Blame It on Chocolate. Jennifer Greene

played around plenty. But from the time he was a kid, he’d had the power to make all the major decisions about his own life with nominal outside interference. Now, though, there was Luce. Who didn’t seem willing to even talk to him, much less include him in giant decision-making that affected both of them.

      This wasn’t just…upsetting and unsettling. He couldn’t feel more lost if he’d been dropped in the South Pole without a compass.

      “Look, Luce,” he tried again. “Let’s work from stuff we know we can agree on. I’ll pay all your doctor bills. And for anything else you need or wanted related to this—”

      “Actually, I don’t think I’ll need help. You know what great insurance I have from Bernard’s. But don’t worry. I’ll ask if something gets beyond what I can manage.”

      Shit and double shit. Strangers could be having this conversation. Not people who were supposed to have been lovers. “Okay, skip any talk of money for now. What about…the pregnancy itself. I mean, I don’t know whether you’re scared or happy or angry or what. Have you thought about what you want to do?”

      Her shoulders drooped just a little as she shook her head. “I just found out yesterday. To be honest, Nick, I’m still reeling.”

      It was the first honest, natural thing she said. “Me, too,” he admitted. “I don’t know what to say, what to do. But it seems like the place to start is with the sure things. If you’re absolutely sure you want to keep the baby, that’s one thing. But if you’re considering—”

      “An abortion? Or adoption?” She swallowed hard, as if trying to talk through a stone-size lump in her throat. “I’ll consider everything. All the options. But the only thing I’m positive of right now, Nick, is that you and I don’t even like each other. Not really. We had a moment. That’s all. There’s no basis for a marriage or anything crazy like that.”

      “I wasn’t thinking marriage.”

      “I’m sure you weren’t,” she said swiftly. “I just wanted to clear the air, make sure you know that I’d never pull that chain in a hundred years.”

      She’d stiffened up all over again, as if braced for him to say something hurtful. He started to answer her, but then the doorknob rattled, followed by strange scratchy noises. “Not now,” Nick called out, but the knob just rattled again.

      “Uncle Nick, it’s not me!” He heard Gretchen’s voice pipe up, and glanced at Lucy, who was obviously as distracted by the child’s voice as he was. Her lips twitched at Gretchen’s obvious fib.

      “If it isn’t you, how come I can hear your voice?” Nick said wryly.

      “Because it’s Baby and Boo Boo. Somehow they got in the front door. And they ran all over the place. They’re trying to find Lucy. And I can’t hold them. But don’t interrupt your meeting! I’m right here! I won’t let them in! Don’t you worry, Uncle Nick!”

      Any other time, he’d have laughed—and Lucy undoubtedly would have, too. This time she just said quickly, “We can’t discuss this now, Nick. Not at work. And besides that…”

      Yeah, he knew. Besides that, outside the door was clearly bedlam.

      Of course, pregnancy was a kind of bedlam, too, but for now, hell, both his personal life and Project Bliss seemed like trying to handle balloons in a high wind. He’d not only lost control. He couldn’t imagine right then how the hell he was ever going to get control again.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      SATURDAY MORNING, just after ten, Lucy opened the bathroom door in a rush and ran smack into Russell—or, more specifically, her forehead rammed into his. Both winced.

      Lucy recovered quicker, but her sense of humor was starting to slip on the subject of her cousin. God knew she loved him. Totally. The way you can only love good family—through their bad habits and the good stuff both. But damn. Ever since he’d shared his revelation with her, he seemed to think talking about it with her every spare second was going to make the subject easier to deal with. It wasn’t that far a drive for him to commute from school in Mankato, but he was starting to become a dust catcher at her place. Last night he hadn’t gone home at all.

      When she’d first moved into her own place, she’d imagined—she’d actually totally believed—that she could go to the bathroom by herself. Indulge in her wickedness, by herself. Run around naked if she wanted to, by herself.

      “I know you want to talk some more, Russ, but honestly, I just can’t right now. I told you. I’m having lunch with my mom—and it’s a solid hour and a half drive from here—”

      She flew past him toward her bedroom, still zipping her favorite black jeans and toweling her hair dry at the same time. Russell, who seemed to think his announcement about being gay meant she wouldn’t mind dressing around him, followed as far as her doorway. “I just don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you to talk to.”

      “That’s crazy, Russ. You spent all last night talking to my dad, you get on with him like a house afire. You know you could tell him—”

      “No. He’s great, but I couldn’t tell him this. Or anyone else.”

      “I’m just not sure why you picked me. I love you. You know that, but honestly, I know nothing about this kind of thing.”

      “That’s not the point. The point is that you’re the one person on the planet I completely trust. Not just trust that you wouldn’t tell, if I asked you not to. But also trust that you wouldn’t condemn me.” He watched her pull on the white sweater with black stripes, a gift from her mother, and then attack her hair with a dryer.

      “Are you sure you’re gay?” Lucy asked over the dryer’s whine.

      “I admit I’m not dead sure. But I think I am.”

      “Did you actually sleep with another guy?”

      “No.”

      “Kiss another guy, make out?” Cripes, she couldn’t hear over the dryer so she switched it off, opened some pots, did the cheek and lip thing, then the earring thing, then grabbed her hairbrush. Somewhere she had some pull-on black boots. Dress boots. Soft kid leather. Heels.

      “Well, no. But the feelings are there.”

      “Well, everybody gets feelings. When I see a beautiful woman in the movies, I notice her, and believe me, I’m not gay.” The boots were in the very back of her closet. She rubbed off the dust, then backed out and hopped on one foot to pull the right one on. “For Pete’s sake. I think everybody notices their same gender and can respond to their attractiveness and looks—without automatically thinking you’re gay. Or that there’s anything weird at all.” She pushed hard—they were those kinds of boots that fit great once you had them on, but it took ages to get them on right.

      “You think?” Russell asked. He still stood slouched in her doorway when she pushed past him toward the kitchen. He was wearing what he’d worn last night, when he’d claimed he wasn’t sleeping over—the oversized shirt, the canvas pants, the no socks.

      “Come on, Russell, you know that. It’s just common sense. Only the homophobic types get hysterical if they have a feeling now and then. But I think you should ask someone with some life experience in this—”

      “No,” he said in a panicked groan.

      “Okay, okay. But I knew one homosexual person pretty well. She’s a woman. I met her in college. She was a good friend then, we just kind of lost touch after graduation. But I could try to track her down if you want me to ask her for some information or advice.” She almost choked when they walked in the kitchen. Her pristine white counter and gleaming sink had disappeared. All she saw were beer cans. Coffee mugs. Leftover pizza. Crumbs. Mysterious and scary stains on the floor.

      She had a fond memory from a few weeks ago—before