Page 157 of Puck Prince

“It was tragic. Traumatic is being named after an assassinated president.” She sips her mimosa. “At least make it a sassy flower. Like Dahlia.”

“Or Azalea.”

“Or Hyacinth! That’s a cool girl floral name. But what about if it’s a boy? Are there masculine floral names? Would Owen ever go for something like that?” she asks casually, taking a bite. “He’ll probably want to name him after a famous hockey player or a ship captain. Men love boats.”

If Owen wants to name him anything at all.

Might be hard for Owen to have an opinion on the matter if he never speaks to me again.

I try to remain neutral, but I must be frowning because Kennedy looks up at me and stops mid-chew. “Sorry.”

I’m trying not to cry in public, so I swiftly change the subject. “What do you want to do after this?”

Now that we’re out of the apartment, I don’t want to go back.

“Shopping? There’s a consignment place around the corner that sells baby and maternity clothes.”

“Ugh.” I push my plate away and press both hands to my stomach. “I forgot about maternity clothes. But the way things are going, I’m going to need some soon. My jeans barely fit.”

A shadow falls over our table. “So the rumors are true!”

I have goosebumps before I even look up to see Miles. Alisha is standing next to him, tucked under his arm like a baby bird.

She smiles and gives a small wave. “Isn’t this funny? We seem to run into y’all everywhere we go!”

“‘Funny’ isn’t the word I’d choose,” Kennedy mumbles before sipping her drink. Thankfully, I don’t think they heard her, but I kick her ankle under the table.

“When I saw the picture, I thought it was a bad photoshop job,” Miles goes on. “But the look on your face makes it obvious. You’re glowing.”

I offer a fake smile. “Can’t hide from you.”

No matter how much I wish I could.

Alisha pulls up a chair from the table behind us and drops down into it like she’s twelve months pregnant instead of twelve weeks. “Miles, will you get me a glass of water, please? And a fruit bowl, maybe?”

“Of course.” He smiles, kissing her, but his eyes sweep over me before he walks to the bar.

“I love him,” Alisha sighs. “But sometimes I need some space, you know?”

If I was her, I’d need hundreds of miles worth of space. Lightyears, maybe.

“Ever since I told him I was pregnant, he’s been waiting on me hand and foot. Massages and foot rubs and—it’s lovely, don’t get me wrong. But it can be a lot sometimes.”

Yes, being pampered must be such a burden.

Based on the arch in Kennedy’s brows, she’s thinking the same thing I am.

“I swear to God there are no good men left in the world. They’re all taken, and I’m going to die old, stunningly beautiful, and alone.” Kennedy sighs dramatically.

Okay, maybe we aren’t thinking the same thing.

Kennedy hasn’t found anyone because she self-sabotages with dating apps. If either of us is going to die alone, it’s going to be me—the single mother with a cargo ship of emotional baggage.

“And being wined and dined at a cocktail lounge on top of the city doesn’t count?”

Kennedy looks confused. “Who? What?”

“Lance?” I blink.

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