The whole group grows quiet.
“Father?” Kinsley whispers.
Mom makes a noise and her eyes find mine. “Are you saying Wyatt is the father of her baby?”
I give the smallest possible shake of my head. The damage is spreading like cracks in ice.
Brittney blushes.
Mrs. Martinez nods. “He didn’t tell you?” She scoffs. “That is so like a man.”
Grandpa slams his glass down on the bar. "Give me another and make it a double," he snaps at the bartender, who starts moving like he was zapped with a hotshot.
Kinsley’s eyebrows shoot up, but she works quickly to school her features.
"Well," Senator Martinez says as he slaps my dad on the shoulder, "I guess we've got a lot to discuss."
"There seems to be some sort of a misunderstanding," I venture. I pull my arm out of Brittney’s clutch and try to step aside. She sways on her feet and I instinctively reach out to steady her.
Kinsley makes a sound like she’s being strangled and I look at her with my hand on Brittney, and I see my world crashing in her eyes. I jerk my hand away from Brittney.
Before I can begin to untangle this mess, a bang echoes from across the room. We all turn to see Maxwell Whitmore on the floor; his dinner scattered around him like confetti.
"Kinsley!" calls Hailey as she rushes over to help.
"I need to—" Kinsley starts to move away.
I don't want her to leave. I don’t want her to walk away with the idea that Brittney is carrying my baby. I don’t want her to create a chasm of space between us because I already feel like she’s moved a million miles away from me.
She moves around the circle in such a way that she won’t walk past me and I feel the snub. She touches Mom's arm as she passes, handing off one problem while she goes to handle another. Watching her walk away feels like I'm losing her.
She looks back at me, hurt and confusion on her face before whipping around and rushing to the other crisis inthe room. Our group is now caught up in what’s happening over there—this horrible conversation on hold for a moment.
Senator Martinez grabs my arm just above the elbow, his grip painful. “Don’t even think about running off,” he growls.
I yank my arm out of his grip and tug on my jacket. “I don’t run from anything.”
Thirty-Seven
JUST A GUY WHO HAD ONE TOO MANY.
KINSLEY
The words echo in my skull like bullets ricocheting—Wyatt is the father of her baby.
Brittney is Senator Martinez's daughter.
She’s having Wyatt’s baby.
I mean—is she?
My professional brain screams that I need to contain this. Conservative voters, family values, unwed pregnancy—it's a political minefield for the Senator that could detonate at any second and he’ll want it wrapped up ASAP. But my heart is shattering in ways I didn't know possible, jagged pieces cutting deeper with every breath as I rush over to help Mr. Whitmore.
Maxwell hit the polished hardwood floor like afelled oak, his wine glass exploding in a shower of crystal and cabernet that spreads like spilled blood.
Crisis management first, personal devastation later.
Hailey tells people to, "Give him space.”