Cofield is smiling now, but Denise isn’t. I’ve known Denise Holt for a long time, and I know she doesn’t enjoy being upstaged. Denise was the one who hired me way back when—over a decade ago now. I still remember stumbling into her office and being terrified by her ice-blue eyes and blond hair swept back into a perfect French knot. I fiddled with my suit jacket collar as I fumbled through my rehearsed list of reasons why I wanted to work for Stewart Advertising and specifically for the infamous Denise Holt.

She hired me. Then she taught me everything I know, including how to tie my jet black hair into a French knot, which is apparently called a chignon. (Who knew?) It wasn’t until she found out I was trying for a baby that our relationship deteriorated.

“They love it, huh?” Cofield says.

I nod. “They do.”

His smile broadens. “Well, so do I. I love it. It’s brilliant.”

Outwardly, I remain calm, but inside, I’m doing cartwheels. The VP of Cuddles loves my idea. He loves it! He says it’s brilliant!

I can’t help but flash a triumphant smile at Denise, who has been nothing but negative during the entire time I’ve been working on this campaign. As recently as yesterday, she was urging me to postpone this meeting because “it’s not nearly ready.” When I insisted on going forward, she accused me of having “baby on the brain.”

Denise has chosen to remain free from maternal obligations. When I started out as her assistant, she drilled into me time and again that nothing wrecked a career faster than popping out a couple of rugrats. Denise’s career means everything to her, and she’s been extremely successful. Back then, I thought my career meant everything to me. Then Sam came along and convinced me otherwise.

I have no regrets. Everything is working out perfectly for me.

“Tell me, Abby.” Cofield raises his eyebrows at me. “Will you be purchasing Cuddles for your baby?”

“Of course,” I lie. “I want the best.”

Yeah, there’s no way I’m putting those shoddy diapers on my own child.

We iron out a few more details, then shake hands all around. Jed Cofield winks at me when we shake, and I squeeze his fingers firmly in the way Denise instructed me years ago. His warm fingers linger on mine for a beat longer than necessary. Cofield has been my biggest fan since I started working on the Cuddles campaign, so I won’t begrudge him a handshake that lasts a second or two longer than I’d like.

But if he thinks he’s getting anything more out of me, he’s sorely mistaken.

“Congratulations,” he tells me.

I’m not sure if he’s referring to my successful pitch or impending motherhood, but I simply smile and say, “Thank you.”