“Thank you.” On a whim, I’d gone into Kie&Kate Couture a couple of hours ago and let the store owner, Hailey, dress me. She picked a gorgeous hunter-green satin gown and even offered to do my makeup. I self-consciously pinch close the deep slit in the front.

“Want me to take Jackson?” Rob removes the diaper bag from my shoulder as I step into the foyer. The air-conditioning studs my skin.

“I’m good.” I swing Jackson to my other hip. “Is the nanny upstairs?”

“I’ll take you.”

I follow Rob. My fingers skid over the cool wood of the banister. My high heels click on the hardwood floors. Upstairs, the raucous noise disappears as we turn right toward the nursery.

“Candace, this is Rebecca,” Rob says. “And this big bundle is Jackson. Bec, we have another crib for him.”

“Great.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Rebecca,” Candace says.

Her palm finds mine and she gives it a firm pump. I run through what’s in Jackson’s diaper bag and tell her about his favorite stuffed animal—Eliot the Mouse—if he wakes.

I sweep a hand over his head and then hook my arm through Rob’s as we retreat toward the landing. Downstairs, the doorbell chimes, and I release Rob in the foyer. “Go be a host. I know where the kitchen is.” I wink at him and count my steps. Voices rise and cluster, and I attempt to get my bearings.

“Larry and his wife look like the typical corporate drones,” Jess narrates in a deep, steady voice behind me. Her lips almost tickle my right ear as she leans in. “His wife wears yellow—perfect for summer—and he’s in a charcoal blazer. Just in case you want to freak them the fuck out.”

“I’m still mad at you,” I say.

“Me? Why?” She deposits a champagne flute into my fist.

“Toby?”

“Who?”

“Officer Hot Pants. You sent him to my house after I asked you not to.”

“Oh.” She takes a swig. The bubbles foam and sizzle. “That.”

“I appreciate it, but I’m fine.”

“If you say so.”

I cock my head toward Larry and his wife. “So who are they?”

“Head of the Elmhurst neighborhood watch. It’s a thing around here. Hey.” She nudges me. “Maybe you can talk to them about your house scare. Come on.”

I let out a dramatic sigh. I hate small talk, especially in crowds of people I don’t know—and I definitely don’t want to bring my recent string of mishaps into the conversation. I approach anyway, pass the glass to my left hand, and extend my right. Larry’s rough, calloused palm enters mine, and then his wife’s small, delicate one with a rock the size of an inflamed knuckle. I flash what I hope to be a dazzling, lipstick on tooth–free smile.