Page 164 of Perfect Pitch

Not one.

My head falls back against the glass shower wall as I ponder the possibilities. “It’s just weight gain.”

Between my crazy schedule and eating some of New York’s finest food with my parents, it’s more than a distinct possibility I’ve put on a few pounds. Trying to calm my nerves, I shove my clothes to the side and crawl to the closet. Pulling out my hardly-used scale, I get up on shaky legs and step on it.

Then I step off.

And step back on.

“That’s impossible. It must have broken from the two moves. There’s no way possible I’ve lost six pounds.” My eyes search around the piles of clothes desperate to find something, anything to wear.

When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I step off the scale and fixate on faint, blue, spider-like lines peeking out from beneath my bra. From breasts that aren’t quite contained.

Slightly more sensitive.

My breath is shallow as I truly stare at my body and consider things like my violent illness—which I attributed to food poisoning. How the smell of my father sent me gagging—that I thought was his body odor. I try to zip my leather pants again and find the ends unable to meet over my lower waist.

Or is it something different?

Refusing to go there without concrete evidence, I reach under my sink and cringe when I realize I haven’t needed a tampon for months. Stupid, Austyn, for not thinking of this.

But I’m on the pill. Who would?

Almost mechanically, I pluck a pregnancy test from behind the tampons and unwrap it. Putting off the inevitable, I read the directions twice before I shuck my pants with all the others. Peeing on the stick, I wad up some toilet paper and place the time bomb on my counter.

And count down.

Two minutes later, I stare down at a plus sign that has my mind reeling from a sense of wonder and fear simultaneously.

The question is, what’s Mitch going to say when I tell him?

* * *

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

Have a little class. Stalk your favorite celebrity from a distance.

—Viego Martinez, Celebrity Blogger

“I saw her tonight at dinner,” I growl at Kane.

He rears back as if I’d coldcocked him. “That’s not possible. Beckett rented out the restaurant.”

“And guess who was one of the staff?” I whip off my body cam and toss it in his direction.

“Fuck!” he bellows. “Did either of them notice?”

“I didn’t even ask. They were too wrapped up in each other.” Which is both beautiful to have a front row seat to and a pain in the ass when you’re trying to catch a stalker that has the kind of connections Beckett’s does.

He hooks my camera up to the computer and begins slowly advancing through footage. I snag a bottle of water from Beckett’s kitchen refrigerator of his LA property and uncap it. Swallowing half of it down without taking a breath, I hope we can stop this without either of them being the wiser.

“Mitch. Come here,” Kane calls.

Lowering the bottle, I trek to his side. He points at the screen. “Your instincts are spot on. Look at her hands.”

As I watch the screen, I see what Kane does. When I spotted the salad and dessert chef, I casually approached the beverage station. I had a clear view of what the young chef was doing. My jaw gapes when I spot the vial she slips in and out of her pants, “Tell me she didn’t get any of that onto their food.”

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