Lone Star Lovers

Then he lifted one of her legs onto his shoulder and made her dessert.

Again.

Seven

“Tell me everything,” Miranda’s bubbly voice, on speakerphone, filled Pen’s office.

Pen had called her friend to thank her for the generous basket she was now digging through. She pulled out a tube of lipstick and spun it to examine the lush red color.

“I love this lipstick. ‘Red Rum,’” she read off the bottom of the tube with a laugh. Sassy. That was Miranda.

“It’s long-wearing, not tested on animals and one hundred percent organic. Now, if you don’t tell me everything about the man you’ve been having sex with for the last month, I’m going to come to your office with torture implements.”

She laughed at her friend’s colorful description. Pen had casually mentioned Zach and that she’d been seeing him.

“It was supposed to be one night, and then we had a two-week gap.” She lifted the basket from her desk and put it on the couch. She was so giving herself a makeover later. “But when I saw him again at the mayor’s party, well... I couldn’t help starting up with him again.”

“And you ended up engaged! It’s a fairy tale. It’s a fantasy!”

It was a load of crap, but Pen had to keep up the facade with everyone.

“Yes, I was very surprised.” That, at least, was the truth.

“I’ll bet. Zachary Ferguson is one yummy prospect if you don’t mind my saying. And he must be a real catch for you to have leaped in with both feet so soon.”

“Yes,” Pen said, unable to trot out any more false explanations.

“Listen, doll, I have to go. We’re working on the spring line and I have an appointment.”

“Thank you again for the gift.”

“You bet. I expect a wedding invitation.”

Pen opened her mouth to make an empty promise, but Miranda clicked off. With a sigh, she cleaned a few pieces of crinkled pink paper that had been used as packing in her gift basket from her planner pages.

May’s schedule wasn’t as full as she’d like it to be, but she had a few phone calls to return. She turned to her weekly page and checked off the line item that read “call Miranda,” eyes skimming past the list of messages she’d written down to return on Monday but hadn’t gotten the chance. And here it was Friday already.

Halfway to dialing a number for Maude Braxton, Pen’s eyes landed on a tiny red heart beneath Monday’s date, and she frowned.

She’d been on birth control pills since she was a teenager because of erratic periods, and since she’d been on birth control pills, her cycle was correct down to the minute.

She hastily flipped back to April, located the red heart, and counted the days to today.

She was five days late.

Five. Days.

“Oh, my God.” Her stomach tightened, her mind racing. Could she be...? No. No way. She was on the pill. And even if her trusted form of birth control failed her, she was in her early thirties. At her age it was normal for things to go haywire. There could be a perfectly good explanation. Stress. It could totally be stress. But when she flipped back to April and saw the name of a jazz club scheduled for eight p.m., another perfectly good explanation came to mind.

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