The Pregnancy Test (NY Girlfriends #1)
Author: Erin McCarthy

Prologue

"Oh honey, su-gah, I see sweet things ahead for you."

"Really?" Mandy Keeling found there was something really fascinating about listening to the predictions of a cross-dressing psychic wearing designer shoes.

Especially since Beckwith Tripp had so far predicted a long life, an increase in personal assets, and sweet things for her. Of course, that could mean anything from receiving a cute greeting card to inheriting a candy shop from a previously unknown ancient aunt.

"But what do you mean?" Mandy knew it was blather, hogwash, coddle, but that didn’t stop her from leaning across the coffee table as Beckwith stroked her palm between his huge hands. There were worse ways to spend an utterly miserable February day in Greenwich Village with her three roommates.

In fact, it was highly entertaining.

"That’s not very specific," Allison Parker said, skepticism dripping in her voice. "I could tell your fortune, Mandy, if all you’re looking for is vague assurances. Or better yet, I’ll run down to Hunan’s and buy you a bunch of fortune cookies."

Beckwith, built like a professional wrestler, and wearing a vintage Chanel suit, shrugged a broad shoulder. "I’m like Ripley, honey. Believe it or not. Doesn’t matter to me."

What was unbelievable was that he wore that outfit better than Mandy ever could. She always had something of an absentminded, windblown look and was a far cry from elegant, as her mother had told her often enough. Yet Beckwith looked like Jackie O on hormone therapy. "Can you give me more details, Beckwith?"

"I can be as specific as you want. You’re British, born and raised."

Allison snorted. "Gee, what gave it away? Not the accent or anything."

Jamie Peters, who believed in anything involving crystals, karma, or the supernatural, and who had brought Beckwith to their apartment, shushed Allison.

Mandy shifted on the floor, the seam of her jeans digging into her calf, and decided it didn’t really matter if Beckwith was a few billiard balls shy of a game. There was something exciting and amusing and hopeful in hearing about her future, however vague. At twenty-six, she had been confronted lately with the rather alarming feeling that she had frittered away her twenties, living off her parents’ money and coasting breezily through each day.

It was time for a change, she knew that, but up to this point she had been avoiding giving it any serious thought. Beckwith’s appearance was fortuitous, in that maybe his predictions could give her a push in the right direction.

Caroline Davidson’s eyebrows had shot up almost to her blond hair, pulled back in its usual tidy knot. "Where do you find these guys, Jamie?"

Jamie fingered her necklace, a silver Chinese character that meant happiness, and jutted her bottom lip out. "Come on, y’all, just give it a chance. He knows things, I’m telling you." She patted Beckwith’s arm as if he was a cute toddler instead of a thirty-year-old hairy male in women’s clothing.

Beckwith didn’t look the least bit offended by Allison and Caroline’s cynicism. He gave Mandy a smile, his hand still making those same smooth, warm glides across her skin.

"Born and raised on the country estate, quite a bit of money, Daddy works in the big city, gone all the time, Mom has horses… and I see women, lots of women, talking, laughing, standing, passing teacups – and you, legs together, back straight, hands in lap."

Mandy’s throat went dry, and goose bumps rose over her flesh where he was touching her. Beckwith stared at her, a faint smile playing about his mouth, shiny lip gloss hovering over five-o’clock shadow.

What he had said… it was her childhood, summed up in one sentence. Her father always in London, carrying on the Keeling tradition as head of the financial division of a world banking conglomerate. Mother alternating between raising her horses and hosting various charitable and social events. There were always women in their house, The Acres, soft, muted, proper, and Mandy expected to behave properly, sit quietly, or entertain Mother’s guests with her rather dubious piano talents.

"Yes, sweet things ahead for you. Your life will change, but in a good way. Selfless. Enriched. With a man who makes you just melt."

Ben. Mandy wondered if Beckwith meant Ben, the man she’d been seeing for six months. She didn’t think of him as her boyfriend, because it seemed ridiculous to label a man in his forties that way, but that’s what he was. And she thought maybe he was going to ask her to marry him.

That would make her happy, wouldn’t it? Ben was kind, stable, albeit a little distracted sometimes. He was a fellow Englishman in New York. He was punctual. Respectful. Intelligent. She cared about him a great deal, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to marry him, or if he could ever make her melt. Soften a little, maybe, but melting seemed a bit beyond Ben’s reach.

"Pastries."

Mandy blinked. "What?" What did Ben have to do with pastries? When she thought of him, cream puffs and tarts did not come to mind. Ben was a biscuit.

Beckwith closed his eyes. "I see pastries. Baked goods. All lined up in front of you." He shook his head and met her gaze. "Have you ever thought of opening a shop?"

"She already has a store," Allison said, tucking her feet under her long legs as she sat on the butter-colored easy chair wedged in the corner of their minute living room.

"It’s true," Mandy told Beckwith, feeling almost guilty. Here he’d been doing so well. "I run a children’s toy shop." Opened with her parents’ money, and only now breaking even after three years.

"No bakery?" Beckwith bit his lip.

"No bakery. Though when I tossed around ideas for starting the business, I wanted a toy shop or a bakery. But I knew I would have to rely on hired help if I started a bakery. The toy shop didn’t require as much staff."

But lately she had been bored with the shop, which catered to tourists and upscale customers who wanted higher quality offerings than what was mass marketed at Toys "R" Us. She had been daydreaming about starting something new. A tea shop really, not a bakery, but serving scones and biscuits and sandwiches along with all the dozens of varieties of tea.

If there was one thing she knew, it was high tea, done the proper way.

Maybe Beckwith was onto something. Maybe it was the right time to make a change, to stop being so complacent and to embrace something that she was passionate about.

"That’s odd, because I really see something sticky and sweet, sugary." Beckwith adjusted the strap on his dress.