"Are you done?"

"Yes."

"Mrs Lascola comes daily Monday through Friday. She does the cleaning, shopping and laundry. My dry-cleaning is delivered to the concierge desk, from where she retrieves it and places it in my closet. She brings the mail from the lobby and leaves it on the desk in my study. She also prepares meals and leaves them in the fridge to be heated."

Oh.

"So no," Kyle continues, "I'm not expecting you to be my 1950s housewife, because Mrs Lascola is my 1950s housewife, minus your surly attitude problem. You, Daisy, are my twenty-first-century bride-to-be. What I expect from you is that you're doing everything you need to do to take care of the baby you're carrying. Besides that, I expect you to do whatever it is that you find personally fulfilling. I don't give a fuck if it's dusting, or knitting, or photography, or real estate, or running a goddamned empire. Are we clear?"

"Fine, yes." I huff. "Good Lord, you're dramatic."

He rolls his eyes at me. “Great. Be ready at six, because I'm taking you out to dinner," he says, stressing the word out. He could have done that to start with. "On a date," he adds.

"Why?" I stare at him, a million questions running through my mind.

"Because we've not been on a real date and I thought it would be nice, all things considered."

I wonder if it's sad that I don't quite know what to do with nice. That my first reaction is to wonder why the hell he's bothering when he's already got me. I'm not saying no one's ever taken me to dinner before but... I've never quite been in this situation either.

"Um, okay," I agree as I slide out of the car. "Have a good day," I add before I push the car door closed and watch him merge between cars on Walnut.

I think I'm going to say yes.

Yes to whatever we're doing for the sake of the baby. Or Kyle. Or both, I don't know. Maybe it's a little for me too. Or more than a little. I can't deny having help with the baby isn't the worst idea. And Kyle seems like a pretty responsible guy. He doesn't have rental insurance because he owns his condo, he explained that on the ride back, but he's got homeowner’s insurance which is the same thing. Plus he's overfeeding Tubbs so he probably wouldn't forget to feed our baby and oh, my God, I might be spiraling. Overthinking things is really not my jam.

Screw it. I turn and head inside. This building has a doorman who has already learned my name and holds the door open with a, "Welcome back, Miss Hayden," as I pass through. It's a bit much, but it's not the worst perk in the world. If I stay, it'd be nice to have someone to hold the door when I've got a stroller, right?

Upstairs I find Tubbs and we have a nice conversation about how complicated my life has become. Cats are great listeners, as it turns out. Terrible workout buddies though. I tried to interest him in a little jog around the apartment but he wasn't into it and I'm going to need his moral support when my body becomes as round as his is so I didn't push it.

He is incredibly photogenic, however. I took a few shots of him lying in a patch of sunlight and wondered if he'd let me swaddle him like a newborn and then place him in an old wooden crate for one of those trendy newborn photoshoots.

Probably not.

By probably not I mean definitely not because he slapped me across the face with his fat marshmallow paw when I attempted to wrap him in a sheet. We can work on it though.

Mrs Lascola came and did her thing and brought a tray of lasagna with her. Like... she made it at home from scratch and then brought it to Kyle's to stick in his fridge.

Kyle's right. She's a better housewife than I'm ever going to be.

Lucky for me Mrs Lascola is in her late fifties and has a husband so there's no competition. Which is good ’cause I'd totally lose.

I'm heating up a plate of said lasagna when my sister calls. I'm about to take a long walk so I can take a bunch of photos of the city. I need to stock up on shots for my Instagram account, and I also need to find something to post about for my travel blog. Rittenhouse Square is just outside Kyle's front door and I'm betting I can find hours’ worth of things to photograph there. And then I'll find a local coffee or bagel or cupcake shop to highlight as a place to stop at when in Philly. Perfect.

I swipe to accept the call and hit the speaker button since Mrs Lascola has already left and Tubbs and I have an agreement about privacy.

"Please tell me you're calling to talk about your new British lover," I announce via way of hello, "because I cannot handle any more bitching about the tour."

"Hello to you too," Violet says drily.

"Hey, girl, hey. Is that better?" I set the phone down face up on the massive expanse of marble that makes up the island in Kyle's kitchen so my hands are free for lasagna retrieval.

"What is that noise? Is that your vibrator?"

"What? No, you freaking weirdo. It's the microwave."

"Sorry, sounded like a vibrator." For the record, she doesn't sound sorry.

"I'm happy to know you think I'm unable to stop vibing long enough to answer the phone." Seriously.

"Vibing? Is that a word?"

"It is now. So what's up?"

"I'm, uh, calling to talk to you about my new British lover."

This girl.

"Did we really just go through that entire song and dance when I was correct to begin with?"

"Yes," Violet agrees, a bit poutily. "The tour went well today though, thanks for asking."

Right. The tour. I keep forgetting that she cares about my job and I don't. Not that job at least.

"Glad to hear it," I tell her as the microwave dings. I grab my plate and a fork and stand at the countertop to eat.

"I'm still never doing this again. Ever. Ever, ever," she stresses, as if I'm not taking her seriously. "So you'd better be back from whatever it is you're doing in time for the next tour. I mean it."

"Never ever," I agree. Mostly because there is no next tour. I've already written my letter of resignation, which I'll send at the end of the week, unless she gets me fired before then. "Now tell me about your guy," I beg. I'm legit dying for the juicy details. I'm also feeling unbearably smug that my plan worked. The plan in which Violet gets her groove back. The plan in which I notified Kyle about this baby hasn't gone as predicted. At all.

"Tell me where you are," Violet demands. "Because that was not your microwave. Yours beeps differently!" She says it with a little gasp at the end of her sentence, as if she's just cracked the code to the world’s greatest mystery. Sweet Jesus.

"Mad detective work. I'm visiting a friend."

"A friend? What friend?"

God, has my sister always been this nosey or is she just deflecting? I stuff a forkful of lasagna into my mouth and mumble something about frenemies, because really, I don't know how to classify Kyle. We haven't known each other long enough to be friends. He's not my boyfriend, but he might be my fiancé. I'm not certain if he's friend or foe, not really.

"A frenemy with benefits?" Violet presses.

I wish. He hasn't touched me since he fucked me over his bathroom counter on Saturday night.