“I don’t know, Abby.” She shrugs. “It sounds like the texts are pretty innocent. But if you’re not sure…”

I frown at her. “What?”

“Do you have the code for Sam’s phone?”

My mouth falls open. “I’m not going to spy on my husband!”

“It’s not spying. It’s snooping.”

I do have the code for Sam’s phone. But I don’t intend to do anything with it. “I’m not doing that, Shelley.”

“Well, then you really don’t know how innocent it is, do you?”

I don’t like the direction this conversation is going in.

“I mean, really, Monica hasn’t actually done anything wrong, has she?” I crunch miserably on a chip. “After all, it’s my own fault I messed up the time for the ultrasound.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “doesn’t Monica have access to your calendar? Couldn’t she tell you the wrong time, wait for you to put it in your calendar, then swap it out for the correct time so you look like an idiot when you show up?”

My mouth falls open. “Do… do you really think she’d do that?”

Shelley shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

And then there’s that morning meeting I was supposed to have with the Cuddles people that I didn’t know about. Is it possible Monica could be responsible for that?

“I don’t know, Shel,” I say. “That’s a little too diabolical. I can’t imagine Monica doing that.” I pause. “Can you?”

She’s quiet for several seconds while I hold my breath. Finally, she says, “I guess not.”

I let out my breath. I’m glad she doesn’t think so, because I couldn’t possibly take away Monica’s access to my calendar. She’s my assistant—a large part of her job is making sure my calendar is updated and accurate. I have to trust her.

And I do. I trust her.

But maybe I’ll change the password on my phone. My birthday isn’t very secure.

“But still,” she says. “It’s an emotional situation for everyone. Monica is pregnant, so she’s got all these hormones. And then Sam—he’s wanted a baby for a long time, and now here’s a woman who’s pregnant with his child, but she’s not his wife. That’s got to be messing with his head.”

“Yeah,” I mumble. “We should have adopted. This was a mistake.”

Shelley is silent.

I sigh. “Go ahead. Say it.”

“Say what?”

“You know what.”

“What?”

“Tell me you told me so. You said this was a mistake before we even got started.”

“I’m not going to say ‘I told you so’ when you look like something the cat dragged in.” She shakes her head. “What kind of friend do you think I am?”