Page 18 of Baby Maker

Chapter Four

Calliope

“Absolutely not, Simon. Why can’t Bridget go? That falls under wifely duties.” I stage my protest from the comfort of my couch, wrapped in my softest sweats and a fluffy blanket. If my friend thinks I’m moving from this position, he’s lost his bloody mind.

“She’s got a cold. Caught it from the girls.” He sighs heavily into the phone, and I wait for the inevitable guilt trip that I know will follow. “Don’t make me go alone.”

“You’ve attended tons of these parties alone. Why do you suddenly need an escort?”

“Because if I go alone, there are certain doctors who will usurp my entire evening, and I won’t be responsible for the copious amounts of alcohol I’ll have to consume to put up with their incessant blathering.”

Simon is not relenting, which leaves me two choices. I can continue engaging in this fruitless argument for the next hour or agree to attend the medical soiree as his date/bodyguard. With a groan, I cave to my friend’s demands. “You owe me.”

A happy whoop sounds from the other end of the phone. So glad I could make someone’s day. “When have I not owed you, Calliope? Put it on my tab.”

“Are you ever planning to pay your tab?” My eyes scan the contents of my closet, poking at the assortment of dresses. I haven’t worn anything beyond loungewear or jeans since Nigel’s funeral. Here’s hoping my clothes still fit. Hey, a steady diet of ice cream and crying can make you a bit soft around the middle.

“Eventually. Come on, with you by my side, we’ll have a good time.”

“Or wind up snookered together.”

“Either works for me. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

* * *

Good to his word, my best friend is on my doorstop at seven on the dot. “You look lovely, Calli.”

I eye my emerald cocktail dress, unsure if I look good or that I’m trying too hard. “I really hoped yoga pants would be acceptable attire. When you told me I had to wear heels, you threw off my entire game.”

“It’ll do you good to get out for a bit.”

“Ah, the truth comes out,” I declare, grabbing my coat from the hall closet. “Bridget isn’t sick, is she? This was all a ruse to force me into commingling with the living.”

Simon, never one to back down from a challenge, pulls out his phone. “She is indeed sick. I can call her, and you can hear her nasally squeak. She’s likely sleeping, but since you don’t believe me—”

“Put the phone away. I’ll make an exception for you. Consider yourself lucky that I like you.”

It’s a short drive to the restaurant, a five-star deal that I occasionally attended with Nigel’s banking buddies. If I remember correctly, the food is delicious, and the wine list? Even better.

Besides, Simon is right. I need to start wading back into the world again.

We stroll into the banquet room, and I plaster a smile on my face. Even though I don’t know a soul here, save for Simon, it’s important to play the part. I played that role for years with Nigel.

I’ve never been comfortable in large crowds, seeking solace in a darkened corner or balcony, where the din was manageable. A quick glance tells me that there are no balconies available. Bad luck.

But there is something else.

Rather, someone.

Across the room, looking devastatingly dapper in a navy suit, is Dr. Keegan Russo. I swear, there isn’t an outfit he doesn’t fill out to perfection.

“Look who it is,” Simon murmurs at my side, indicating toward the illustrious Baby Maker. “Have you met with him yet?”

“I’m sure your wife told you I had.”

“Yes, but she didn’t tell me any of the good stuff. I knew I’d have to hit you up for it directly.”

My eyes widen at his brazen innuendo. “What good stuff are you expecting? He examined me in the most professional of manners.”

---