She can too. Well, not pregnant, she can. I’m going to have to remember how not to test her daily once I no longer have that safety net.

I reach up into the top of the closet and grab the ring box. It’s been forever since I bought this, and when I crack it open, I get all these little flutters in my gut. “Damn, I’m romantic.”

“You sure he’s not going to be disappointed about that piece of junk?”

I gasp and snap the box closed. “You’re mean when forty weeks pregnant, heavily swollen, tired, constipated, and low on iron.”

Margot hangs her head back on a groan. “Do you and Elle have to share everything?”

“Yes. And you really should get that lump checked out,” I say seriously.

“It’s the milk!”

“Wouldn’t hurt to confirm,” Elle says, appearing behind me. “I’m very fond of those breasts.”

“Perry’s proposing,” Margot says. “Let’s all go back to focusing on that and not on my tits.”

Elle’s hands fly up to cover her mouth, eyes wide, and at first, I do a rapid remembering to confirm that yes, yes, she definitely already knows this, so why the hell is she so shocked?

The answer comes from behind me a second later.

In a voice I know to my very soul.

“Ah … Perry’s what?”

I think I squeak as Margot’s mouth drops.

“Gotta go do that thing that I have to do,” Elle manages in a strangled voice before she ditches us all.

I lean into Margot’s face and hiss, “I haaaate you,” and then, because I’m paranoid the baby heard, I duck down to her belly again. “But not you. If you heard that, I don’t hate you. Uncy Perry loves you very, very much.”

Margot makes her escape, turning to me as she passes St. Clare and mouthing, I’m so sorry!

She ditches us faster than a pregnant lady should reasonably be able to move.

Only then do I realize we’re alone.

Alone.

No, no, no, this isn’t how it was supposed to happen. There’s supposed to be a crowd and staring and lots and lots of pressure.

“Perry?” St. Clare asks, still sounding a little shocked.

And this, I remind myself, is why plans fucking suck.

So instead of the music and confetti streamers and future Mr. St. Clare Nikov banners—we’re workshopping that—it’s just him and me.

I drop onto one knee because that’s how they do it in the movies, and if I can’t give St. Clare all of the pizzazz, I can at least give him that.

I hold out my hand, and thankfully, his slips into mine.

“Hey.” I grin.

“Skip that part,” he says, still sounding like his lungs aren’t working. “What’s happening?”