Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,86

traffic, everything unreal, as if I was in a dream.

A grand piano. There was a grand piano in the empty lot, a woman in a red evening gown seated before it, her hands quick on the keys. Beside her, a man in a tux stepped forward, his steps confident and strong toward me, and I stopped, suddenly understanding everything about this situation.

This wasn’t a dream, a romantic surprise orchestrated by Carter.

This was a nightmare, dressed in Armani and striding closer.

I turned and found Carter. He was still on the sidewalk, his mother’s mouth in his ear, his head forward, ignoring her words, his eyes on mine. The building’s display changed, a new image of me, and the transition lit his face, giving me a brief peek at the confused hurt there.

“Chloe.” I turned on reflex, and dropped my eyes to Vic, who knelt on one knee before me. “Will you marry me?”

“What?” The word sputtered out of me. I darted my eyes to Carter, stepping back, and Vic caught my wrist.

“I know.” He said the words softly, almost tenderly, his voice hushed as if he had a secret, his tone so serious that I stopped.

“You know what?” My mind flashed through all the things that he could know. About my embarrassing pant-rip incident in Sephora on Tuesday? My one, super-quick spin around the block in the car he bought me because I just couldn’t help myself?

“About the baby.” He pulled on my hand and stood, his eyes on mine, warm and loving, the man before me a Vic I had never seen. He looked at me as if he worshipped me, excitement radiating from him, his hands moving to cup my shoulders.

“The baby?” I repeated blankly. I was vaguely aware of the crowd growing around us, a crowd that included Carter and his parents. In the city that never slept, that loved a show, the attention had strayed from the hundred-foot light show and turned to us, hushed whispers darting from the crowd, camera phones out, and … somewhere … a girl awwed. I wanted to find her swoon and break it in half. Grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her. Tell her that roses and giant displays of affection didn’t equate to real love or good decisions.

I tried to step back and he held on. “I know you’re pregnant,” he said softly. “And I know it’s mine.”

“You’re pregnant?” Carter suddenly spoke up, stepping closer. He was angry, I could hear it in his voice, and I looked from Angry Carter to Loving Vic, the role reversal strange.

“No!” I pulled at Vic’s hands, prying them off my shoulders and stepping back, turning to Carter, giving him my full attention and ignoring Vic altogether. “I’m not pregnant.”

“Yes she is.” Vic spoke with such authority that I almost believed him, my mind skipping back to my last period, trying to do a rush job of figuring out if pregnancy was a viable possibility.

“How do you know?” Carter turned to Vic, and as I watched his fists clench, I was transported back in time to the bar, to their fight, and steeled myself for a repeat. I watched with dread as a confident smile spread across Vic’s face.

He had something, knew something. And I was both terrified and fascinated to find out what it was.

80. My Big Fat Mouth

Vic pulled out his cell phone. Held it up and read a line aloud.

“Day 3 and counting. I don’t know what to do. I still don’t know who the father is.” Someone in the crowd gasped and Vic glanced their way and winked. The asshole was enjoying this, all eyes on him. He looked from Carter to me, made sure we were all listening in, and then continued.

“To which Cammie replied, ‘Just wait it out. Don’t tell anyone.’” Vic dropped the hand holding the phone and smiled at me. “Right, Chloe? Isn’t that what you texted her? That you didn’t know who the father was?”

Cammie? Texts? Suddenly I got it, my irritation with his stealing my phone and documenting my texts trumped by the fact that his stupid misunderstanding caused all of this. A gigantic spectacle over nothing. I laughed and waved my hand at Carter, hoping to dispel his panic, my words not coming out fast enough to stop this train wreck. “That’s not about me,” I scoffed. “It’s about Nicole.”

“Nicole?” Vic’s voice finally held a hint of doubt. He cocked his head at me, no recognition of the name.

“YES. Nicole Brantley,