Chapter 1

Two months ago I left Patrick Pelletier. Tonight he's standing at my register, buying condoms for other girl.

He doesn't even pretend to be subtle about it.

He pulls a box off the shelf, holds it up between two fingers, and turns to the girl hanging off his arm.

"There's like ten kinds, baby. Which one feels best? You pick."

The girl blushes hard. Stares at the boxes. Doesn't say a word.

Patrick laughs, low and mean. "Right. My bad. We never used these when it was you and me. You wouldn't know."

I keep wiping down the counter. I don't look up.

He leans on the register. I can feel his eyes on me, that lazy, amused look I used to die for.

"What about you, sweetheart? Got a recommendation?"

I freeze for a second. Just one.

Then I reach behind me, pick a box, and slide it across the counter.

"This one. Thinnest we carry. Goes on smooth, feels like nothing. Girls love it."

Patrick's smile thins out. "You sound experienced."

"I get by."

He picks up the box, turns it over in his hand, eyes locked on mine. "You and your new boyfriend go through a lot of these, then?"

The brunette on his arm laughs — sharp, ugly. She looks me up and down like I'm something stuck to her shoe.

"Look at her clothes, babe. Whole outfit's, what, twenty bucks? Her and her broke boyfriend can't afford the good brand. They're probably using the cheap stuff that breaks halfway through."

Patrick's watching my face. Waiting for me to crack.

I don't.

I just smile, polite as a hostess. "Don't worry, sir. I've tried every brand on this shelf. They all hold up."

His hand goes still on the box. His jaw locks.

"Cute," he says. Quiet. Cold. "I'll take this one. If it's not as good as you say — I'll be back."

He drops a black card on the counter. I ring it up. He doesn't break eye contact once.

The bell over the door rings. They're gone.

I exhale.

Turns out, the condoms really were good.

Because for the next seven nights in a row, Patrick walks into my store at exactly 11 p.m. and buys another box. Same brand. Same brunette on his arm.

Every. Single. Night.

By night four, my manager Rita can't keep it in anymore.

"Sweetheart, I have been in this business twenty years. I have never seen a man go through a box of these every single night. That is some Olympic-level stamina."

I keep scanning barcodes.

"And the car, Cara. Did you see the car? Phantom. Blacked out. Plates aren't even real. That's mob money, honey. Old mob money. The kind you don't ask questions about."

"Mm-hmm."

"Lucky girl, that one. Designer head to toe. Earrings probably cost more than my house." She squints at the security monitor. "Y'know, she looks familiar. I swear I've seen her somewhere."

She turns to me, eyes narrowing.

"Cara. Honey. Tell me she's not someone you know."

I keep my eyes on the register.

"She's nobody."

Rita doesn't buy it. She bumps my hip with hers. "C'mon. Spill. Were they together before? Was she your friend? Roommate? Sister? Give me something."

"There's nothing to give."

I close the drawer. Take a breath.

"Rita. Can I take a couple days off this week? I've got a doctor's appointment."

She blinks. "Sure, baby. Of course. The dad going with you?"

I shake my head. "Going alone."

She sighs, long and tired.

"Every appointment, you go alone. Whoever this man is, honey — he's a piece of trash."

I press my lips together. I don't argue.

Because she's right.

And because the man she's calling trash just walked out of my store with his new girl, a fresh box of condoms, and absolutely no idea what I'm carrying under this cheap uniform.

His baby.

Eight weeks along.