Page 16 of One Little Mistake

Erin

I’m beyond excited about today.

Honestly, I can’t even remember the last time I felt this upbeat—even though, technically, I have nowhere to go and, oh yeah, I’m a single mom now.

I have no idea how to take care of a newborn.

I’m terrified I’ll screw something up. I blame myself for not being able to breastfeed and for having to rely on formula to feed Tim.

I have no clue how I’m going to handle everything moving forward…

but that magical thing everyone talks about—maternal instinct—has to kick in eventually, right?

It has to.

I pull my son closer to my chest.

It’s cold and windy outside, and I’m terrified he’ll catch a chill. I do my best to walk steadily, pretending to look confident, hiding the fact that I’m feeling a little dizzy.

No weakness. No slipping up. I have to stay strong. I don’t have the right to fall apart.

Max’s words still sting. He knows perfectly well I didn’t do any of this on purpose. Sure, it’s not ideal having a stranger basically take over your home, but it’s not like I planned it!

Okay, maybe it’s a little bit my fault, but none of his friends seemed the least bit suspicious when a very pregnant “fiancée” suddenly appeared out of nowhere—so why should I have been?

I scan the lot for the cab, double-checking the license plate number, and reach for the door handle to open it, when suddenly, a hand slams the door shut, and an arm wraps tightly around my waist, pulling me back.

I jump from the shock, but the next second, the familiar scent of his cologne hits me, and the deep rumble of his voice confirms what I already know.

“Sorry, but you won’t be needing a cab anymore,” Max says, handing the driver a few bills through the open window, completely ignoring my pathetic attempts to protest.

I hiss under my breath, desperate not to wake the baby, and squirm in his grasp, shooting him a murderous glare. But he acts like I’m not even there.

“No, no, no,” I butt into their exchange, shaking my head furiously. “Don’t leave! I need that ride!”

The driver stares at us, confused, eyes darting back and forth between Max and me.

“Had a little argument with my wife,” Max says, rolling his eyes and giving the driver a lazy half-smile. “Women, right?”

“Ah, young people!” The driver chuckles, shaking his head.

To my shock, he rolls the window back up and starts the engine, getting ready to drive off.

“Hey, wait!” I lunge for the door handle, trying to stop him, but Max’s strong hands pull me back before I can even touch it.

“Easy,” he murmurs close to my ear. “Or he’ll think I’m kidnapping you.”

I stare after the black car as it pulls away, completely stunned. Did I seriously just get kidnapped by a stranger?

“You’ll thank me later,” Max says, steering me away.

“My offer is way better than whatever you had in mind. Take a day to rest somewhere safe and think about your next steps. Tomorrow, I’ll help you find a new place.

Dragging a newborn all over the city isn’t exactly a brilliant plan.

Ask Vivienne to watch him for a few hours. Be smart, Erin.”

His warm breath grazes my neck, sending a strange shiver down my spine.

He smells like mint gum, just faintly masking the scent of tobacco. God, I hope he doesn’t smoke—if he does, there’s no way I’m letting him anywhere near my baby.

I want to turn my head toward him to meet his gaze, but when I do, his lips accidentally brush against my temple, and I instinctively jerk back, putting more distance between us.

“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling heat rush to my cheeks.

I’m breathing too fast, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. The spot where he touched me burns like it’s on fire. My hands are shaking. Something strange is happening to me.

The situation is saved by Tim, who wakes up and starts crying. At first quietly, then louder and louder, so much so that passersby begin to turn and stare at us, and I can’t seem to calm him down.

“There, there, it’s okay, my little one,” I coo, rocking him in my arms.

“Come on, Erin, don’t stand out here in the cold,” Max says evenly, gently steering me toward his car.

I want to cry. Just this morning, I had everything figured out, pulled myself together piece by piece, found a few housing options, thought through how I would handle work—and now I feel helpless again, letting Max meddle in my plans.

But he’s right about one thing. I don’t have the money to pay rent.

I would’ve had to go to him anyway to get my savings, and the baby’s things.

No diapers, no bottles, no clothes—nothing.

Max opens the back door of his SUV. He helps me into the car; I avoid meeting his gaze, and he seems unusually tense and lost in thought.

Luckily, Tim quickly settles down, closes his eyes, and drifts back to sleep.

I carefully run my fingertip over his flushed cheeks, wiping away his tears.

A tightness forms under my ribs from the overwhelming tenderness filling me, and for a moment, I forget where I am and with whom—until the man reminds me of his presence.

“Do you need anything from the store? Formula? Diapers?”

I catch his gaze in the rearview mirror and swallow the lump forming in my throat. His eyes are so unusual. I’ve never seen anything like them in my life.

For a moment, I get lost in them, then quickly clear my throat and try to pull myself together.

“Yeah, I’d really appreciate it if you could stop by a store,” I say.

“Text me a list. I’ll grab everything you need. You two can stay here,” he replies.

“No, it’s just… there are some… you know, women’s things, and also stuff for Tim. I don’t think you’ll figure it all out on your own.”

“I’ll take pictures. You can choose. Don’t worry,” Max says.

He turns toward the supermarket, while I sit there frantically trying to remember if I had packed any of those “women’s essentials” among my things at his place.

The thought of asking a strange man to buy something like that makes my face burn with embarrassment.

And then it hits me: Max would make a good husband. A caring one. Even with how irritable and distant he can be sometimes. If he’s willing to help a complete stranger like me, I can only imagine how he would treat the woman he actually loves.

Someone’s going to get very lucky with him.

Too bad my Max wasn’t like that.

***

It feels like an eternity has passed since the last time I rode the elevator up to the floor that had become my true home.

I loved this neighborhood.

I loved the location of the building.

I loved the people who lived here.

I loved how safe it felt.

I never had to worry about coming home late from work, fumbling for my keys while someone could sneak up behind me and knock me out.

I loved that there was a little daycare right in the courtyard and a good school just a block away.

I had even spotted a storefront on the first floor, already dreaming that once Max came back from sea, and the financial burden wasn’t solely on my shoulders, I could rent it and open my flower shop.

It felt like the perfect plan—working practically from home.

And now, I’m riding up in the elevator in heavy silence, lost and overwhelmed by the realization that I’ll have to rebuild my life from scratch.

Because now, it’s not just about me anymore. There’s a tiny, completely helpless little person who depends on me for everything.

The elevator doors slide open, and Max steps aside, letting me go first.

He’s carrying two large bags; another one is still in the car—he said he would come back for it later.

I take a deep breath. The hallway is quiet, my footsteps echoing loudly against the empty walls. Just a few feet away from the door with that cursed apartment number, I slow down. I swallow the lump rising in my throat, nerves buzzing under my skin.

“Something wrong?” Max asks, catching up to me.

“No.” I shake my head quickly, watching as he pulls the keys out of his jacket pocket, slides them into the lock, and swings the door open.

“You gonna stand there all day?” he says with a raised brow as I hesitate, shifting from foot to foot, peeking inside at the all-too-familiar entryway walls.

I step over the threshold and freeze. My eyes scan the room, trying to catch any changes that might have happened while I was gone. But everything seems just the same. Even my shoes are still sitting neatly on the shelf. The door slams shut loudly behind me, and I jump.

I glance around in confusion, finally realizing that I’m alone in the apartment with a man I barely know.

I turn to look at Max. He pulls off his boots and jacket while my mind reels, flashing through every true crime story I’ve ever watched.

Maybe getting into his car hadn’t been the smartest idea after all. Trusting him—even less so.

Yes, he helped me. Yes, he brought me here.

But why?

What does he want?

He pushed so hard to get me here—for what reason?

I stay frozen, panic clawing at my chest, paranoia eating a hole straight through me.

Max suddenly takes a step toward me, and instinctively I shrink back, my spine hitting the wall behind me.

His brow lifts slowly. He frowns, watching me closely with those serious, unreadable eyes.

“What’s wrong with you? You look like you’re afraid of me,” he says, his voice low and a little rough.

I try to mask the fear in my eyes. Square my shoulders. Pretend everything’s fine. But my gaze betrays me, darting toward the door—and the keys still sticking out of the lock.

That’s a good sign, right?

God, Hale, you’re losing it.

For once in your life, a normal guy crosses your path, and you immediately label him a serial killer.

“I just want to hold the baby so you can take off your jacket,” he explains patiently, like he’s talking to a scared little kid.

I nod, forcing myself to relax. It’s just my imagination; stupid late-night crime shows messing with my head.

Max stretches his arms toward me, and reluctantly, I pass Tim over to him.

“There we go,” I murmur, gently pulling the corner of the blanket back from my son’s head. It’s warm in the apartment, and I don’t want him to overheat.

Max stands frozen in place, like he’s been glued there. He’s holding the baby so carefully, so still, as if one wrong move might wake Tim up.

I quickly shrug off my coat, switch my boots for a pair of house slippers, and gently take my son back into my arms.

“I…” I stammer, unsure what to do next.

I had gotten used to thinking of this apartment as ours—mine and Max’s.

But now, the real owner is a complete stranger.

I hesitate, standing awkwardly by the door, waiting for some kind of permission to move deeper inside.

“I left the nursery the way it was,” Max says, his voice even. “Once you find a new place, I’ll turn it back into an office… so…”

He trails off, presses his lips together, and jerks his head toward the door leading to the nursery.

I understand without needing more words. Gratefully, I slip away from his intense gaze and into the room meant to be Tim’s first home.

The nursery really hasn’t changed. A wave of sadness washes over me as I take in the ceiling lights, the crib, the toys, the hand-painted designs on the walls. I had poured so much of myself into this space, picking out every detail with love, waiting months for some of the orders to arrive.

And now… it’s all for nothing.

I lay my son down gently in the crib, unwrap the blanket, and slip off his warm little hat.

God, he’s so tiny. It’s impossible to look away. And he looks so much like his father.

A lump rises in my throat.

They say babies change as they grow. I can only hope Tim’s resemblance to Max fades with time.

For a while, I just stand over the crib, unable to tear my eyes away from my son, overwhelmed with relief that I finally get to be near him again.

When I step out of the nursery, the smell of food hits me from the direction of the kitchen. Probably, I should’ve been the one to cook something for Max as a thank-you. Instead, he’s the one standing by the stove.

I hurry to take over, walking into the kitchen and taking in the scene: everything looks spotless, way cleaner than it ever was when I lived here.

It’s so unlike most guys.

Or maybe he has a housekeeper?

“Let me finish cooking,” I offer, stepping closer to him.

He turns around, gives me a heavy once-over, sighs in frustration, then turns back to the stove.

“I grabbed ready-made meals at the store,” he says. “I just need to heat them up. I can manage that much. You need to rest. Go lie down while the baby’s sleeping.”

I wrap my arms around myself, feeling completely out of place. It’s hard to shake the feeling that everything here is foreign to me now. Well, except maybe for that candy dish on the table—that’s mine. And the frying pan on the stove too.

Then it hits me: there’s only one bedroom here.

One bed.

There’s barely any furniture at all, like the owner’s some kind of hardcore minimalist.

“I’ll just crash in the nursery on the floor,” I mumble. “I’ll grab a blanket from the closet.”

“Are you crazy?” Max snaps, spinning around.

He grabs a plate, piles some food onto it, and sets it down on the table with a thud.

“Sit. Eat. Then go to the bedroom and rest,” he says firmly. “I know exactly what the doctor said about your recovery schedule.”

And I obey him without a fight. I nibble on some bland potatoes, poke at the salad, doing everything I can to avoid his gaze.

“Thanks,” I murmur quietly.

I pick up my plate and head toward the sink, planning to wash it.

“I need to feed the baby,” I say. “Where did you put the formula?”

“Top shelf by the fridge,” he answers. “Hang on, I’ll get it for you.”

Max reaches for the cabinet, and as he stretches, his T-shirt rides up slightly, revealing the defined muscles of his abdomen.

I quickly look away before he catches me staring. The guy is seriously built—no point lying to myself. His shoulders are way broader than my Max. He’s tall, fit, and athletic. If only he shaved that beard, so I could actually see his face, not just his eyes.

He fits into this apartment so naturally, feels so right here—way more than my Max ever did.

“Here,” he says, handing me the formula. “But after this, no arguments—you’re going straight to bed, got it?”

He gives me a pointed look, and I nod, not daring to argue. Besides, I feel weak as hell.

“We’ll figure out the next steps tonight,” he adds.

“Thank you,” I breathe out, turning away from him.

I close my eyes, feeling his presence with every part of me—his heavy gaze burning into the back of my head, the quiet shuffle of his footsteps across the kitchen, and the strange tension holding us both tight, making it impossible to relax or slip into an easy conversation.