Pretty Little Mistake
: Chapter 23

I spot Beckham up ahead, leaning against the building of my doctor’s office. He has no right to look so casually handsome, especially not when I’m mad at him.

“You stole my taxi!” I yell, jabbing his chest with my finger when I finally reach him.

He raises one brow. “I needed it more.”

“For what?” I poke him again. I really need to pee and shouldn’t be here arguing with him. But it’s not like I can use the bathroom yet anyway. I was told to come to my scan with a full bladder, since it makes it easier for the ultrasound photos.

“To get coffee before the appointment.” My lips part, trying to process his words. I cannot believe he’s using a need for coffee as an excuse for swiping my taxi right out from under me. “Don’t worry, I got you one, too, sweetie,” he says in an almost playful but mocking tone. He holds the cup out to me. “It’s decaf.”

I smack the cup out of his hand, and it drops on the ground, the lid popping off and the contents spilling everywhere. “You better throw that away,” I tell him, like I wasn’t the one who knocked it to the ground. “I don’t like litterers.”

He laughs, and it’s such a robust, hearty sound. I’m pretty sure he’s so screwed up that this might be some kind of sick and twisted foreplay for him. Not that I’m ever sleeping with him again. Look where that got us.

“Fuck, you’re amazing.” He scoops up the now-empty cup and tosses it in the trash.

Ignoring him, I storm inside the building to the elevators, willing one to let me on before he catches up. No such luck—he’s by my side in an instant.

He leans down, lips brushing the curve of my ear. “That was a perfectly good coffee you wasted.”

“You can afford to buy me another.” The doors slide open, and the traitor presses his hand to the small of my back when we step on. “Don’t touch me.”

His hand stays firmly on my waist, just to prove a point, I’m sure. “You’re in a mood today.”

I hiss at him—well, it’s the closest thing I can think of to describe the sound that comes out of my mouth. “You stole my taxi! Of course I’m pissed. Then you got coffee and still somehow beat me here.”

His lips quirk in a half smile. Pressing his free hand to his chest, he says, “It’s a gift, truly.”

I wonder if he’ll think it’s a gift when I shove my foot up his ass.

Despite Beckham’s proposal to pretend to be in a relationship for our work peers, we still haven’t said a word about the baby or being a so-called couple. Though I’m sure we’ll have to say something soon. Jaci gave me a funny look when I requested this particular afternoon off, since Beckham had already asked for the same.

“You can stop touching me,” I say when we get off the elevator and start down the hall with his hand still on my waist.

“Maybe I like my hand there.”

“And maybe I’d like to cut it off? Hmm?”

“You’re in rare form today.” He finally lets his hand drop. “I like it.”

“You’re . . . you know, I don’t think a word exists for what you are.”

We reach the door for the doctor’s office, and I head inside first and check in. When I turn around, I steadfastly ignore the seats Beckham has chosen, instead opting to sit on the complete opposite side from where he’s sitting.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him—the little smirk on his lips and the way he places his hands on his knees before he stands, sauntering over to me like I didn’t just insult him.

He sits down beside me, his arm brushing mine, and even through the fabric of my sweaterdress, I feel the heat of him like a physical burn.

“I love it when you play with me.”

I mock-gag. “That sounds so gross.”

He rubs his jaw. “It’s nice to have a worthy opponent.”

I turn to him with narrowed eyes. “You’re so weird.”

“I’m aware.”

“And so hot and cold,” I go on. “I’m pretty sure Katy Perry was inspired by you for that song.”

“Who?”

I roll my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

I shouldn’t let him bother me so much, but something about Beckham manages to just grate on me.

Somehow, I’m able to ignore him from the time my name is called all the way up until I’m settled in the room waiting for the ultrasound tech.

“I don’t want to know the gender.”

My head whips in his direction, Exorcist-style. “What? First off, it’s too early for us to know that unless I do a blood test. Secondly, I’m the mother, and I’m growing your so-called pet sperm, so if I want to know, I’ll know—which I do. I’m a planner. I want to buy baby clothes and decorate the nursery and—”

He has one leg crossed over the other, and with his brow arched at me, he looks like some kind of evil villain. “Can’t you do all those things in a gender-neutral fashion?”

I hate the challenge in his tone. “I could, but I don’t want to.”

“As you implied, it’s my pet sperm you’re housing, so shouldn’t my opinion matter as much as yours? Maybe even a little more?”

“I . . . you’re . . . you have to be kidding me right now.” I cross my arms over my chest, staring at the opposite wall and the diagram of a fetus. I can’t keep my mouth shut, so my head swings back in his direction. “Why don’t you want to know the gender?”

He lets his leg drop to the floor, pressing his hands together as he leans forward. “I’m happy whether it’s a girl or boy—so why not let it be a surprise? I think it would be cool to wait, and I guess . . .” He sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know, I like the idea of being the one to know first and get to tell you.”

Normally I would think this was just him being a controlling dickwad, but there’s a sincerity in his eyes, and I can tell that for whatever reason, he really wants to keep this a surprise.

I don’t answer him right away, instead pondering what he’s said, and I have to admit that it does sound kind of nice—even if I’m certain the wait will be torture.

“Fine,” I begin, and he lights up, looking ready to celebrate, “for now. But if I change my mind, we’ll discuss this again.”

He holds his hand out to me. “Deal.” We shake on it. “It feels like we’ve been waiting in here forever.”

“Welcome to the doctor’s office, where they take all your money and all your time.”

He gives a soft chuckle, sitting back. “You’re not lying.”

It’s another five minutes before the ultrasound tech enters the room. My nerves become jittery. I’ve been looking forward to this appointment, hearing the heartbeat, but it just hits me, what if I don’t hear a heartbeat? It’s irrational to think that way—things have been great, no spotting, and I’m maybe even a tad less sick. And yet I can’t help but feel that worry grow.

Mentally, I check out, giving in to my panic. I feel Beckham’s fingers loop through mine, and even the shock of that doesn’t bring me back from my stupor.

And then my panic fades as the most glorious sound I’ve ever heard fills the room. I want to record it, play it on repeat, maybe even stick it in one of those cheap Build-A-Bears.

Tears flood my eyes, spilling over. I can’t even feel embarrassed.

“That’s our baby.” I touch the fingers of my free hand to Beckham’s cheek. He places his over mine, giving the hand he holds a squeeze.

A tear falls down his cheek. “That’s our baby,” he echoes.

It’s a weird feeling, staring at that screen, knowing in a matter of months we’re going to be holding a baby that’s a mix of the two of us. I know our situation isn’t ideal, and not that I’ll admit it to him, but if I was going to get knocked up by accident, then I’m glad I’m doing it with Beckham.

My phone starts ringing from inside the confines of my purse almost the second I’ve walked into the apartment. I groan the moment I see those three little letters that spell out Mom.

Reluctantly, I accept the call and press the phone to my ear. “Hey, Mom. I’m just walking in the door from work.” No way in hell can I mention I was actually at a doctor’s appointment. “Can I call you back later?”

“No,” she snipes. “You’ve been ignoring my calls and texts. We’ll talk now.”

I know it’s better to get this over with, so I set my stuff down and settle onto the barstool while I listen.

“Okay.” It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to keep the sigh from my voice.

My parents are exhausting, both of them overbearing in a way that isn’t about love or caring but image and control.

“If you hadn’t been ignoring me, you would know I’ve set up a date for you—”

“Mom.” Disbelief floods me. No matter how many times I’ve told her to stop setting me up on blind dates with her rich friends’ sons, she hasn’t gotten the memo.

“—tonight.”

“Tonight?” I blurt out, choking on air. My eyes shoot to the clock. “I can’t tonight.” Not that I have plans or anything, but I’m not going on a date with a stranger.

She goes on like I haven’t said anything. “His name is Spencer. Spencer Whittling III.”

“Mom.”

“I’ve already made the reservations and scheduled a car to pick you up at six sharp. You should wear that lovely plum-colored dress I got you for your birthday last year.”

“You didn’t even ask me if I was able to go on this date?”

She huffs in exasperation. “Well, I tried to, but you weren’t responding now, were you?” Accusation drips from her words. She’s placing blame solely on my shoulders. I should have answered her, but she should also stop her meddling. “Spencer is expecting your presence. It’s too late to back out now.” There’s a warning edge to her voice.

Despite being in my twenties, I know when she uses that tone not to push her buttons anymore. It’s this long-ingrained fear that if I don’t do what she wants, then I’m a major disappointment. I wish I could stop craving her approval, but I’m worried I’ll always be trying to please my parents. Some part of me still feels like a little girl just begging them to love me, and I seem to think the only way I can do that is by being agreeable, even when it’s the last thing I want to do.

“All right. I better hang up, then, so I can get ready.”

I can practically hear the smile in her voice when she speaks next. “Good. Enjoy your date.”

She ends the call, leaving me staring at the blank screen.

My eyes dart to the clock, silently cursing. I don’t have much time to shower and get ready. I need every second I have. I dash into the bathroom, taking the quickest shower imaginable before I hop out and start on my makeup.

The front door opens, Laurel slipping into the apartment with a tired yawn. “I’m exhausted. Movie night?” Before I can answer she appears in the open bathroom doorway, where I’m working to carefully apply my lipstick. “Are you going out?”

“My mom set me up on a date.”

She rolls her eyes. “Your mom is something else.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” I dab at the red lipstick with a tissue to keep it from transferring later. “A car is picking me up at six.”

We both turn to look at the clock shining from the microwave. I have thirty minutes.

“Let me do your hair.” She swishes her finger through the air, motioning me to turn around.

“Are you sure? I know you’re tired.”

“I’m fine.”

She takes my hair down from the messy ponytail I tossed it up in and rakes her fingers lightly through the strands. Brushing it out, she grabs a section on each side of my head and braids them, so they meet at the base of my skull under the rest of my hair. After grabbing a clear elastic, she ties those together before making a bun. She pulls out some strategic pieces to frame my face. It takes her no time to create the cute, effortless style, when it would have taken me forever.

She pats my shoulders. “There. You look great.”

I throw my arms around her in a hug. “Thank you. You’re the best.”

In my room, I dig through the closet for the purple dress my mom referred to. Not because I’m taking her advice, but because I’m not putting it past her to replace out if I wore it. I slip it on, tugging it up past my hips. It’s tighter than it used to be, but I guess that’s to be expected. There’s the smallest swell in my stomach. I touch it gingerly. I wonder when the awe will fade that there’s a baby in there. Even with the bump, I manage to get the dress on and zipped.

I grab a pair of heels, then dance around my room in an attempt to put them on.

My phone vibrates on the dresser, and I know my time is up. With my heels on, I check the text message, and sure enough, it’s from an unknown number, the driver letting me know he’s here. He’s a tad bit early, but since I’m ready, I say my goodbyes to Laurel and head down.

The driver is a gray-haired man with kind eyes. He opens the door to the back of the SUV with a polite hello.

Settling into the seat, I try to catch my breath.

I don’t mean to, but my thoughts drift to Beckham, wondering what he’d think if he knew I was on my way to a date right now.

He wouldn’t care, because you two aren’t together, my conscience practically growls at me.

Even still, he’s possessive enough for me to believe he wouldn’t be happy about this.

Not that he’ll ever know.

The drive to the restaurant isn’t a short one, but man does it feel like it anyway. When the driver parks the car and gets my door, I nervously swipe my hands down my dress as I offer him a small smile of thanks.

I have no idea what this Spencer person looks like, so when I enter the restaurant, I give his last name. When the table isn’t under that, I try mine instead, and that does the trick.

I sit down at the empty table, grateful he hasn’t arrived yet, since it gives me a moment to catch my breath and get myself under control.

The wait isn’t long. A tall, handsome man with sandy-brown hair dressed in a sharp suit is being herded back to my table. He’s clean shaven, with a more wholesome look than I expected. Still, I can’t help but compare him, even when I know I shouldn’t. His eyes are a dark blue, like the deepest parts of the ocean, nothing like the icy blue of Beckham’s eyes. When he smiles it’s almost shy, unlike the confident, downright cocky at times, smirks Beckham tends to give.

“Hello, it’s nice to meet you, Lennon.” He holds his hand out to me. I can’t help but compare even the sound of his voice to Beckham’s. It’s slightly higher in tone, not as raspy.

“Hi, Spencer. It’s great to meet you too.” I take his hand as he pulls out the chair in front of me. “I’m sorry about all this,” I whisper conspiratorially. “I’m sure you were roped into this like I was.”

He gives a soft, amused laugh. “Your mother pries into your love life too?”

“You have no idea.” I pick up the menu, trying to decide on what I want to eat. I know I better stick with something safe. My sickness from the pregnancy has vastly improved but can still be triggered at times.

“Would you like to share a bottle of wine?” He holds the drink menu loosely in his fingers.

“Oh no . . . um . . . I’m on a break from alcohol.” You’re on a break from alcohol? Did you really just say that? “Please, order whatever you want.”

His brow arches curiously. “All right.”

After we’ve ordered, and before it can get too awkward, I ask him, “So, what is it you do for work?”

It’s a basic question, but I know literally zilch about this guy.

“I work in finance.”

“Ah,” I say while thinking, Of course you do. It’s not that he necessarily fits the mold, but these days it seems like almost every man in Manhattan is involved in finance somehow. “That’s . . .”

He starts laughing. “Predictable?” he finishes for me.

I laugh, too, feeling a bit more at ease. “Yeah.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t plan to follow in my dad’s footsteps, but here we are. My mom mentioned something about you being a writer.”

“I’m a journalist.” I shoot a smile of thanks at the waiter when he drops off a basket of thick-cut french bread. “I recently started working for Real Point. It’s a magazine. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it.”

“I think maybe I have.” He grabs his wineglass, swirling the liquid.

“It’s a young publication, but I’m enjoying it so far.”

He then asks me about my family, and we volley questions back and forth throughout our dinner. At the end of the night, he walks me out to the waiting car and presses a kiss to my cheek.

“It was nice meeting you, Lennon.”

“Nice meeting you, too, Spencer.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets, hesitating. “I’d like to ask you on another date, but I’m kind of getting the feeling that there might be someone else you’re interested in.”

I bite my lip. I’m not sure how he got that vibe. I thought I was doing well at engaging in the conversation, and Spencer clearly isn’t a bad guy.

“It’s not that,” I say, though my treacherous mind immediately thinks of Beckham. “I just have a lot going on in my life right now, and dating . . . well, dating isn’t a priority at the moment.”

He nods in understanding. “I get it. Well, if you ever change your mind, you know how to get a hold of me.”

I give him a hug before slipping into the back seat of the car.

Spencer watches the car pull away from the curb, raising his hand to wave.

Silently, I curse myself. I might hate my mother’s meddling, and the guys she normally sets me up with are so self-absorbed, but Spencer isn’t that bad. I think, in another world, he’d be good for me.

But regardless of being pregnant, with Beckham back in my life, my stupid heart has made room for him, and right now I know I’m not capable of squeezing in anyone else.