need to . . . fit in.”

“Like me? Pris, what the hell is going on with you?”

“You promised not to—”

“You’re you, Pris. You’ve always been a free spirit, since you were a little kid. Why do you want to dress like me?”

“It’s time for me to grow up,” she said softly.

“But not to change,” insisted Margaret.

“Meggie,” she said, thinking about her sister being fired from Story Imports and about to embark on a whole new adventure, “there’s no growth without change. You know that better than anyone.” She took a deep breath. “About Shane…you’re sure you don’t have any feelings for him? You’re sure he’s . . . available?”

“I’m positive, Pris,” she said, giving her younger sister a gentle smile. “And okay. Go ahead and change a little, but not too much, okay? Especially if it’s just for him. Be you. If he’s the right guy, he’ll see what I see. He’ll care about you just the way you are.”

Their crepes arrived, and Margaret pulled her hand away, picking up her fork to take a bite, but first she looked up at Priscilla, her eyes kind but direct. “And one other thing, little sister—someday you’re going to tell me everything.”