Page 158 of Puck Prince

“Oh. Oh. Yeah, no. Thank you, next.” She wrinkles her nose and mimes swiping left, but I’m not ready to drop this. She practically threw me into Owen’s arms on more than oneoccasion, but now she’s dodging her own hot hockey god like he’s got the plague.

“I don’t see what your problem with Lance is, Ken. He’s really sweet.”

Kennedy’s smile fades completely. “We aren’t talking about the same guy.”

Her words are sharp, almost cold. All it does is leave me with more questions.

“He’s got a really sweet face,” Alisha agrees. “I mean, Miles could be Henry Cavill’s twin, so I have no complaints, but I’ve always had a thing for a baby face. Lance is like Niall Horan.”

“Oh my God!” I slap a hand over my mouth. “He does look like Niall Horan!”

Kennedy is not amused. “He’s not sweet or nice. Lance Craven is—” She pauses as her eyes widen and points at what I thought was Alisha’s oversized purse. “Is that a Gucci diaper bag?”

Alisha hugs the bag to her chest. “Isn’t it incredible? I know it’s weirdly early to be carrying it, but Miles bought it for me, and I was so excited I had to give it a test run.”

Kennedy elbows me in the side. “Callie, you need one! Put it on your registry.”

First, I don’t have a registry.

Second, even if I did, I wouldn’t put two-thousand dollar diaper bags on it.

I manage a smile, but honestly, I’m trying not to get sick again. Something about seeing even a sleazeball like Miles be a doting, attentive dad-to-be makes me nauseous.

Kennedy inspects the pockets and the insulated pouch for diapers. “Yep, you need this, Cal. Just bat your eyes at Owen, and I’m sure he’ll?—”

“I need to go to the restroom.” I jump up from the table. Kennedy looks concerned, but she gets distracted by the foldable changing pad that fits neatly inside the bag.

I navigate through the maze of tables and other diners in a daze. The restrooms are halfway down the hall, but there’s an emergency exit straight ahead.

I’m tempted to just keep walking.

I could leave, puke in a ficus around back, and then be on my merry way. By the time Kennedy stopped ogling the Gucci bag and realized I was missing, I’d already be back home.

Not that I have much of a “home” to go back to.

I’m fantasizing about my great escape when I look towards the back door and freeze.

I have to blink twice.

Because just as I’m about to push the bathroom door open, I see a shadowy figure waiting at the end of the hall, blocking the exit.

Spencer.

My heart and a scream both lodge in my throat, fighting for position, but nothing comes out.

I turn towards the front doors—if I can’t fight, then I’m gonna fly the fuck out of here—but there’s a swarm of paparazzi descending on the patio like vultures.

He did this.

Spencer tracked me here; he called the press.

He wants to be seen with me in public to make sure there’s plausible deniability if I ever decide to talk about what he did.

It couldn’t have been that bad, Callie. You went to brunch with the man.

He’s trying to back me into another corner… and it’s working.

I turn back to the exit, and Spencer is smiling. I once thought he was handsome, but there’s something reptilian about him now. It sends a shiver down my spine.

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