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“Yes, babe.” He chuckles. “I own that penthouse, and you can stay as long as you desire,” he purrs, his voice smooth and flirtatious.
“Holy shit.” Then, I remember myself and add some sarcasm. “It’s a shame I have to leave in a week.”
He huffs. “I’ll be home in two days, and we’ll talk more. Watch my game tonight. I’ll score for you.”
There’s a trace of disappointment in his tone but also determination, making me wonder what he has up his sleeve.
Doesn’t matter, though. I’m leaving for New York. Nothing is stopping me from succeeding—not when I have a baby to support.
If I still have a job, that is.
“I’ll do my best. Oh, by the way, Emily is coming over later. Is that all right?” I guess I have to ask, since it’shispenthouse.
“Of course. It’s your place too,” he says, a cocky grin clear in his voice.
“Jackson…” I draw out his name in warning. “I never agreed to stay here.”
“Have to go, babe. Love you. I’ll text you Ethan’s number, and you can decide what to do.”
The call ends before I have the chance to argue—typical Jackson.
TWENTY-ONE
ETHAN
Someone is strikingmy skull with a sledgehammer.
I groan and roll over, only to be assaulted by the nasty taste of bile and bottom-shelf whiskey. Jesus, fuck, why does everything hurt?
Cracking my eyes open, I’m blinded by intense sunlight. What time is it? Better yet, what the hell happened?
I lift my aching head to realize—thank fuck—I’m in my bed, fully dressed, and my phone is lying under my face. Did I fall asleep while on the phone? Highly unlikely, since I have no one to talk to.
Fragments of last night’s drunken fuckery flood my mind, leaving me panicked and nauseated. Oh, shit. I’m an idiot. I told Jackson about being the baby’s father. The entire team must know by now.
I grab my phone to check the time and do a double-take at the blurry screen. I sit up so fast, my head spins. Not only do I find my background image is an ultrasound picture of a baby—my baby—but I also find several unexpected texts.
Hi. It’s Aurora.
Jackson gave me your number.I heard you had a rough night. Call whenever you’re free.
Or don’t. That’s okay too.
Before I can stop myself, I’m texting back with shaking hands.
Me: No, it’s absolutely not okay.
Three dots pop up then vanish, only to reappear. I save her number to my contacts, and a strange sense of male pride swells in my chest. I have the phone number for bikini model Aurora Embers.
Oh, yeah, and I got her pregnant.
What a fucking way to wake up.
My dick has never made me prouder.
I place the phone on the bathroom counter, keeping a vigilant eye on the screen while I brush my teeth. The dots disappear, and I second-guess myself. I shouldn’t have written that. I should’ve called. A respectable gentleman would have called after he got a woman pregnant.
I’m far from a respectable gentleman—look at how Igother pregnant.