Free Hanging on (Jessica Brodie Diaries #2) by K. F. Breene Page A

little money? Sorry, William, but who thinks like that?”
    “I am hoping this is theoretical, and you are not making the comment that if you got in trouble I would leave you to raise our child on your own…”
    Shivers fluttered up my arms. This conversation had just became way too adult for a head case just out of collage that could barely get a toe hold in life, let alone anything steady. I didn’t even want to buy a car because of the commitment, for Christ sakes. This level of responsibility was so far above me right now I was half thinking of jumping from the moving car.
    “Look—yes, theoretical—but I am just amazed that she would think like that. That’s just…what woman would do that to a child just for a little money?”
    “It happens more often than you might think.”
    I plugged my ears and shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about this anymore. I didn't want what he was saying to be true. Ignorance sometimes meant a happy life.
    Judging by his smile and bobbing Adam’s apple, he was laughing, but sound couldn’t get past my humming.
    So far I didn’t like Denise, William's mom, all that much, I had to say. It wasn’t a great start.
    We pulled up in front of a lackadaisically bustling restaurant. There were people arriving, valet parking, walking in and out of a swank establishment with red carpet…but everyone was sort of…blasé about the whole thing. Too posh for the hubbub, maybe.
    “This place has style,” I noted as William’s door was opened by a valet dressed in black.
    “Looks nice, tastes better.” He winked and exited the car.
    I followed suit, helped by a mid-aged man dressed in white. He saw me to the curb and William’s waiting arm before he slightly bowed and turned to the next passager.
    “Road side service, huh?” I admired.
    “Klutz-Proofing,” William amended, a twinkle in his eyes.
    “Oh how cute, you are attempting a sense of humor.” I patted his arm. "Fail."
    He made an ungentlemanly snort before he caught himself.
    Walking in a measured pace to match those around us, we ascended four stares and waited while two more guys in white opened the wood double doors.
    “I feel important,” I whispered.
    “Good.” William patted my hand.
    “No, but like these people were paid to manufacture that feeling. There is absolutely no reason these people would think I am important on any level.”
    William’s step faltered. He looked down at me with an appraising glance. As we approached the hostess wearing an expressive looking black dress, he said in a hushed voice, “I’ve always thought exactly the same thing.”
    I let that comment go, happy that at least he thought we were on the same level, even if we weren’t.
    The hostess looked up from her podium with her perfect face and long neck. “Mr. Davies, so nice to see you.” She flashed him a scorching smile.
    “Hi, Karen. Table for two, please.” William pulled me closer until my side was firmly pressed against his.
    “Of course,” her eyes glanced at me for the briefest of moments, utter professional despite her curiosity. “It’ll be ready in just a few minutes. Care to have a drink at the bar?”
    “Thanks.” William smiled and turned me away. Two steps toward a distant hubbub of alcohol in and we heard, “ Willie!”
    William went completely rigid. His whole body was taught. The hand holding me flinched, crushing me closer in a brief second before letting off again. His exhale was noisy. As he turned, however, his face was utterly composed.
    Oh no!
    Coming through the door was none other than William’s mom, Denise, dressed to impress. She was the reason for the need of manufactured importance. To her, it was necessary. Or maybe just common place.
    Next to her was almost her opposite. A woman in a plain black dress with costume jewelry and a fun-loving smile. Her hair was cut well, but going gray. She wasn't pristine and didn't seem to care. She was out for a good time, and it