Page 52 of Desperate Games

“How. Far.”

She hesitates.

My jaw tightens. “Tell me.”

“Thirteen weeks,” she whispers, almost like she’s ashamed.

Thirteen weeks.

I do the math in my head, and it checks out. It’s just past three months since I saw her last.

Since I was inside her.

Without a condom.

Because she said I didn’t need them.

“You said you were on birth control?—”

“No, I said you didn’t need protection,” she corrects me.

Fuck. She’s right. I’d assumed she meant she was on birth control.

“You did this on purpose? Got pregnant with my baby on purpose, didn’t you?”

“I always wanted a baby, and I’m already thirty-two. Did you know they consider me a geriatric pregnancy?” she whispers, and her look is equal parts frightened and hopeful.

“What?”

“It’s true. Over thirty and your eggs are considered old and high risk,” she shakes her head, wiping at her tears.

I don’t know what she’s fucking talking about.

But my hands curl into fists at my sides when I realize she didn’t want me, not really.

She just wanted my sperm.

I step closer. Rage and pride and guilt at war inside me.

“Goddamn it, Andy, I am so damn mad right now.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“No, you just meant to use me.”

“Remy, what can I do?—”

“You’re carrying my child, right?”

She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t have to.

Because I see it all in her face. The guilt. The fear. The flicker of something that might be regret.

And suddenly I’m not in a furniture store anymore—I’m standing in the middle of a slow-motion explosion.

“But you didn’t try to get in touch. You didn’t fucking tell me.”

“I was thinking about it,” she says quietly.