Page 5

“I just figured you might want to meet the woman who’d be living with you before you had her sign a binding contract.”

Oof.

Living with me. Jesus fucking Christ. I scrub a hand through my hair and wonder why that statement just got through to me when nothing else has. I sit down. I stand back up. I move to look out at the backyard. Then wander aimlessly through the kitchen.

The perpetual bachelor. The man who likes his space and his privacy. Now two people will be moving in.

“I think it’s best if we do a contract with a probationary period of say, a few weeks to a month. If she passes and you like her, then we can sign an extension.”

“You’re the lawyer,” I mutter .

“And you’re my client so I take direction from you. Are you good with this plan?”

“Yes. Fine.” I scrub a hand over my face.

“Great. I’ll get going on this—”

“There’s no way out of this,” I state, knowing the answer and feeling like an absolute chickenshit for even suggesting it.

“What about—how can—can’t I be considered unfit to parent?

I’m always traveling. I live a chaotic life.

I mean, is there something I can do to have the courts think that?

” My pulse pounds in my ears. It’s the only sound louder than the silence stretching and judgment being leveled between us.

“You’re better than that, Gavin. You’re not an asshole who would do something horrible to make that happen.

First, because you’re a good guy and second, because you don’t want to give the press the field day they’d have with it when they found out you abandoned your child, sent her to the foster system—and they would find out. ”

Yes, I’m as horrible as that comment just made me out to be.

I emit a strangled groan as I grab my neck and stop pacing. She’s right. I know she’s right, and yet it sounds so fucking tempting.

“Tough love time,” she says. “It’s going to be rocky and tough for a while.

You’re used to thinking about no one, and now you have to think about Poppy first. Use the nanny while you sort through your shit—be that a day or a month—but don’t use her to shirk on your duties as a father. As the man I know you can be.”

“You don’t know shit about me,” I spit out.

She makes a non-committal sound. It’s a warning her words reinforce. “I’m going to give you a pass on talking to me like this due to the shock of this situation. It’s a one-time thing. Please remember that.”

I hang my head and grunt in response as I will away the tears that burn and my chest that aches and wonder what the fuck to do next. I know she’s right and yet it sounds so fucking tempting. What the hell did Olivia’s parents do that she’d rather I have her than them?

“Maybe it’ll help if you talk to the guys.”

“And say what?” I mutter.

“Hawkin has two little girls,” she continues like I never spoke. “Vince has a son he didn’t know about until he was six or seven, right? Gizmo has one on the way...I bet they’d be able to calm your fears. ”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” I say and then laugh self-deprecatingly. “Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m afraid of everything.”

“Do you want to see a picture of her?” Sandra asks. I don’t think it’s possible to steal anymore breath from my lungs, but she just did.

No .

It’s my first reaction. My only reaction because seeing is believing and I don’t want to believe this.

“Yes.” The syllable is barely audible.

“Okay. I’ll let you go so you can see the text I’m sending and process. I’ll be in touch with information on when you’ll meet her tomorrow.”

“Mm-hmm,” is my only response as I end the call a split second before my phone alerts a text.

My hands tremble, and every part of me screams not to look. I don’t know how long I stare at the damn attachment like it might bite me if I click it, but eventually, my thumb moves.

The image loads slowly. Too slow. My chest tightens with each spinning second.

Fucking hell.

There she is.

A little girl with curls that have a mind of their own and a tiny gap between her front teeth. She’s sitting cross-legged, clutching something pink against her chest. Her smile isn’t big. It’s shy and tentative, like someone told her to smile and she tried, but didn’t quite trust it.

Her eyes ? They punch the air from my lungs.

Big. Round. Haunted. Familiar in a way that messes with my head.

I’ve seen those eyes before. In a mirror. In pictures of myself when I was that age. On my fucking driver’s license for Christ’s sake.

Motherfucker.

I don’t want to look anymore, but I can’t tear my eyes away, so I zoom in, not even realizing I’m doing it until I’m studying every detail of her tiny face.

I thought I’d feel doubt. Anger. Confusion.

And I do feel all three, but I also feel overwhelmed, desperate, and inadequate.

I’m still stuck somewhere between disbelief and detonation.

I don’t know what I expected to feel. But fuck . . . this isn’t it.

This is grief, tangled in awe and wrapped in fear.

It’s loss and gain in the same breath .

It’s a freefall with no parachute.

And even none of those describe how fucked up I feel right now.

I don’t want this. I never wanted this.

And despite those truths, all I feel is a low, aching pull. Like my heart just shifted when it needs to stay squarely where it’s been for the past twenty-seven years.

She’s mine.

The test proved it when all I needed was a picture of her to know.

And fuck if that doesn’t scare the hell out of me.