Most of all, I don’t want to lose myself simply because she’s near.

What I want is Damien. I want him here. I want him next to me. And I hate that I’m unreasonably irritated that he’s not here beside me when I need him.

I swallow, breathing hard, then pull my phone out of my purse.

I start to dial—and then with one violent sob, I hurl the phone across the room, then watch with pleasure as it smashes against the far wall, bits of glass and plastic scattering everywhere.

I gasp, choking on a sob.

I should be stronger than this.

I am stronger than this.

But as I crawl to the living room and curl up on the couch, my hand pressed against my abdomen to shield the baby, I know that I’m not.

And as the tears stream down my face, I can’t deny that no matter what Damien says, I’m not really strong at all.

15

“Goddammit, Charles, I’m not interested in your best guess. I want some fucking answers. I need to know if she’s really—”

Damien’s voice stops, and I stay perfectly still on the sofa, my head still fuzzy from sleep. I realize he must have come in through the rear, and now he’s passing the archway that leads into the foyer.

The foyer where the shards of my phone are still scattered all over the floor.

“Just get me answers,” he says, his voice low and distracted as he ends the call.

I wait, perfectly still, as he whispers, “Nikki,” under his breath. Then his footsteps continue, and I realize he hasn’t seen me and is heading for the bedroom.

A moment later, he’s back. I’m still on the sofa, my arms clutching a pillow and my eyes toward the floor. But even without seeing him, I can tell that he’s standing behind me. “Oh, baby,” he whispers, then reaches over the couch to brush my shoulder. The touch lasts only a moment, but I soak it in like a tonic, and by the time he’s come around the couch to sit beside me, I’ve propped myself up on the pillow and am reaching for his hand.

“I called you,” he says. “I guess now I know why I only got voicemail.”

“What time is it?”

“Late,” he says. “I came back to pick up a few things, and then I was going to head to Malibu. And to you, I thought. What are you doing here, baby?” The question is simple, his voice steady. It doesn’t matter. I hear the worry in his tone. And I hear the unspoken question, too—What happened, and are you okay?

I push myself up, my head full of fuzz. “I came to see you, and Rachel said you’d gone.” I rub my eyes, grainy with sleep. My head aches, and I know it’s the hangover-like effects of a crying jag. “What was in Santa Barbara?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Just work. Just one of a hundred fires that never seem to go away.”

“You didn’t text me.” Usually, Damien sends me a text whenever he has to head out unexpectedly.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t expect to be gone that long, and I had Charles on the phone for most of the flight there. But I did call. You might not have gotten the message, what with your phone being in a million pieces. Nikki,” he says, his tone shifting from light to firm as squeezes my hand. “Are you okay? You didn’t—”

“No.” I cut him off firmly, because that answer is absolutely one hundred percent true. “But I wanted to,” I admit, because this is Damien. And because he needs to know.

His body goes tense, and his eyes cloud with worry. “What happened?”

It takes me a second, but I manage to say, “My mother’s here. In LA, I mean. Really, positively here.” I wanted the words to come out strong so that it at least sounds like I have a handle on this. Instead, my voice is choked. I sound lost. And the moment I see the mix of anger and loathing and regret on Damien’s face, my throat fills with tears, and I sit up so that I can cling to him, letting his body shield me from a reality I really don’t want to face.

“Baby. Oh, baby, are you sure?”

I nod against his shoulder, damp with my tears. “She called Frank. She wants to see me.”

“Fuck that,” he says, his voice so harsh that I actually smile.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess.”

His brow furrows as he studies my face. “Do you want to see her?”

“No.” My answer is firm and automatic and true. But then my shoulders sag as another truth follows. “But I want to know what she wants.”

“Nothing good, that’s for damn sure.”

I draw a breath and sit up straighter because I know he’s right. There is no happy reunion scene in the making. No running across a field to hug my mother. No shopping montage. No tender moment where she helps me paint the nursery. I want that, though. Despite everything, I want it.

And the fact that I will never have it weighs heavily on my heart.

“Baby—”

“No.” I hold up a hand. “You’re right. And I don’t want to think about her anymore. I’m done.” I plaster on a smile, in the hopes that my actual mood will follow.

“Why don’t we go away after the premiere tomorrow?” he asks.

“Really? Just run away?”

He laughs. “Why not? From your mother, from horrible text messages. From everything,” he adds firmly.

I should protest. I should point out that I have to work on the Greystone-Branch project because our little peanut is sapping my energy, and I need all the coherent working hours I can gather. I should mention that I need to keep interviewing, and I should spend part of the weekend culling resumes.

I should be responsible and just say no.

But the idea of escaping for a few days sounds too much like heaven. So instead, I nod. “All right,” I say. “I’m in. Where should we go?”

“I was thinking the bungalow,” he says, referring to our darling vacation home at The Resort at Cortez. It’s a Stark Vacation Property that Jackson designed, and it’s amazing. It’s also accessible only by boat or helicopter, and just the idea of getting there makes me ill.

“Veto,” I say. “Maybe after morning sickness passes. Not until.”

“Fair enough. The Lake Arrowhead house?”

I’m tempted, but now that Santa Barbara is on my mind, it’s too enticing to ignore. “Why don’t we go back to the Pearl?”