“I don’t know,” Ben answered.

I wanted to argue with them, to tell them I was fine. Or that I would be once this damn limo stopped spinning. It was like a magic-carpet ride from hell. But I stayed quiet, trying to piece together their cryptic, murmured phrases.

Ben cursed under his breath. “I’m not giving her up. As long as she wants me, I’m here.”

I vaguely heard Ben instruct the driver to bring us home first then drop off Ellie and Braydon after. I hoped they would be okay alone together. For some reason they mixed about as well as oil and water. But I didn’t have time to worry about that. My attention was focused solely on praying that the contents of my stomach would stay put. By the time the limo rolled to a stop in front of Ben’s building, I’d lost the use of my legs. Well, shit.

Ben lifted me in his arms and carried me. When we reached his apartment, he brought me inside and set me down on the couch then removed my shoes. “Are you feeling okay?”

I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure. God, why did I drink so much?

“I’ll go get you a glass of water and some pain reliever,” he said.

His words barely registered because the second he was out of the living room I was on my feet, darting for the bathroom. The liquor in my stomach churned violently and just as the toilet came into view I lost it, sinking to my knees and getting sick.

Ew. I hated throwing up. The coughing, the smell, the violent way my stomach kept convulsing long after I’d emptied it.

After I had thoroughly expelled everything from my system, I collapsed onto the floor in a heap. It was only then that I noticed Ben was beside me. Shit. He pushed the hair back from my face. I tried to focus on his perfect face but he was too blurry. The bathroom was tipping and spinning rather annoyingly. I was vaguely aware of his arms coming around me and lifting me off the floor before the world went black.

Ben

Emmy was dead weight in my arms. I hated seeing her like this, knowing she felt like shit. I placed her on my bed and went about removing her dress, bra, and panties. I dressed her in a pair of my boxer shorts and a T-shirt. My lucky Yankees shirt. Maybe it would make her feel better.

She curled into a ball in the center of my bed. “Benn . . .” Her arm failed out, her hand searching for me in a grabby motion.

“I’m right here, baby.” I gripped her hand, sliding my fingers between hers. “Shh. I’ve got you.”

“My head hurts,” she croaked.

“Let’s get you settled.” I shifted her so that she was positioned higher up on the mattress and slid a pillow underneath her head, then I pulled the comforter around her. “How’s that?”

She didn’t answer right away, and I was wondering if she’d passed out.

“You saw me barf.”

I suppressed a chuckle. “You were sick, honey. I wanted to take care of you.”

“I’m s-sorry. . . .” she groaned.

“It’s okay, pretty girl. Just rest, okay?” I smoothed the hair back from her face. She looked so sweet, so vulnerable, passed out drunk against my pillow, dressed in my Yankees T-shirt. I continued just watching her, caressing her cheek and tucking her hair behind her ear.

She mumbled something unintelligible. “Bennn . . .” she groaned.

Shit. I was about to lift her up and carry her back to the bathroom just in case she was going to be sick again. “Yeah, baby?”

Emmy pouted, her bottom lip jutting out like she might cry. “She looked really pretty . . . she had a cute tummy. . . .”

What?

Oh.

Pregnant Fiona.

Emmy’s brow crinkled in concentration as she fought sleep. “She’s having a . . . a b-baby, and it might be your baby, right, Ben?”

“I don’t think it’s my baby.” I choked on the words. We were seriously discussing this now? I almost considered leaving her to sleep but I was too curious to hear what else she might say.

“Me and you are gonna make pretty babies,” she said.

Holy shit. Was she serious? I didn’t want a baby.

“The prettiest,” I agreed. “Now sleep, honey.” I patted her butt and she let out a soft groan.

Fuck. I paced the living room floor. I couldn’t handle seeing Emmy like this . . . and then hearing her talk about wanting a baby . . . with me? Maybe it was just the alcohol talking, but shit. I was nowhere near ready for a baby. I was still learning about how to be a boyfriend. And I wasn’t even very good at that.

Too keyed up for sleep, I sat down on the armchair with my iPad.

5

Emmy

The room was much too bright, and my throat felt raw and scratchy. I blinked my eyes open and attempted to swallow.

Ouch.

It was raw and irritated.

What the hell happened last night?

Oh God. Memories flashed into focus. Fiona with her perfect little baby bump. Me binging on liquor. I struggled to remember what happened after that.

I blinked at my surroundings. Ben lay next to me, asleep and resting peacefully, his hair rumpled from sleep and a crease across one cheek.

I was glad I was here with him but how had I gotten into his bed?

Memories of getting sick in his bathroom and him tucking me into bed danced in my subconscious.

God, my head was pounding.

I flung off the blankets and climbed from the bed on unsteady legs, trying to be as quiet as possible. I wanted to let him sleep. I shuffled to the kitchen for a glass of water. I’d downed half of it when my stomach grumbled loudly. Rather than finishing the water, like my parched throat craved, I heeded the advice of my stomach and set the glass of water on the counter. We’d need to take it easy today.