“Wow. You’ve never said anything like this about a guy. Who was it?”
“Edgar,” I say, feeling still stupidly goofy and happy about last night.
“Edgar Blackwood?”
“Yeah. I usually think men sound like lobotomized monkeys when they’re doing it, all that huffing and groaning. But not him. The sounds he makes are hot.” My toes curl at the memory of how we met. He didn’t even have to come up with anything particularly witty or sexy to seduce me with his voice. Just his name rolling from his lips was enough to make my lady parts light up. “First time I’ve had aural sex.”
“So are you going to see him again?”
“Doubt it,” I say, trying to be upbeat even though small part of me is a bit…glum.
“What? Why not? He sounds like a winner, unless he belches when he comes.”
I laugh at the ridiculous image. “No. It’s just… He can’t leave Louisiana. His company’s there. And I’m not leaving L.A., not even for crackgasms. All my friends and family are here.” I heave a yawn that feels like it started in my toes. “Anyway, I gotta go. I need to sleep.”
“It’s two in the afternoon.”
“Yeah, but he kept me up until the crack of dawn. I need my beauty sleep. Bye!” I hang up, then close my eyes.
But instead of falling asleep, I end up just lying there, staring at the ceiling, reliving the memory. It’s weird. I’m wishing he were here right now, even though I know ending it the way I did was the best way to go.
Chapter Six
Jo
I cross my arms and stare at one of my favorite Chanel bags, which is sitting like a queen on my coffee table. It might as well be hiding radioactive uranium inside. My heart is pounding and sweat is slick on my palms. The muscles in my legs are twitching worse than lights flashing on a Dance Dance Revolution pad.
Come on, Jo.
Pregnancy test kits are not radioactive. Or dangerous. You buy them over the counter, no prescription required. Nobody looks at you funny when you lay it down on the counter in front of the cashier either.
They just assume you’re late. They might even congratulate you inwardly, thinking what other reason there could be for you being late other than…a baby.
Except that’s not my plan. It’s supposed to go like—I find the love of my life just the way my high-school-sweetheart mama and papa did, get married and then have babies.
But let’s not jump the gun. There are billion reasons I could be late. Aaron’s repeated calls, and his refusal to accept the fact that we are one hundred percent over. Stress from working enough hours to violate a good chunk of the labor code. Somehow, half my clients can’t seem to pick out their own underwear recently, much less put together an outfit.
But that’s not all! I could’ve lost too much weight. Aren’t my yoga pants a bit loose around my waist? I look down, sucking in and pulling at the elastic at the same time. Yeah, I think it is. Tía Bea is right—the Guacamole Diet works, even if you’re not trying to diet and eat other things.
Sex with Edgar a month ago has nothing to do with anything. Nope. Nothing at all.
And eight days isn’t that late. My period’s going to start anytime now. I slept for twelve hours last night. I feel well rested, and I’m enjoying a beautiful late morning in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Just look at the Los Angeles sky. It’s a pure, cloudless blue.
Besides, birth control does not spontaneously fail. The CDC says the pill is ninety-nine-point-seven percent effective. Condoms are ninety-eight percent effective, which isn’t quite as good, but still good enough. I mean, we had a lot of sex that night, but we didn’t do it ninety-eight times. The odds are with me.
Plus… Since I’m on the pill, and Edgar used condoms, we should be… I pull out my phone for the math. Ninety-nine point seven plus ninety-eight is…one hundred and ninety-seven-point-seven percent protected! My eggs might as well have been surrounded by a twelve-foot-thick titanium shield.
The doorbell rings, and I check the monitor screen to see who’s visiting. It used to be that only my family came by on my days off, but in the last few years, some clients have decided to drop by because they felt their fashion problems were so immediately critical that they didn’t need to make an appointment. And it isn’t like my address is a state secret. Anybody with access to Google can find it.
If it’s one of my special snowflake clients, I’m not here. Not because it’s my day off, but because I do not see clients when I’m not ready. Curlers in my hair with no makeup and an old PJ shirt and yoga pants do not inspire confidence in my abilities as a fashion consultant. I always meet my clients at their places after I’m fully made up and decked out. Or some other public place. I don’t even let my significant others come by, ever, not even to pick me up for a date.
But actually, it’s Hugo standing at the door, smirking and mouthing, I know you’re in there, at the camera. Out of my seven cousins, he’s the youngest—and the only one younger than me, although he emulates his brothers and tries to boss me around.
But it’s sort of my fault too. Two years ago, one of my clients, who was barely twenty-seven, keeled over for no apparent reason and went into a coma. Being so young, and with no will or other end-of-life planning in place, her estate got tangled up in a huge mess. I got spooked watching the clusterfuck unfold and gave Hugo a power of attorney to handle my affairs, just in case. I thought he was the best choice because he’s younger than me and not quite as overbearing as my older cousins and brothers…
Except that turned out to be an error in judgment.
Thankfully, Hugo’s attitude has improved recently because I helped him get a job—indirectly, but help is help.
I open the door. His smile widens.
His dark hair is too long for an assistant to a high-powered law firm partner, but I guess his boss hasn’t told him to chop it off yet. I might be a little biased, what with him being my cousin and all, but he’s a nice-looking guy with bright, intelligent brown eyes and a dimple on his cheek.
I sweep my gaze over him, taking in the outfit. A bright yellow T-shirt that says Manny’s Tacos, jeans frayed in an aesthetically pleasing fashion and comfy sneakers. Definitely not professional.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be at the office?”
Hugo works as an assistant for Samantha Jones, one of the meanest and most sought-after divorce attorneys in the state. It’s a waste of his law degree from Columbia, but he’s infatuated with the older woman and wants to be in close proximity to woo her.
Hugo’s heart works in mysterious ways.
“It’s Saturday.” He walks inside with a big bag full of something that smells divine and nudges the door shut with his elbow.
I eye the bag, trying to sniff inconspicuously. “Doesn’t your boss make you work anyway?”
“She’s taking time off. She works too much.” The smile on his face dims a bit. “I worry about her.”
Oh, please. Samantha is one of the most capable human beings on earth, and a woman doesn’t maintain beautiful skin and a size-two body at her age by neglecting herself. “You’re probably the only person in the city who worries about her.”