Page 1 of One Little Mistake

Max

“Hey, man! Heard you finally touched solid ground. When are we celebrating?”

My friend’s voice comes through the speakers. How the hell did he find out so fast?

“Let me come back to life first. I’ve spent half a year in a metal can, and I think I’ve turned into a sociopath.

” And I’m not even exaggerating. For the past six months, all I’ve seen were the bland faces of twenty-two crew members, the ocean, and those obnoxiously loud seagulls that, for whatever reason, kept flying way out from the coast and getting on our nerves.

“Oh, right, right. You’ve got a fiancée waiting for you. The lone wolf’s finally settling down,” he mocks, and I snort in response.

“Fiancée is a bit of an overstatement, Simmons. But yeah, after a boring life on the ship, it’s good to have someone to run to. I’ve been waiting for this.” I punch the steering wheel and feel my blood heat up.

“Don’t tell me you’re not planning to marry her.”

All the joking vanishes from his voice, and now he’s way too serious.

I’m the last one in our group still enjoying the single life—and I don’t regret it one bit.

Family life just isn’t for someone like me.

I tried it. Didn’t work. But my friends and their wives are always trying to set me up with someone.

“Why should I marry her? We’re in an open relationship.”

“Are you serious right now? I thought having a baby was a pretty solid reason to tie the knot.”

“What baby?” I ask, confused, turning the wheel of my brand-new SUV to the left.

Picked it up from the dealership an hour ago.

Luckily, the managers there were real pros—handled everything in a couple of hours.

Though the suspicious stares were impossible to avoid.

Can’t blame them: I showed up straight from the airport, suitcase in hand, rocking a beard I haven’t shaved in God knows how long.

“She’s pregnant… You didn’t know?” He lowers his voice like it’s some top-secret intel.

“Natalie? Pregnant?” I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. “She was flooding my phone with selfies last night. Not a trace of a baby bump.”

“Who’s Natalie? I’m talking about Erin.”

“Erin who?” I mutter. “Shit, I’ll call you back—there’s a cop up ahead.”

I end the call, still trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with Simmons, and ease off the gas.

I just want to get home already. Take a shower.

Toss out all the clothes that reek of engine oil so bad no detergent could ever save them.

Crawl under a blanket and stay in bed for a few days.

I don’t even remember the last time I got a good night’s sleep.

Oh wait—yeah, I do. Two months ago, during a storm when we had to drop anchor.

The ship rocked so hard, it felt like I was being launched out of my bunk.

I’m completely disoriented, still feel the ocean’s sway, and my ears are buzzing from the engine noise.

The highway’s crawling with cars, trees, people, buildings—everything’s irritating me.

It’s like I suddenly landed in another world.

And yet, there’s a strange relief in it, knowing I’ve got four months ahead without breakdowns or inspections.

The apartment complex looks exactly the same as it did six months ago. It’s already dark out. I try to spot my windows, but it’s useless. I won’t remember. I only lived here for a few months before I shipped out, and I didn’t bother to memorize anything.

Exhaustion’s kicking in hard. I drag my heavy suitcase up the stairs—nearly forty-eight hours without sleep and a long flight with two layovers is taking its toll. I spend forever digging for my keys, finally push the front door open, and frown.

The lights are on. It smells like food. There’s a TV playing in the kitchen.

What the hell is going on?

Did Vivienne split up with her husband and crash at my place for a bit?

Or maybe my little sister decided to welcome me home this way?

I don’t notice the women’s coats in the closet right away. Perfume bottles by the hallway mirror, a few pairs of boots on the shoe rack. Yep—definitely Vivienne. She could’ve at least given me a heads-up.

I walk into the kitchen and freeze in the doorway. A girl is standing with her back to me. I can’t see her face, but the long red hair? That’s definitely not Vivienne. And it sure as hell isn’t my sister.

For a second, I think I’ve walked into the wrong apartment. But no, this is my kitchen—and the key fit the lock.

“And who the hell are you?” I say loud enough to cut through the noise of the TV.

She lets out a startled scream and spins around clumsily. Her eyes go wide with panic, but she quickly recovers, grabs a pancake spatula off the counter, and points it at me like a weapon.

For the record, that’s my pancake spatula. Same with the white button-up shirt she’s wearing—though I guess I could be wrong.

“Don’t come any closer! I’ll call the cops!” she yells, full of fire.

“Very threatening,” I mutter. “How’d you get in here?”

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“I mean it! Or are you… are you a friend of Max?” she asks, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

I glance over her—I can’t miss the very obvious baby bump. Pregnant. Great.

“Well, actually, I am Max. And you are…? No, wait, don’t answer,” I cut her off with a wave of my hand.

“Let me guess: you broke in while the place was empty, right? Pack your things and get the hell out. I’m not in the mood to deal with some random chick tonight.

And if I notice anything missing, don’t worry—I’ll file a report. ”

“This is some kind of joke, right? Max set this up?”

She starts walking toward me—moving way too smoothly for someone that pregnant. She passes by, looks around the room, then opens the front door and peers into the hallway.

“Where is he? This isn’t funny! At all!” Her eyes flash with anger, lips tight, fingers nervously tugging at the sleeves of the shirt.

“Okay, let’s skip the drama class performance and get you out of my house.”

“This is a mistake. You must’ve come to the wrong apartment.”

“How did you get in? Where’d you get the keys?” That’s the only thing I actually want to know.

She stares at me, unblinking. Swallows hard. Her brows knit together, and her hand goes to her belly.

“Vivienne gave them to me. The neighbor,” she says quietly.

“Oh, great. You dragged Vivienne into this too?”

“No, no, that’s crazy. This is my fiancé’s apartment. His name is Max, and he’s working on a ship right now.”

“Well, well, now it all makes sense. Someone clearly got all my info—but surprise, I came back a week early. Didn’t see that one coming, huh?”

I grab her coat from the hook and toss it in her direction.

“Here’s your jacket. Boots, purse, what else? Take this too.”

I sweep all the makeup off the shelf into a paper bag and hand it to her.

She doesn’t move. Tears well up in her eyes, and I grimace. I hate tears. Classic manipulation tactic.

“Is this some kind of prank? Because if it is, it’s a really stupid one. Sir, please leave my fiancés apartment. Go on, get out!”

She throws her clothes to the floor and points at the door.

“Excuse me?” My eyebrow shoots up.

Okay, she’s got guts. My nerves are already hanging by a thread, and now this.

She should be thanking me for not calling the cops—not trying to throw me out.

“You heard me! I don’t know who you are, but please take your suitcase and leave me alone.”

Her face and neck flush deep red, and she rubs her massive belly with one hand.

Is it even real? Or part of the act?

“So you’re claiming that you have every right to be in this apartment, and I don’t?”

“Exactly.”

“Alright then. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” she asks, confused, blinking rapidly with those ginger lashes.

“To prove I belong in my own damn home. And I’m curious what proof you’ve got to back up your story.”

I head straight for the study, walking fast. The stranger shuffles behind me.

I push the door open—and freeze.

“What the hell is this?”

I stare, stunned, at the baby-blue horror show where my loft-style office used to be.

“Where’s my desk? Where are my collector’s edition books? What happened to the walls? What the hell went down in here while I was gone?” I shout, looking around at the crib against the wall, a changing table, and a bunch of baby stuff that’s completely taken over my space.

I glance back at the terrified girl.

For a split second, I actually wonder if I really did walk into the wrong apartment.

But no—this is insane. Absolutely insane.

“And you’re… Erin?” I ask suspiciously.

A few things are starting to click in my head, but none of it makes any damn sense yet.

Pregnant girl. Sailor fiancé. Is this who Simmons was talking about?

“Yes,” she nods. “Can you please explain what’s going on here?”

“I think you’re the one who needs to explain. Why are you living in my apartment, acting like you own the place—and why the hell did you tell my friend Roger that you’re pregnant with my baby?”