“First of all, Gavin filed for divorce. He showed me the paperwork. He said due to family assets they had a pretty detailed pre-nup. And since they don’t have kids, the divorce should go through pretty quickly.”
“And second?” I ask.
He smiles down at me and places a kiss on my hair. “And second, the rest will work itself out, Baylor. He seems like a reasonable guy and he says the last thing he wants to do is hurt you any more than you’ve already been hurt.”
He pulls my chin up so that I’m looking right at him. “But you need to understand that he’s been hurt, too. He is as much of a victim in this as you are. When you talk, you need to remember that.”
“Okay,” I say, sniffing.
“Okay, what?” he asks.
“Okay, I’ll go talk to him.”
“Good girl,” he says. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. But maybe keep your phone handy in case I need a quick shoulder to cry on.”
“Always,” he says.
I look at the clock and see that it’s almost time for Callie to come home with Maddox. “I’ll go after I spend some time with Maddox. I didn’t get to see him much yesterday.” My hand comes up to cover my gasp. “Oh, what am I going to tell him?”
“That can all happen later, Baylor. It’ll all work out,” he says.
“Yeah, but for whom?” I muse aloud.
Chris laughs and pulls me tight. “For a romance writer, you sure are pessimistic about finding your own happily-ever-after.”
I roll my eyes at him. “You know what they say, ‘Those who can’t do—write’.”
My legs are like Jell-O. They are shaking so badly they can barely carry me across the parking lot. I pull my leather satchel close against my body as if it will protect me. It’s heavy with the things I put in it before leaving the house.
I stare up at the hotel sign as I slowly walk underneath it. He’s in here. Waiting. Waiting on me to come talk to him. Waiting to decide the future.
I check out my reflection in the glass doors as I walk through them. I was careful about my appearance. I didn’t want him to think I was eager to see him, so I simply put on an old pair of jeans and a short-sleeved sweater. Okay, so the jeans are my go-to jeans when I want to impress anyone with my runner’s ass. And the sweater might show a tiny bit of cleavage. I mean, I don’t want him thinking I became some cat-hoarding spinster when he left, either.
Crap! He didn’t leave you, Baylor, I remind myself again. I just can’t get used to thinking about it that way.
The elevator is the first one I’ve been on since I was in Chicago, and I briefly have a flashback of our altercation. I realize now that at the time, we each thought we were wronged by the other. It sure explains a lot when I think back to the things he said that night.
The doors to his floor open and I turn down the hallway to search for his suite. When I find it, I freeze. I’m terrified of what the next few minutes will bring. I concentrate on my breathing, for fear of hyperventilating if I don’t. I tuck my hair behind my ear and run my tongue over my teeth in my now bone-dry mouth.
I force myself to lift up my hand so I can knock on the door. I knock twice, very softly, while hoping I don’t pass out right here in the hallway. I surmise if he doesn’t hear it and answer the door, I can simply go home.
The door opens and suddenly we are face to face. We stand here staring at each other, both knowing the truth after all these years. I have absolutely no idea what to say. I rehearsed what I would say in the car on the way over, but right now I’d be surprised if I could remember my own name.
He shakes his head as if suddenly remembering something. Then, without breaking eye contact with me, he brings the cell phone in his hand up to his ear. “Charles, I’ll have to call you back.” I’m not even sure he waited for a response before he ended the call.
“Uh . . . come in.” He steps aside, making room for me to pass.
“Thanks,” I say, grateful to my brain for forming a word.
As we walk further into the large sitting room of the suite, we are both trying, but failing miserably, not to look at each other. I’m attempting to see him as an actual person and not the monster who I thought left me stranded and broken.
His eyes blink again and again and his brow is creased, as if he’s not sure I’m really standing here before him. I see his hand come toward me, but he immediately pulls it back and I’m surprised when that disappoints me. His eyes haven’t left my face. I wonder what he thinks of the way I look now. I never wore much makeup or took much time on my appearance back then.
I let my eyes stray from his to see that he’s wearing a tight-fitting Under Armour shirt that shows his defined abs. I briefly wonder if he still runs and works out every day. I take in his faded jeans that are frayed at the bottom with random strands splayed out over the tops of his bare feet. Heat courses through me—what is so blatantly sexy about a man’s bare feet?
Our eyes meet again and we both laugh awkwardly.
“Thanks for coming over,” he finally says.
I still haven’t found all my words, so I nod at him on the way over to the couch that he’s gesturing toward. I try to think of something to say to make this moment more tolerable and less humiliating. I look around the immaculate suite and settle for, “It looks like you’ve done well for yourself.”
Then I think, Duh, his family has money, so of course he’d be in a suite. I mentally smack my forehead as I sit on the far end of the couch from where he is settling.
He confidently hooks an ankle over his knee and rests an elbow over the back of the couch. He smiles and reaches over to the table next to him. “I could say the same thing about you,” he says, picking up a book I wrote.
I feel my face turn beet-red. Of all my books, he had to buy the one that is just shy of being classified as erotica.
“Now, that’s the Baylor I remember,” he says, with an upturned mouth.
I roll my eyes at him and he laughs. Then his expression hardens and he looks at me with regretful eyes. “We were played, Baylor. And you’ll never know how sorry I am that I didn’t fight harder for you,” he says. “All it would have taken was a simple phone call or text for us to figure out what happened, and all of this could have been avoided. I’m so sorry, darlin’.”
Oh, God. Hearing him call me that, the way he used to, brings unwanted tears to my eyes. I swallow hard to keep them from spilling over. Then I clear the elephant-sized frog in my throat. “It wasn’t your fault,” I say, wringing my restless hands. “I could have just as easily picked up the phone. But I didn’t.”
“Of course you didn’t,” he says. “You thought I was the bastard who abandoned you when you were pregnant.”
“And you thought I’d played you all along and then went back to Chris.”
He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’m going to fix this, Baylor. And I hope you’ll let me back in your life while I do that. I hope you’ll let me into both your lives.”
I can see now how crushed he is by this. “It was never my intention to keep Maddox from you. I would have let you know him,” I say. “Even if we weren’t together back then, I would have let you know him.”
“Let me know him?” he says, incredulously, his eyes full of pain. “Baylor, I would have married you.”
That did it. Tears overflow the barrier of my lashes and stream down my cheeks, and before I realize what’s happening, he has his arms wrapped around me. When his smell permeates my nose, I’m taken back eight years. His cologne may have changed, but the underlying smell of Gavin is still there, and my body responds to it without any consideration of what my mind may want.
He runs his hands over my back, soothing me while I silently cry into his shoulder.
All those years. Wasted. We can never get them back. Maddox can never know a father who was there at his birth, or at his first birthday, or at his school play. Will they ever be able to have the kind of fat
her-son relationship that every kid should have?
I hiccup a few times as my tears finally dry up.
“I can’t imagine what you must have gone through back then,” he says. “Chris told me how wrecked you were over the letter you thought I wrote.” He pulls away but doesn’t move back over to where he was sitting before. “I will never forgive her for this,” he says, with a look of abhorrence for the woman who is still his wife.
“Do you want to see it?” I ask.
“See what?”
“The letter you wrote . . . uh, she wrote,” I say. “I brought it with me.”
“You kept it?”
“I did,” I say. “I thought I might need it one day to prove to a judge that you didn’t want your own kid.”
“God, Baylor,” he says, his voice breaking, “I would have wanted him. I would have wanted him more than anything. I do want him.”
Reaching into my bag, I pull out the envelope and hand it to him. He looks at it like the very thing that it is—the complete and utter destruction of our young lives. A muscle in his clenched jaw spasms as he opens it slowly and pulls out the sole piece of notebook paper inside.
As he reads it for the very first time, I look over his shoulder and let my eyes wander over the words that gutted me so long ago.
Baylor,
A friend of mine who works at the clinic called and gave me a heads up before you ruined my fucking life.
Did you really think I’d drop everything and take care of you and some snotty-nosed kid? Other girls have tried to trap me before, too. What none of you seem to understand is that I have a responsibility to my family. A family I can’t disgrace like this. Even if I don’t get along with him, I could one day be the son of a senator, or the goddamn president. That means I can’t ever be with someone like you. My friends tried to warn you off but you didn’t fucking listen.
So, it was fun while it lasted and now it’s over. Take this money and get rid of it. Then get the fuck over it and get on with your life, but do it without me in it. Go back to Chris or find someone new, I don’t care. Just don’t ever contact me again.
Gavin
The letter falls out of his hands and his shoulders begin to shake. I look up at him just in time to see a tear roll down his cheek.
I can see how devastated he is. I try to lighten the mood. “Of course I thought you wrote it. You did say fuck a lot back then.”
He laughs. I giggle. We smile.
And just like that, dare I say we’re . . . friends?
chapter twenty-nine
Gavin looks at his watch, prompting me to look down at mine. Maybe he wants to get down to business and talk about how we’re going to deal with Maddox.
“It’s almost six,” he says. “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but we do have a lot to talk about. Would you stay for dinner? I can call down for room service.”
Right on cue, my stomach grumbles and I giggle.
“I’m not sure I ever told you this, but I love that sound,” he says.
“The sound of me starving?” I tease.
He laughs. “No, actually, that sound I hate. How about you eat with me so we can get rid of it?”
“I guess I can do that, just let me text Callie.”
“Callie?” he asks.
“Maddox’s nanny. She lives with us,” I explain, pulling out my phone. “She’s great, a real friend and constant lifesaver.”
“Ah, the woman from the hotel pool,” he says.
I put down my phone and frown. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you—seeing the son you never knew about.”
He nods, sighing. “It was surreal,” he says. “It was the most terrifying moment of my life, but also the greatest at the same time.” He stares at me. “He looks like me.”
“Yes. He does.”
“Was that ever hard for you?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” I say.
His lips turn up into a smile. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For being completely honest with me.”
“I always was,” I say.
“I know.” He nods. “It was one of the things I loved about you.”
He picks up the room service menu, completely unaware of the shards that splinter my heart. I know it’s silly, but him referring to his love of me as past tense, hurts. And way more than I’d like to admit.
Angie was wrong.
I pull out my phone.
Me: I’m staying for dinner. Can you guys order pizza or something?
Callie: Oh, reeeeeally?
Me: Shut up. We have a lot to talk about.
Callie: Sure you do. We won’t wait up.
Me: Very funny. Kiss him for me if I’m not back by bedtime.
Callie: Will do. And I’ll be very disappointed if you are.
Me: Bye, Callie.
I put the phone back in my purse as Gavin says, “I hope you still like burgers. If you don’t, I’ll call back down and get you something else.”
“A burger is fine. Thank you.”
“So, you’ve made quite a name for yourself, Baylor.” He nods to my book. “You’re an author, and twelve books, that’s an incredible accomplishment.”
“Thirteen actually,” I correct him. “One was just released yesterday.”
“Ahhh, yes,” he says. “The great day that I ruined. I’m really sorry about that. I wondered what you were doing hugging the UPS guy.”
“Are you stalking me now?” I joke. “I see nothing has changed in the past eight years.”
He grabs his chest feigning ignorance. “Me—stalk? Never,” he says dramatically.
“Oh, right. So you never followed me to find out my daily routine?” I ask. “And you never got my class schedule so you could sign up for the same classes? Oh, and you definitely never just happened to be out running at the exact same time I was?”
“So you knew about all that?” he asks.
He at least has the decency to look embarrassed.
“It was all very sweet, actually,” I admit.
“And I suppose you haven’t Googled me at all, have you Mitchell?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Of course I have,” I say. “I can’t have a serial killer meeting my son . . . uh, our son.”
Wow, that was weird. It’s the first time I’ve ever said that. Our son. It’s unreal. It’s scary. It’s oddly wonderful.
“But I never looked you up until I saw you in Chicago,” I tell him.
“You’re kidding?” he says.
I shake my head.
“Me either,” he says. “I never Googled you until a few weeks ago. I didn’t ever want to know if you had gotten married, or became a famous food critic, or . . . died. I stayed off social media, too.”
“What, no Facebook?” I ask. “Haven’t you heard that everybody who’s anybody is on Facebook?”
“Especially Facebook,” he asserts. “That was what ruined us. God, Baylor, if you could have seen the things she put up there about you.”
I put my hand up to stop him. “I don’t need to know. I have the letter. I know how cruel she can be. I can only imagine what she posted on-line. I’ve never been on Facebook either, or anything else, for the same reason—I didn’t want to hear about you.”
“Un-fucking-believable,” he says. Then he winces and utters an apology. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m used to it. Callie curses like a sailor.”
“In front of our kid?” he asks.
I laugh. “No, not in front of our kid.”
He shakes his head. “Feels strange, doesn’t it, calling him our kid? I still can’t believe I have a son.”
There’s a knock on the door and we hear, “Room service.”
I stand up and grab my purse, heading for the door before Gavin can locate his wallet. I let the waiter in and then tip him on his way out, all the while aware that Gavin is watching my every move.
He smirks at me an
d doesn’t break our stare as he saunters over to where I put my purse and drops a twenty-dollar bill into it.
My jaw drops. “I knew it!” I squeal. “I always wondered why I never had to hit the ATM. Turns out I had my own personal one.” I giggle.
A bright smile touches his eyes and I suddenly remember what he said about loving that sound. And then of course, I blush.
“Come on, let’s eat.” He removes the silver domes from our plates.
I sit down at the nicely appointed table in the corner of the suite that has windows overlooking the one river that runs through our little town. I look down at what he’s placed in front of me. “You got me a chocolate shake? You remembered.”
“I remember everything, Bay.”
He uses my nickname, which has me wondering about his company. “So, Bay Watch Productions, huh?”
“Mmm hmm.” He nods his head while he takes a bite of his cheeseburger.
“Why did you choose that name? Didn’t you hate me?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” he says. “But you were the one who got me to go after it. I changed my major because of you. I change my life because of you. How could I not honor that in some small way?”
“I’m an author because of you, you know,” I say, earning me an incredulous look. I nod my head. “It’s true. You probably don’t remember, but you asked me once what I did at the children’s hospital and I said I used to read to the kids but then I started telling them stories.”
“And then I said that you should write books,” he says.
“Yes.” I’m impressed that he recalls the conversation.
“But you said you wouldn’t be good at it and I told you you’d never know until you tried,” he says.
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