gotten lost in the shuffle. A woman who ran a nonprofit that helped startups turn into corporations did not get lost in any shuffles.
He added her obvious confusion to her not drinking and came up with a conclusion so startling it almost made him whistle—the way his stepfather always had when he realized something outlandish, something farfetched, something so out of the realm of reality that only a physical gesture or a reverently whispered “Wow” would do.
* * *
Sabrina held up as well as she could through the small party at Seth and Harper’s. When Ziggy found her—again—to ride with her to the reception, she wanted to throttle him. She needed some alone time to figure things out and her brother’s best friend, her groomsman partner, always seemed to be two feet away.
She’d think he’d suddenly gotten a thing for her, but she knew better. If the wild-haired waifs he dated were anything to go by, she wasn’t his type. But he wasn’t her type, either. He was good-looking enough. His black hair curled into sexy ringlets on his collar. His heavy-lidded dark eyes never missed a thing. But he was scruffy. He liked things like dimly lit jazz bars and kicking back with a beer by the lake. Any lake. She was pretty sure he owned houses on three of them.
Then there was his name. She’d never get used to calling him Trent. First, because her brother had called him Ziggy for at least a decade. Second, because to her the name Ziggy fit the laid-back billionaire much more than Trent.
And nobody really wanted to be dating a guy named Ziggy, let alone a high-profile professional woman. She ran a respectable nonprofit. Her public persona determined whether she got contributions and grants to assist the hundreds of people who came to her with ideas every year.
Trent helped her into one of the black limos that had pulled up to the curb in front of Seth and Harper’s building.
She smiled politely. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The driver closed the door behind them, walked to the front of the long car and took his seat behind the steering wheel.
Trent pushed the button that raised the glass between passengers and the driver. “Are you okay?”
“What? Yes! I’m fine.”
“Nothing you want to tell me?”
She gave him the side eye. “Of course not.”
“I’m just saying you look like a woman who might need a shoulder to cry on or maybe somebody to offer advice.”
She fought the urge to close her eyes and kept her poise strictly intact. He couldn’t know that she was pregnant. She’d only found out that morning. One stupid week of loneliness had her flying off to Paris to Pierre—with whom she’d made the mutual decision to break up the month before—and spending a reckless weekend that resulted in a child.
She’d sensed a bit of regret on Pierre’s part when she’d left to return to New York, but not enough for him to call her. Which was for the best. As a woman who didn’t believe in love, she’d accepted Pierre’s romantic advances four years ago because she knew there was no danger that anything would come of their affair. A gorgeous, passionate artist, Pierre was a lot of fun and they spoke the language of art. They both lived and breathed art. But Pierre was the product of a marriage more dysfunctional than Sabrina’s parents’ marriage had been, and he’d decided to make up for his parents’ neglect by giving himself everything he wanted. He’d also taken a solemn vow never to marry or have kids. Which was okay because they weren’t long-term anything. They had a safe, long-distance relationship, with no possibility of things getting messy with talk of love.
And now that she was pregnant?
Well...
They’d broken up. He didn’t want to be a father. She’d never wanted him in her life permanently. Nothing had changed.
At least she didn’t think so. But that was the problem. There hadn’t yet been time to think this through. She hadn’t had two quiet minutes since she’d seen the stick turn blue, and her nerves were beginning to fray. Part of her wanted to enjoy her brother’s big day and celebrate. The other part wanted to go home and cry. Except—
She didn’t know if she wanted to cry out of fear or happiness. She’d always wanted to be a mom. She’d envisioned herself having as close of a relationship with her child as she’d had with her mom, guiding her little boy or girl into a wonderful, fulfilling life, choosing good schools, taking her baby to the park, maybe even getting a dog—
She’d just always thought it would be sometime in the future.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay. Keep your secrets.”
An arrow plunged into her heart, scaring her to death at the way he’d made secret plural. Secrets. Being pregnant wasn’t her only secret. She also painted. Temperamental, brilliant Pierre was one of a handful of people who knew Sabrina McCallan was the reclusive artist Sally McMillan. She’d taken a pseudonym because as Sabrina McCallan she was New York high society. Her one and only showing had been mobbed by people buying her paintings to win favor with her now-deceased tycoon father.
She’d been on the verge of quitting painting altogether when her mother had suggested a pseudonym. And it worked. She didn’t go to her showings, didn’t schmooze or pander to the public. Her art stood on its own.
Still, Ziggy couldn’t know that. Seth, Jake, Avery and Harper all knew the stakes. Seth would not have spilled her secret. None of them would.
Ziggy was bluffing.
“Maybe I should ask you if you need some counseling.”
He laughed.
She lifted one eyebrow. “Afraid your business won’t stand up to the scrutiny of a professional?”
“Honey, my business wouldn’t stand up to anybody’s scrutiny. I have a couple simple formulas. I read five newspapers a day and a few dozen blogs. Once I get all the information I need in my head, I grab a fishing pole and go to the lake, or I slip off to Spain and let it all sink in. After a few days I might make a move, or I might not.”
“That’s really not a business.”
“Didn’t I just say that?”
The train of limos arrived at the Waldorf. Doormen scurried out to release the passengers and escort the bridal party into the hotel. When Sabrina and Ziggy arrived at the four-story, two-tiered ballroom, the place was lit with dim purple lights that made the space shimmer romantically. Long, rectangular tables outlined the room, while round, more intimate tables filled the area beside the open dance floor.
Sabrina murmured, “This is lovely.”
Ziggy looked around. “Your family does know how to throw a party.”
His casual way of looking at things hit her all the wrong ways. “We aren’t throwing a party. We’re celebrating a marriage.”
“Potayto, potahto.”
“It’s not the same thing! A party can be four guys and a beer bong.
