I tread the familiar route across the plush navy blue carpet in the hallway, reminding myself I am on the other side, I am here as Harley, only Harley. Layla is history; the girl I once was for him and his men is gone, and the jitters under my skin should be ignored. When I reach his suite, the door is ajar, and I hear Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ playing on his computer.

I knock tentatively, and then press a hand against my belly as I wait. There’s a whole damn flock of nerves setting up a base camp in my stomach.

“Door’s always open,” Cam’s loud voice calls out to me.

When I push open the door, he’s leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk, clad in European leather shoes. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, and he’s sporting a crisp shirt the color of eggplant. His blue eyes twinkle mischievously.

I wave. “Hi.”

“You like this song?” he asks, tipping his forehead to the computer.

“Um. Yeah? Who doesn’t?”

“It’s my anthem today. It represents all the hope in the world that I feel building in my chest right now,” he says, tapping his sternum.

Uh-oh. He thinks I’m coming back, even though I specifically told him this wasn’t about working again.

“Cam,” I say softly, shaking my head.

He waves gregariously, then stands up and walks over to me, wrapping me in a massive hug. “I know, baby doll. I know. But you can’t fault a man for dreaming. Especially not this man. And especially not after the shitstorm I fucking endured the night you left,” he says, rubbing his hand across my back.

I inch out of his embrace, and cock my head to the side. “What do you mean? What happened?”

His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “What? You think Mr. Stewart was just fine and dandy with you waltzing off into the sunset with a tummy ache-cough-cough-new man?” Cam shakes his head several times in an exaggerated fashion, his movements punctuated by the upbeat chorus to the Journey song.

“Did he do something?”

Cam nods. “You bet he did something. He gave me a black eye six ways to Chattanooga. Right in the men’s room at the Parker Meridien. Man, he’s one cold bastard. All mild-mannered on the outside, but steely-eyed when you fuck with him. Don’t mess with businessmen from California, evidently. That’s my new mantra.”

“Oh shit. I’m so sorry,” I say, and reflexively I step forward and trace my finger beneath his eye, even though the marks are gone.

He hisses in a breath, but after a few seconds of contact he swats my hand away. “It’s nothing. My mama came over and took care of me.”

I narrow my eyes. “Your mom? You told me your mom passed away years ago. Your dad, too,” I say, because Cam’s all alone. He’s an only child with a mom who drank till her liver shut down, and a dad who died of cancer. He’s a man against the world.

“I’m just busting your chops, baby doll. I took care of myself. I always take care of myself. Got a steak, slapped it against my eye, poured myself some scotch, watched a little Notting Hill and I was fine by the morning,” he says, all cool and smooth, like he’s always been.

“Notting Hill?”

“It’s only my favorite movie. C’mon. Is there anything better than when Julia Roberts says—” Cam adopts a female voice, placing his big hand on his heart, “‘I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her?’”

I shake my head. “Nothing better. That’s a great line. And Cam? I’m so sorry he hurt you.”

He flubs his lips casually, making a pshaw noise. “Your old man is one hundred percent fine. Nothing can hurt me. You see this?” He tugs at his shirt. “It’s called armor, baby doll. Armor. I got it in spades. I grow it from the inside out, and nothing can hurt me.”

I give him a smile, but I’m wondering why he is the way he is, so glib and devil-may-care on the outside. What’s he truly like beneath? What drives him? Why does he help put bad guys behind bars by leaking tawdry secrets to the press, yet run a call girl ring? And is he even still running it?

“Are you still doing your thing?” I’m not sure what to call that thing anymore.

He makes a dismissive gesture, a sign that he won’t go there with me. “I’ve got my fingers in a lot of business pies, little Miss Harley, don’t you worry one teeny bitty bit. Now, what can I do for you? Sit.” He motions to his couch. I park myself there, and he joins me, but he keeps a distance of a few feet. It’s odd, this new Cam. A part of me misses the strange closeness we had. But then he’s taking cues from me, and this me has to keep on moving into new habits, new patterns, as Joanne would say.

“I got a little something for you.” I reach into my purse and hand him a gift. It’s wrapped in sapphire blue tissue paper that reminds me of his eyes.

“Did somebody say Christmas came early this year?” He shakes the gift by his ear and pretends to listen to it, as if he can tell what it is that way.

“Just open it,” I say as I roll my eyes.

In one swift move, he unknots the silver bow and rips open the paper to find a signed copy of Sophie Kinsella’s newest release.

“Be still my ever beating heart. How did you know how much I wanted this book?”

I shrug. “Took a wild guess it was your taste.”

“I know what I’m doing tonight. Calling off all my business meetings and having a long hot soak.”

I have a feeling he might be telling the truth.

“Now that you’ve buttered me up, what can I do for you?”

I show him the cards and tell him everything. Every single detail. “I really want to find my grandparents. Can you find them for me?”

He takes the cards, looks carefully at each one, rises and heads to his computer. He taps on his keyboard. “You never listen to NPR, do you?”

I shake my head. “Not really a radio person.”

“Well, I am a radio junkie. And NPR did a story on one of the last vintage letter press companies in America a few months ago. I’d be willing to bet the house that these are from Violet Delia Press in La Jolla, California.”

“Really? You figured it out that quickly?”

“Yes. Bet it all on black.”

Then my shoulders fall. “But even if we know where they’re from, how will I get their names?”

He laughs, a knowing laugh. “That is the kind of shit I make a living off of. I’ll have it for you in a few days.”

Harley

Pregnancy does funny things to you. I find myself mad as hell when I can’t open the pickle jar as I’m making a sandwich for dinner, and Kristen tells me I have pregnancy fingers. I develop an intense craving for oranges, and she jokes that I’m contracting pregnancy scurvy. I cry when a collie jumps high in the air to catch a Frisbee on a dog-food ad. For that, I am diagnosed as just having good taste in commercials.

But I don’t barf again, and I can’t say I’m upset that I only had a few bouts of morning sickness. I even had my first doctor’s appointment, and the doctor said everything looks great. The baby is the size of a raspberry, and his or her lips, nose, eyelids and legs are forming. He also said the best thing I had going for me, ironically, is being twenty.

“You are young and in the peak of health. These are the best years to have a baby. It’s when your body was meant to bear children,” he said, and I wondered sadly about Trey’s mom and if some of her troubles were due to her being older when she tried again.

Then he prescribed folic acid and told me he’d see me again in a month or so. Weird that I was simply sent on my way. But maybe it’s not so weird. Maybe it’s normal.

But maybe it’s the pregnancy weirdness that makes me pick up the phone when my mom calls a few nights after my visit with Cam.

“Hello darling. I wanted to check in and see how things are going with school,” she says, making small talk. As if this is what we do.