She’d called Riley Compton.

Mollie had said all of ten words on the phone before Riley had interrupted and asked where she was. Directions on which subway train to get on had followed, and an hour after leaving Jackson’s place, Mollie had found herself standing outside Riley and Sam Compton’s brownstone in Brooklyn.

It had been the right decision. Riley had opened the door, opened her arms, and tightly squeezed Mollie before telling her she’d made up the guest room.

“You know, normally I don’t share my goods,” Riley was saying, “but I make exceptions for friends whose hearts have been trampled by boys. Take your pick. Sweet tooth? Salty tooth?”

“Actually, I’m not all that hungry,” Mollie said. She should be. She hadn’t eaten breakfast. Certainly hadn’t eaten at her disastrous lunch with her sister. But she couldn’t fathom the thought of eating right now. Couldn’t really fathom the thought of doing much more than curling into a ball and crying.

Riley shrugged. “Suit yourself. Now, what do I want? Sour cream and onion, or salt and vinegar?…It’s a bit like Rosemary’s Baby, isn’t it?”

“Hey, Ri, how about something from the fridge? Carrot sticks? A salad?” Sam said, turning around in his chair to give his wife an exasperated look.

“Don’t be silly, honey. We don’t keep any of that nonsense in the fridge.”

“We do now. I went shopping.”

“Ooh, did they have any of those powdered-sugar donut holes that I like?”

“Riley!”

“You know, maybe you were smart to get out when you had a chance,” Riley said to Mollie out of the corner of her mouth. “Stick with ’em too long, and they start getting weird.”

“Are you a health food guy, Sam?” Mollie asked curiously, looking over at Sam.

He ran a hand through his dark blond hair. “No. Not really.”

“Oh.” Mollie frowned, a little confused as to why an apparently easygoing guy was trying to influence Riley’s eating habits. Based on what Mollie had seen, that seemed a bit like trying to roll a square boulder up Everest.

“Sam, honey, we need whisky and girl time,” Riley said, grabbing a bag of chips and closing the cupboard.

“Oh no, I don’t want to intrude,” Mollie said quickly. “I can just…”

Sam was already moving, closing his laptop and going to a bar cart along the far wall.

“You drink whisky, hon?” he asked Mollie.

“Uh, not really.”

“Well, you do now.” He poured a splash of amber liquid into two crystal glasses and brought one to her before holding up his own glass.

“What are we toasting to?” he asked.

“To men being shits,” Riley said.

He gave his wife a look. “I’m not drinking my own whisky to that.”

“You made this?” Mollie asked, bringing the glass closer and sniffing.

“I did.”

“His distillery is called ROON. It’s won like a dozen awards this year alone, and what he won’t tell you is that it’s the best damn whisky you’ll ever taste,” Riley said, moving closer to her husband and resting a hand on his back as she kissed his cheek.

Mollie’s heart twisted at the easy affection. She wanted that—wanted it with Jackson.

Just like that, the pain came rushing back over her. The pain of telling him how she felt, only to have him stare at her.

“Oh, honey,” Riley cooed, coming up beside her and ushering her toward the kitchen table. “Come. Sit.”

She did as she was told before lifting the whisky to her lips and taking a small sip. It burned in the best way possible. She liked the burn. Needed it.

She lifted her head to tell Sam she liked it, but he’d disappeared, only to reappear with a box of tissues a moment later.

He set it in front of her, resting a big hand on her shoulder for a moment. It was a kind touch—a comforting gesture.

And all she needed for the tears to start coming in earnest.

She put her hands over her face, too torn up to be embarrassed at sobbing in front of people she barely knew.

Riley made soothing noises, along with frequent comments along the lines of “Men are the worst.”

When Mollie pulled her hands away from her face long enough to grab a tissue, she saw Sam wrestling the chips away from Riley, replacing them with an apple before quietly leaving the room.

Riley threw the apple after him and didn’t even flinch at the dull thud of it hitting a wall somewhere.

“That was organic, Riley!” Sam’s voice called.

Mollie choked out a messy, watery laugh. “You’re sure he’s not a health food guy?”

“He didn’t used to be,” Riley grumbled, staring longingly at the barely touched whisky in front of Mollie. Mollie nudged it toward her, but Riley merely shook her head with a long sigh.

Mollie frowned in confusion. Then her eyes went wide as she put the pieces together: Riley saying no to a drink she obviously wanted, Sam’s determination to get Riley to eat better…

Riley was pregnant.

At the expression on Mollie’s face, Riley let out a long, weary sigh. “See, the thing that Sam doesn’t get is that it’s not that I want the chips, it’s that the baby wants the chips. If I try to put an apple down there, I guarantee he or she is going to send it right back up again.”

Mollie let out a happy squealing noise as she wrapped her arms around Riley’s neck in an awkward hug. “You’re having a baby! Congratulations.”