C3 3

There’s nothing she could ask me that would be too much. But this hitch in my gut at the idea of her having another man’s baby? I can deal with that later. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“So drunk.”

“Right.” Another thing to deal with later. Tomorrow, we’ll have a conversation about drinking and pregnancy. An absurd conversation to have, considering she’s the most responsible person I know, but we’ll have it anyway. Maybe she just found out. Maybe liquid courage made her take a test in the women’s restroom.

She giggles. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

That makes two of us. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

She grips her turkey baster with both hands—I’ll have to get the story on that tomorrow too—and dutifully follows me up the back stairs to the apartment over the bar.

As I shut the door behind us, I see my home with new eyes. I moved here in college while I was managing Jackson Brews and taking a full course load. It was convenient at the time, and then I never bothered to find anything else. It’s never mattered. But if Ava’s going to have a baby, is she really going to want to hang out here with the kid? While it’s nice enough, the loft-style one-bedroom, one-bath isn’t exactly childproof. As I imagine a kid falling through the rebar spindles and down the open staircase, I grimace. I’ll definitely need to find something more suitable.

A baby. She’s having a baby.

It’s like the day she told me she was engaged to Harrison all over again. Except instead of making a fool of myself, this time I’m going to take it in stride. I’m going to deal with this like a friend should. Not like a lovesick idiot.

I head to my tiny kitchen and fill a glass of water for her, and when I turn around, she’s right there. She scans my face with those big brown eyes. “I’m so lucky to have you in my life, Jake.”

She’s close. So close I could dip my head and kiss her, and long-denied desire makes my chest tight. “I’m not arguing.” I hand her the glass of water. “Drink this.”

She obeys, downing half the glass before handing it back to me. “Do you think I’ll be a good mom?”

“The best.” Swallowing, I take a step back to put some space between us. I half expect the ache in my chest to subside with some distance, but it doesn’t. She’s having a baby. “Come on. Bedtime.”

She turns toward the couch, where she insists on sleeping when she crashes here, but I place my hands on her shoulders and turn her toward my bedroom.

“I need the couch tonight,” I lie. “You’re going to have to sleep in my room.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Sure. I don’t want to be in the way.” She steps into my bedroom and unbuckles her Mary Janes. I pull back the covers, and she crawls into my bed, eyes already at half-mast. Will a baby put an end to girls’ nights that lead her giggling and pink-cheeked at my place?

“Wait,” she says as I pull the covers up over her. “Did we talk about the baby?”

I’m not sure she’ll ever be able to talk about a baby without my gut knotting painfully. If anything, I’ve been cool and patient with Ava—just waiting for the day when she’d see me as something other than the goofy kid next door or the high school jock who’d jump into bed with any girl who was willing. I’ve been patient. Too patient. Because now she’s having some other guy’s baby. I’m already making plans to restructure my whole life to help in any way I can, but I’ve forgotten one essential piece to this puzzle. What happens when she tells the baby’s father? Whoever he is, he’d be an idiot if he didn’t find some way to make her his.

I swallow hard and tuck the blankets in around her. “We talked about it. We’ll talk about it more in the morning, okay? And we’ll talk about the drinking too.”

“No more drinking. My body is a temple starting tomorrow.” She closes her eyes and smiles. “You’re such a good friend, Jake. The best.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’d be the best kind of anything you’d let me.”

Ava

W

hen my phone wakes me up, I’m aware of a few things all at once.

One, whoever’s on the other end of that call is a total asshole.

Two, I have a hangover to top all hangovers.

Three, I’m in Jake’s apartment.

This isn’t the first time I’ve slept over. While I don’t drink to excess often, when I do, it’s at Jackson Brews, because that’s what you do when your best friend owns a bar. I drink downstairs, and when I’m ready to pass out and don’t want to walk home, I borrow his couch.

But this time I’m not just in Jake’s apartment—I’m in his bed. And that would be fine, because Jake’s the kind of guy who’d rather take the couch and let his guest have the better night’s sleep, but I’ve always insisted on sleeping in the living room. But last night’s coming together for me one piece at a time, and waking up in his bed seems . . . significant.

I told the girls about the baby and my decision to finally take my life into my own hands and start a family. I told them my reservations about sperm banks but how badly I wanted to carry a child. They told me to get Jake’s sperm.

And . . . he said yes? Did he give it to me last night?

I sit up in bed, and my head pounds. Next to me, my phone buzzes to let me know I have a voicemail, and I press my palm to my forehead. Why is it that subsequent drinks seem like such a good idea when you’re buzzed? Lots of things sound like good ideas when alcohol’s involved. More liquor. Dancing on tables. Asking friends for sperm.

I spot the turkey baster in bed beside me and groan as I slink back down under the covers. Surely he didn’t jack off into a cup and let me put that to use.

First of all, awkward. Second of all, what drunk me thought was a brilliant idea, sober me recognizes as a disaster. I’m not leaving Jackson Harbor, and neither is Jake. Even if he was willing to hand over his sperm, carrying his child would change things between us. Wouldn’t it?

So why am I in his bed?

The sound of footsteps spurs me to open my eyes, and I see Jake leaning in the bedroom doorway.

“Good morning, birthday girl,” he says.