"Divorce papers?" She glances up at me.
"Read it." I bite on my lower lip, "The asshole is making sure I have nothing to do with him."
"That’s what you said you want, right?" She walks across to the coffee table and places the papers there. Then straightens, "It is, isn’t it?"
"Yeah." I bring up my legs, to sit cross-legged on the sofa. Somehow this is the only position that feels comfortable nowadays. Don’t ask.
"You don’t sound convinced."
"What do you want me to say?" I shove a cushion behind me.
"That you want him to come after you, discover that you are pregnant, and then fall to his knees and apologize for being a bloody idiot."
"Right," I laugh. "You obviously don’t know Saint."
"Not as well as you." She glances pointedly at my belly, "What are you going to do about it?"
I swallow, then place my palms over my belly. "I want this child. It’s just, I’d thought, I’d hoped…" My face crumples. "It’s hard, Amelie. I knew it wasn't going to be easy to do this on my own...but I hadn't realized how daunting it would be."
"Oh, V." She rounds the table, sinks down next to me and pulls me close. I bury my face in her shoulder and allow the tears to come.
She pats my head, holds me close, "Let it out, V. You’ve been through so bloody much. I don’t know of anyone who could have come out of it still standing."
"And pregnant," I mutter through my tears. "Not that I’m complaining. I mean, it’s the one good thing to have come from all this mess." I wipe my tears, and sit back, "Do I look terrible?"
She looks me up and down, "Yes."
I chuckle, "Gee, thanks. I can always count on you sugar-coating reality, huh?"
"That’s my specialty. Comes with being an expert pastry chef."
I snicker, "That’s a terrible joke."
"You smiled, didn’t you?" She leans across, and snatches up the tissue box. "What are you wearing anyway?"
I pull out a few of the tissues, blow my nose. "An old shirt I’d forgotten I own." It’s one of Saint’s. I packed it by mistake. Okay, so it wasn’t a mistake. I wad the tissues in my hand and hunch my shoulders. "What the hell am I going to do, Amelie?"
I stare at the advertisement on the television screen, showing a family sitting down to Christmas dinner.
"If there’s anyone who can cope with this, it’s you." She rubs circles on my back.
I snort, "I’m not feeling capable of much at the moment, I can tell you that."
Another image flashes on screen, this time showing the opening credits of "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas."
"Bloody depressing." She picks up the remote control and switches off the TV.
I chuckle, "I thought you like Christmas."
"I do." She links her fingers together, "But I’ve been overworked filling up orders for Christmas parties since—" she reddens. "Sorry didn’t mean to bring up the... Uh! ...wedding party."
"It’s fine." I pick up a cushion and hug it, "I ‘m glad at least you and Isla benefitted from all that publicity.”
"More like notoriety," she snorts. "But really, it seems whoever said that all PR is good PR, has it right. Isla's booked up into late next year and I have more orders than I can fulfill for the foreseeable feature. "
The paparazzi had blown up the internet with accounts of how a mystery man had held the wedding celebration hostage, then escaped without taking anything. People had taken to calling it a prank pulled by one of the Seven.
Saint had encouraged it by releasing a short statement to the media clarifying that no one had been hurt by the escapade. He hadn’t answered any further questions from the media—who had speculated for days, before one journalist had concluded that it had been a giant waste of time—except for the desserts served at the party, which had been incredible. One thing had led to another, and the internet had blown up with people wanting to find out who had planned the wedding and what the guests had been enjoying; so Isla's wedding planning venture and Amelie’s catering business had boomed in its wake.
All’s well that ends well… Everyone got what they wanted, including Antonio. A shiver runs down my spine. He seems to be sticking to his promise of leaving me alone…so far. If he’d wanted to kill me, he could have when he’d shot at me. He seemed to have purposely missed at that close range. Well, I guess that means he is letting me get on with my life... Such as it is.
"What are you going to do for Christmas?" Amelie asks.
"I haven’t given it much thought." I glance around the flat. "Maybe I’ll stay in here, get some rest," I say.
"You mean stay in and get depressed?"
"I won’t." I hunch my shoulders, negating my own claim, "I’m trying, Amelie." I stare at the blank television screen.
"Why don’t you come up to the cabin with me?"
"Cabin?" I frown.
"The one that Saint said I could borrow for the holidays?" She flushes, "Shit, I can’t say anything without putting my foot in my mouth."
"It’s okay." I force out a laugh, "It’s not like I can go through life being upset every time his name is mentioned."
"I… I won’t go, if that helps. I can stay here and keep you company?"
"Nonsense." I frown, "You deserve this time to rest and rejuvenate."
She turns to me, "I don’t want you to be on your own."
"I’ve survived the last few weeks, haven’t I?"
"Have you?" She looks me up and down.
I flush, "Do I look that bad?"
"Worse."
I yank my hair back from my face, "I…haven’t felt motivated."
"It’s understandable. It’s why I’d rather you not stay on your own through the holiday season."
"And I’m not coming with you, to the cabin."
"Why don’t you stay with Summer and Sinclair—?" she asks.
"And risk running into him?" I straighten my shoulders, "Okay, I know that’s being a coward, but right now, I’d rather stay as far
