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As per the usual with Chris, I don’t get another word out about logistics because one of his old school buddies spots him and comes to our table, leaning down and slapping his meaty palm against the table.

“When are you going to have your man here help me fix my backswing? I’ve seen you out on the course. I could use a few pointers!” He laughs, jostling Chris, who looks at me with the wide-eyed, amused pause that I know comes before a quip and another bout of laughter.

“Just as soon as he fixes mine!” Chris says, and then the two of them are lost in loud, old-man laughter. I ride it out, laughing along with them, clinking my beers against theirs when the laughing finally subsides.

“Now,” Chris says, turning back to me, “what were you—oh! Grub is here!”

The waitress sets the sandwiches down, and I take a breath before picking mine up, shrugging like it doesn’t matter to me if we talk about the company, if we talk about business. Casual. Easygoing. That’s what Chris likes, as hard as it is for me to accomplish.

Usually, I’m pretty good at identifying what people want from me. Pretty good at adjusting my personality until it’s just right: Goldilocks.

But there’s something about Chris, something about me, that doesn’t seem right to him. To any business analyst out there, it makes all the sense in the world for Chris to sell to me. I’m the highest bidder; I made sure of it. My team is prepped and ready to take over. I’ve already made contact with all the higher-ups at Moreno Toys, ensuring that, if I were the one to purchase the company, they would keep their positions and enjoy an even nicer benefits package.

I’ve read up on change management. I lead the industry when it comes to technological innovation. And sure, yes, maybe I don’t have experience with physical inventory, but that’s the entire point of the acquisition.

But even with all that, there’s still something holding Chris back.

And if I can’t figure out what it is, my five-year plan is going straight down the drain.

CHAPTER 2

CAMI

“It literally feels like yesterday that we were doing my baby shower,” Layla says, cooing at the pudgy little boy in her arms.

“I know, time is just, like, flying!” Brette laughs, running her hands through her hair and looking around the table. “I mean, I just got my bridesmaid’s dress from Mel’s wedding back from the dry cleaners! Wedding season is barely over, and now we’ve got so many showers to go to.”

“Good to try and keep busy.” I shrug, smiling when Layla turns and offers me her baby boy—Tristan—to hold. I accept instantly and tuck him onto my lap, the weight and warmth of him surely sending a whole cocktail of hormones through my body.

“Ha!” Layla laughs sharply, then looks around self-consciously and sucks in a breath. “Sorry, I mean—I’m nothing but busy since little Tristie came.”

At the front of the room, Poppy’s mother stands and announces we’ll be playing a game where we try to guess baby food flavors. Our conversation dies, and when Tristan starts to fuss, Layla takes him back.

It’s a standard baby shower. At this point, it feels like I’ve been to a million of them, though most of my friends just have one baby.

For now.

As the only single, childless friend, I play along with all the games, putting a diaper on a baby doll and putting in my bid for if I think it’s a boy or a girl. I might actually get a little too into the games, because I’m winning a lot of them.

Halfway through, I take a break and wander to the back of the room, figuring I’ll rejoin everyone for gifts.

“Hey, stranger.”

I jump and turn to find my very pregnant best friend sinking down into the seat next to me, that slight look of pain on her face that all the pregnant people I’ve known get while sitting down.

“You okay?” I ask, laughing and looking between her and the rest of the party. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be hiding in the corner at your own party, Poppy.”

The shower is beautiful—rather than hold it in a community center or church basement like a lot of my friends, Poppy opted to have hers in a local coffee shop with floor-to-ceiling windows and the baked-in-smell of cinnamon and espresso. They even catered for the event, making special diaper-shaped and binky-shaped pastries.

And Poppy’s mom did a wonderful job making the decorations, going for a white-and-yellow theme rather than the typical pink and baby blue. For a second there, I even managed to forget I was at a baby shower.

But it was just a moment. Then I was reminded of my own perilously ticking clock, the biological fact that I don’t have much more time to make this happen for myself. That I may have just ruined my one chance to actually have a child of my own.

Throughout the shower, I’ve been bombarded with worried glances from my friends. Sympathy over the life I was supposed to have. A life just like theirs.

“I’m fine. Just a little worn out by it all.” Poppy sighs, letting her head tip back so her platinum blond hair spirals down the back of the armchair. It’s been interesting to see how she carries herself differently now that she’s growing a human. Lifting her head again, she says, “And you shouldn’t be hiding in the corner, either. You’re the…mother-of-honor.”

“That is not a thing,” and then, as though I really need to remind either of us, I add, “and I’m not a mother.”