Jesus, take the training wheels.
I remind myself the odds are statistically in my favor—for one baby, not two. I'm ignoring that statistics are in and of themselves bullshit. Statistically I should not have gotten knocked up the one time I had sex in months, but try telling that to the raspberry growing in my uterus. Wait, do babies grow in the uterus? The womb? It's the same thing, right? How do I not know this?
It's in my uterus, I decide and blow out a breath. Definitely.
I toss my carry-on into the back of a cab and slide in after it. The conference I'm attending starts on Monday but the charity event I'm crashing is tonight. If I can't get in and talk to Kyle then I'm at a loss as to how I'll reach him without involving lawyers. I'd like to get this taken care of today so I can focus on the conference and not on baby daddy drama.
It shouldn't be that hard to get in, right? I mean, it's a retirement event, not the Met Gala or the Victoria's Secret fashion show, it's not like it's a hot ticket. Besides, the article I read said expected attendance of five hundred. No one will notice little old me. I'll glide right in, find Kyle, explain what I need to and then slip back out. Quietly, just between us.
I breathe a sigh of relief because this is going to work. I know it's going to work, because if I can't get in and find Kyle then I'm at a loss as to how I'll reach him. But it's fine, because I have a good feeling about tonight, I really do.
Game on, Kyle Kingston.
4
Daisy
I check my reflection in the mirror to ensure there's no lipstick on my teeth or a swipe of deodorant somewhere it shouldn't be. I'm wearing a black dress and my favorite pair of heels. The kind of heels that led to the dick diet in the first place. The kind of heels men like wrapped around their waists. I look at them ruefully, knowing that tonight the only place they're headed is back into my suitcase the moment I'm done with this event.
I love this dress. It's floor-length, with a long high slit up the left leg. The material has a bit of sparkle to it and flows around my legs as I walk. Sexy, yet not skimpy on fabric or coverage. Tiny spaghetti-sized straps connect the front to the back, leaving my arms and shoulders bare.
My hair is up, the dark strands pulled into a low bun. Simple earrings and a basic black clutch. I don't own anything fancy enough for this event, but I've put together a good façade. I've played up my makeup as befitting of an evening event, spending ten minutes on my eyes alone. Liner, blended shadows, mascara. My brows are dark like my hair, perfectly shaped and arched over my blue eyes, making them pop. My lips are covered in a matte berry shade.
I look good.
I scrunch my nose in the mirror at my vanity, but looking good soothes the sting of having to sneak into an event to track down a man. Ugh, stalking is so not my jam.
With a sigh I drop the room key into my clutch. The pocketbook is mostly for show, because showing up with just a hotel key in my hand would look odd. I'm not staying long enough to warrant bringing even a lipstick, so the only thing in there is my hotel key, my cell phone, a credit card and some cash, just in case.
I feel queasy, which is odd because it's evening and I've yet to experience any sickness during this pregnancy, morning or otherwise. Perhaps I have confrontation sickness, but I'm not normally one to waffle over confrontation. Then again, I've never been in a situation anything like this before, so I should cut myself some slack. With a deep breath I exit my room and make the walk to the convention center adjoining the hotel.
I'm smiling, nausea forgotten and nerves in check when I exit the elevator and cross the glass-encased walkway connecting the Marriott to the Convention Center, but it doesn't last long.
Fuck-a-ding-a-ling-a-ding-dong.
They're checking guests at the door.
Checking in, with security flanking the door.
Who besides me could possibly want to crash this? Seriously, who? I cannot catch a break. This is freaking ridiculous. I blow out a breath and make a split-second decision to fake it. It's my best option. It's my only option. Besides, people are less likely to question you if you're confident. It's true. If you carry yourself with an air of authority people assume you know what you're doing.
I've got this. I'll say I'm with Kyle and glide right on in. This level of crazy isn't normally anything I'd stoop to, but I'm desperate. Desperate to find Kyle and get this over with, so I don't falter in my stride as I arrive at the table they've set up just outside the ballroom door. There are three women behind the table checking guests in along with two security guards flanking the doorway. The security guards look like rentals from an agency, more for show than actual brute force, but still, it's not like I'm going to attempt to outrun them.
The women look like they're involved with the event. Official. Snooty. Problematic. I continue up to the table anyway because I can't very well turn around now.
"Name?" One of the women looks up from her list, her face bored. She's wearing an elegant name tag with her name engraved on it, identifying her as Margo. There's a table full of identical name tags behind her, which tells me immediately that not only am I supposed to be on a list, there should be a matching tag to identify me.
"Daisy Hayden," I tell her, knowing damn well my name isn't on the list. I fake nonchalance all the same.
She gives me a once-over before flipping through the pages and announcing I'm not on it.
"Oh! I'm here as a plus one." I say it as if my heart isn't beating a mile a minute in nerves. "With Kyle Kingston. Perhaps I'm listed under his name?" I smile politely, as if where my name is listed is of little importance to me, as if getting inside this event is a foregone conclusion.
"You're here with Kyle Kingston," she repeats, eyeing me once again. I send a silent plea to the universe that she doesn't know him personally, or well enough to call my bluff. I have no idea if these women work at the KINGS corporate office or if they're part of the event staff.
"Yes." I say it as dismissively as I can, which is difficult because dismissive isn't really in my nature but it's essential for faking my way in.
"Kyle doesn't have a plus one," she responds, eyeing me with undisguised interest.
"Are you sure he didn't add me to the list? He said he'd make sure I was on the list when I spoke with him earlier." I nod towards the stack of papers with a frown. "Perhaps he sent an e-mail?"
"He hasn't," she replies without breaking eye contact. This lady is so not buying what I'm selling.
"You're not going to check?" I stare back, annoyed that she's not even going to make a pretense of pulling out her phone to look for something that doesn't exist. My nerves are shot, my adrenaline is waning and all I want to do is go back to my room and take a pre-bedtime nap. Why does this have to be so difficult?
The woman exhales as if I'm really trying her patience now. I worry she's about to wave the security guys over when she drops her gaze to my clutch and back to my face in what I can only decipher as a flat-out challenge. "He just arrived a few minutes ago. Why don't you call and ask him to come back and escort you inside?"