Page 18 of One Little Mistake

Max

I open the door and stare at the woman standing in front of me, blinking a few times in disbelief, half-hoping she’ll just vanish into thin air.

“Are you going to let me in?” Cynthia asks haughtily and, taking full advantage of my shock, steps inside without an invitation.

She’s wrapped in a mink coat, her high-heeled boots gleaming like she just stepped out of a showroom. Her hair is slightly damp from the melting snow, and if you ask me, there’s way too much makeup on her face.

“What the hell are you doing here? How did you even find out where I live?” I hiss at her, glancing down the hallway to make sure Erin can’t see us.

“I was driving home from work when the snowstorm hit,” Cynthia says, cocking her head and giving me that sly fox-like look of hers. “Couldn’t see a thing on the road. Your mother called, and I might’ve mentioned my situation… She suggested I wait out the storm at your place. She didn’t warn you?”

“Cynthia,” I exhale sharply, clenching my fists to keep the anger bubbling inside from exploding. Of course, my mother had to meddle—despite me telling her to stay out of my business.

“I’ll call you a cab,” I snap. “You’ll head home, and until then, pretend you’re not here. Better yet—pretend you’re a damn statue and don’t move.”

Color floods Cynthia’s cheeks—pure rage. But she holds herself back, trying to stay composed, though back when we were together, she would’ve already unleashed hell by now. She used to do that a lot—blow up, storm off to the bathroom, and sob loudly until I caved and gave her whatever she wanted.

“Wait,” she says, touching my hand to stop me from making the call to the cab service. “Let’s talk. I’ve missed you so much. This snowstorm—it’s like fate giving us a second chance.”

She looks up at me with those wide, trusting eyes, and for a split second, I hesitate.

No matter how much I hate to admit it, Cynthia still holds a little sway over me. Ghosts of the past don’t let go easily. They pull at you, drag you back, make you hesitate when you know better.

“That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard,” I say in a rough voice, looking away from her and bringing the phone to my ear.

While I’m unsuccessfully trying to find a cab, Cynthia kicks off her shiny boots, shrugs out of her mink coat, and heads toward the closet. She freezes.

At first, I don’t get what’s wrong. Then I see it—and a slow smirk spreads across my face.

Erin’s clothes. Still hanging there.

At least one good thing came out of this mess.

“You’re not alone,” Cynthia says, her voice a little shaky, her eyes darting around the living room with new focus. Her gaze lands on a makeup bag, a pair of women’s shoes, a purse.

“You’re not in a relationship with anyone, are you?” she stammers.

“Been spying on me, huh?” I cross my arms over my chest, watching her face twist through a whole damn range of emotions.

“Your… your mom told me,” she mutters, clearly flustered. “I didn’t want to come, but she convinced me. Said you were alone.”

Yeah, sure. Mom strikes again.

“Cynthia, I’m a grown man. I don’t report every step I take to my mother,” I say dryly.

“Now, do me a favor: lower your voice and help me find you a ride. Because right now, there isn’t a single free cab in three different services, and like hell you’re staying here tonight.

You might just have to spend the night in your car. ”

I chuckle and start dialing again.

“Who is she?” Cynthia demands, her voice dripping with jealousy—and I catch the first flicker of rage lighting up in her eyes.

“What does it matter?” I snap, brushing her off.

“Max,” she whispers seductively, stepping closer, “I know no woman could ever truly replace me.”

Her voice is low, thick with longing, and when I glance down at her, her eyes are shimmering with unshed tears.

Her hands land softly on my shoulders, her touch light but purposeful.

She knows exactly what she’s doing—how a few tears could always break down my walls, how easily she used to get her way.

Maybe on another day, I would’ve taken advantage of the moment. Maybe I’d have let myself remember what it felt like to have her soft skin under my fingers, to breathe in the scent of her hair, to taste her lips—and then toss her out in the morning with a few cutting words.

But today, I’m not alone in this apartment.

Maybe fate’s finally throwing me a bone, keeping me from making another mistake I’ll regret.

“Cynthia, you know it’s over,” I say tiredly, wrapping my hands around her slender wrists and gently pulling her away from me. “And, for the record, it wasn’t my choice. I wasn’t the one who walked away.”

She refuses to let go. She presses herself against me and murmurs in a hoarse voice,

“You’ve only gotten more handsome with time. I always loved your strong body, those long fingers, the veins in your hands, the way you smelled… that woodsy cologne. We all make mistakes, Max. But we also get the chance to fix them.”

“You know,” I say coldly, taking a step back, “I appreciate the flattery. But your apology’s a little too late.”

Cynthia doesn’t belong here. Not in this apartment. Not in my new life. She looks completely out of place, like a piece from a different puzzle, and all I want is to get rid of her as fast as possible.

She opens her mouth to say something, but right then, a baby’s cry cuts through the apartment.

Cynthia’s face falls, the flirtatious spark in her eyes snuffed out.

She stares at me in confusion—and then, without so much as a glance our way, Erin walks past us down the hallway, putting the final nail in the coffin of my supposedly single life.

Her long, fiery hair cascades over her shoulders and back, the silky pajamas clinging to a body that hardly shows any sign of just having given birth.

Does she even realize how stunning she looks?

Too stunning. Even with her pale face and visible exhaustion.

That’s when it hits me—Erin must’ve heard everything Cynthia and I just said. I completely forgot she was here.

“Max, what the hell is going on?” Cynthia snaps, her voice rising. “You have a baby here?” She cranes her neck, scanning the apartment.

“Yeah, and so what?” I say coolly. “Babies aren’t aliens. It’s not that weird.”

“You got involved with some girl who has a kid?”

“And why the hell do you care?” I snap back. “Call your damn taxi and get out.”

“No,” she hisses, narrowing her eyes. “If that were your kid, your parents would know. Does your mother even know you brought some random girl and her brat into your home?”

“Listen carefully,” I snap, my anger boiling over as she lectures me like I’m some rebellious teenager.

“Who I date, whose kids I raise—that’s none of your damn business.

You’d do well to keep your mouth shut, Cynthia, unless you want everyone finding out the real reason for our divorce.

I don’t think our families would be thrilled to learn that while I was stuck in bed with a shattered hip, unable to even make it to the damn bathroom on my own, you were screwing your boss on weekend getaways.

Imagine that—sweet, perfect, well-mannered Cynthia cheating on her crippled husband with some older guy…

who dumped her the second he got bored.”

Cynthia’s breathing hard now, furious. The polished, charming act crumbles right before my eyes, exposing her real self.

“You’re just as much of a fool as you always were, Taylor,” she spits. “Instead of building a proper life with the right kind of woman—starting a family, having your own kid—you’re wasting your time. Some redhead dumps her bastard on you, and you’re eating it up.”

“And who said he’s not my kid?”

I cross my arms over my chest and stare her down, daring her to push further.

Silence falls between us, heavy and tense. From down the hallway, I hear Tim’s faint cries and Erin’s soft, soothing voice singing to him.

Cynthia freezes for a second, scanning my face like she’s trying to read the truth. Her frown deepens.

“No… that’s insane,” she finally mutters, her voice shaky. I catch a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Why would you hide a kid from your parents?”

“I just haven’t had the chance to introduce her yet.

And Elena’s been keeping quiet like a damn soldier.

Don’t worry, Mom will meet her grandson soon enough.

He was just born. Caught me off guard too,” I add, letting the lie slip a little too easily.

God, I hope this doesn’t come back to bite me later.

“And now,” I continue, my tone hardening, “since you finally understand you’re not welcome here, maybe help me find you a cab before the city gets completely buried in snow.”

I ignore Cynthia’s dagger glare and dial up the taxi service again, only to get hit with the same bullshit response: “Sorry, due to weather conditions, there are no available cars in your area.”

Are they all conspiring against me tonight?

I don’t let Cynthia step further into the apartment. We’re both stuck in the entryway, tension crackling between us. I’m getting more pissed by the minute when, even after ten more calls, no damn car materializes.

And as much as I’d love to shove her right out the door into the storm—God knows she deserves it—I can’t quite bring myself to do it. But hell if I’m letting her spend the night here.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement. I turn my head and see Erin—wide-eyed and frozen mid-step—trying to slip past us toward the bedroom. She’s hoping to stay invisible, but no chance of that. Not with Cynthia.

Cynthia lets out a loud, mocking huff and starts eyeing Erin from head to toe like she’s inspecting a piece of trash on the sidewalk.

Erin stops dead in her tracks. She looks even paler than usual, her green eyes darting around like she’s searching for an escape route. Her fingers twist nervously at the hem of her silk pajama top.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself, as if she thinks she’s interrupted something very important.

“Sorry,” she clears her throat, confirming my suspicion. She probably decided that Cynthia is my girlfriend and now, because of Erin’s presence, I might have problems.

“This is my ex-wife, Cynthia. And this is Erin,” I say, clearing up her mistaken assumption.

I deliberately leave Erin’s status undefined—Cynthia’s imagination will fill in the blanks just fine. Erin’s eyes widen in surprise, like I just told her I used to be married to a dog. Her lips part in a drawn-out, “Ohhh.”

Cynthia opens her mouth to say something, but I stop her with a wave of my hand. Her lips open and close—clearly she wants to snap back, but doesn’t dare while I’m standing here. She’s still clinging to the image of the perfect, well-mannered woman.

“Would you like some tea?” Erin offers, completely unaware of the level of my disdain for Cynthia.

“Cynthia was just leaving. And you should be resting already. Go on,” I say, nodding toward the bedroom door, and I don’t say another word until it closes behind her.

“Your taste has really gone downhill,” Cynthia sneers.

“My taste has changed,” I shrug. “I prefer modest, self-sufficient women now. Not selfish snakes.”

“You’ll get bored with them fast. And when you do, you’ll remember me—but it’ll be too late,” she says haughtily, way overestimating her importance.

I decide not to dignify that with a response.

Another fifteen minutes pass, and even Cynthia starts getting angry.

She’s clearly tired of standing by the door, and whatever plan she had for tonight is clearly falling apart.

Good. Helping Erin turned out to be a smart move—now my ex gets to see me as a family man instead of some lonely hermit.

“Give it here. You can’t do anything yourself,” she snaps, snatching the phone from my hands and pressing it to her ear.

Looks like someone was hoping for a very different kind of night and is now fuming. I tune her out and watch, bored, as she fails to get a cab. Cynthia mutters something under her breath and shoves the phone back at me.

“I’ll figure it out myself,” she says firmly, shooting me a furious look, as if she caught me cheating on her during our marriage.

“Don’t be stupid. The weather’s a nightmare out there.”

“What do you expect me to do? Crawl into bed with the two of you?” she snaps, throwing a venomous glance toward the bedroom.

“I’ll drive you myself. My ‘tank’ can handle the weather. When the roads are clear, you can come back for your car.”

Cynthia looks like she wants to argue, wants to storm off dramatically and slam the door behind her—but then she visibly deflates and gives in.

“Wait here. I’m going to change,” I tell her, heading toward the bedroom.