Molly O'Keefe - The Scandal and Carter O'Neill

“Okay,” she said brightly, as if she weren’t shaken down to her feet. “Public hand-holding it is. When do we start?”

“Tonight,” he said, and her stomach plummeted. She’d been hoping for a few days, some time to get her head around this. To warn her mom and Phillip.

“What do I tell my friends?” she asked. “My mom.”

“Nothing would be best.”

“That’s…that’s not possible. They’ll know this baby isn’t yours. That we’re not…together.”

“That reporter—Jim Blackwell—he’ll be all over your life, and that includes your family and friends. The less they know, the easier it will be on them.”

Well, she thought, what was one more secret between her and her mother?

“All right. So where are we going tonight?”

“Bola,” he said, naming the fancy steak house that had opened downtown a few months ago.

Nope. Uh-uh. Not going to happen. She would fakedate him anywhere but there. “I’ve heard it’s awful,” she lied.

He shook his head. “From who? The food there is amazing.”

“Well, if it’s amazing food you want, I know of a great soul food place down on River—”

“The point is to be seen by people,” he said slowly, as if she were stupid. “Get our photo taken.”

“But Bola has cockroaches,” she whispered, as if Zagat were in the room with them. “In the kitchen.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” he asked. “Because I really do not get your sense of humor. We’re going to Bola.”

Of course, she thought, resignation like a brick settling in her stomach. Maybe, if she was lucky, Phillip wouldn’t be working.

At least the food would be good, she thought, happy to see a bright side. This baby loved steak. Zoe, of course, loved it dipped in cream cheese, but she would try to control herself.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said.

“That won’t work. I teach until seven and then…well, I’ll need to get ready. Eight at the earliest.” More like seven-fifteen at the earliest, but he didn’t need to know that and he certainly didn’t need to have every single thing go his way.

He nodded. “Eight then.”

She managed to smile as if this were a real date, something to look forward to. “Eight it is.”

Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, she thought, watching his long lean body cross the floor of her apartment. He was handsome, wealthy—at least she’d be able to eat a whole lot of steak in the next few months. Plus, he could hold hands better than most men made love. If she could just keep herself together and he managed to not be an autocratic ass, maybe everything would be all right.

Of course, there was Phillip to consider now, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

“Try to wear something appropriate,” he said.

And with that little ego crusher, he was gone.

ZOE WAS RUNNING LATE. As usual. And Mom was not helping.

“No,” she said, tucking the phone between her ear and her shoulder and locking the door behind her. She clicked on the lamp by the door and a puddle of warm light spread around her. “Mom, we’re not…serious.”

“But that thing in the paper, and now this? Dinner?”

“Yes, Mom, it’s just dinner.”

“At Bola? That’s not just dinner.”

“It is. It’s just a fancy dinner.” A fancy dinner that required a fancy dress. “He’s sort of a…fancy guy.” She winced; that wasn’t right at all. He was the opposite. He was stark and serious. Fancy like a rock face, maybe. Or an oak tree. She ran to her bedroom, shedding clothes as she went. Yoga pants—her pregnancy uniform—just weren’t going to cut it tonight.

“And how long has this been going on?”

Zoe rolled her eyes and pulled open the accordion doors to her closet. “Not long,” she said, yanking the ribbon attached to the small chain on her overhead light. She was trying to be vague, like Carter had told her, but her mom was like a hound dog. “A month, maybe. Honestly, we’re just friends.”

“Honey, why didn’t you say something? I thought…” Penny trailed off, her voice leaving behind a little wake of pain mixed with guilt.

A delightful combination that her mother specialized in.

Zoe sighed and sat down on the mess of pillows and blankets she called a bed. She quickly bounced up and pulled a cereal bowl out from the duvet before settling back down. She didn’t like lying to her mother, and she really didn’t like hurting her, but at some point there needed to be some distance. Some breathing room.

Not for the first time, Zoe doubted her decision to come back to Baton Rouge to have this baby.

“I mean, you used to tell me everything. But recently, you’re so different. The baby—”

She didn’t want to talk about the baby with her mom. Not again. For four solid months it had been all they talked about, and now the subject was closed. Closed.

“Mom, listen to me. I sort of blew it with the whole standing on the chair thing, and now we have to go public. It’s not a big deal.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Zoe took a deep breath and jumped right into the new cold waters that swirled between them. “You know why, Mom.”

“You’re going to be a single mother, Zoe. Dating isn’t—”

“And there you go,” she said, standing up and wiggling out of her bra. “This is why I didn’t tell you. I don’t need another chapter from your How To Be A Single Mother textbook.”

There was a pause, the silence long and slow, like colliding with an iceberg, and Zoe bit her lip to keep from apologizing. She was right on this.

“Do you like him?” Mom asked, her voice quiet. “Is he nice to you?”

Zoe nearly laughed. Nice? Carter O’Neill? The word simply did not apply. “Of course.”

“All right, just…be careful with yourself, honey.”

“I will. I have to go, Mom. Bye.” Zoe hung up and tossed the phone on the bed.

She approached her closet like Napoleon taking over a battlefield. None of her pants fit, and she didn’t have the money for new special maternity ones, so she shoved aside a small quadrant of black, white and denim pants. It wasn’t a terribly formal sort of place so she pushed away the turquoise beaded gown and the black sheath from her days at the Houston Ballet. Ballerinas needed gowns for those fundraiser things, but why she still kept them she had no idea. Well, they were glittery and she did like glitter.

“This is a disaster,” she moaned, flicking hangers back and forth, contemplating her pink cowboy shirt with the lassoing hearts. There was the red-and-white maternity tent dress her mother had bought her a few days ago, which honestly made her look like a tablecloth at an Italian restaurant. She pushed aside a few cardigans and dug way back into her closet, her heart sinking farther and farther into her stomach.

She wanted to look good tonight. Smokin’, even. Because Carter had mocked her and had made her heart flip over in her chest when he’d held her hand.

The combination stung like salt in a wound.

But it didn’t look like glamorous Zoe was going to make an appearance tonight. Or any other night for the foreseeable future. She was five months pregnant, a political prisoner of her own making, and she was attracted to the stone-cold warden.

Wedged into the back of her closet between her old prom dress and the remnants of her flapper phase, she found a clear plastic garment bag.

Sunshine dawned in her dark loft as she pulled out the hot pink raw silk A-line dress. A few years ago in Houston, she’d fallen in love with this dress, with its big red and yellow appliqué roses on the short hem, its bold color, and the way it made her legs look about a million miles long. The only problem was that it had been a little too big and she’d meant to have it altered, but kept forgetting.