Getting Lucky

by Avril Tremayne

  What did he want out of the rest of his life, anyway? Not to fuck every girl he met the way he’d been doing forever—that was the way to turn into his father. Jesus! Scary.

  The rest of his life... Forever... Ha. It was simple, really. His forever was tied up with Romy Allen—that’s how all this had started. The baby was his gateway to forever with her. She’d said that night in San Francisco they had a window of opportunity that was like fate. Neither of them had someone in their lives at that precise moment when she needed him, they were together, she needed his sperm, he needed a release.

  What if she was right about it being fate?

  What if he ignored fate, and didn’t get her into the tower with him and she got tired of trying to scale the wall and ended up with Teague?

  Teague, who’d met her parents when Matt had not.

  Well, fuck that! (Okay, stopping swearing would be a work in progress.) He should be the one meeting Romy’s parents, not Teague. They were his baby’s grandparents! And this wasn’t petty jealousy, it wasn’t. It was nothing to do with Teague personally, because he liked Teague, he did. No, it was about the past ten years and the past five weeks and...and finding his place in Romy’s life and not letting her hate him and...and...and God, he needed a shower and clean jeans and a half-decent shirt and a taxi to Petit Diable.

  And Romy, he needed Romy.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MATT ARRIVED AT Petit Diable forty minutes later and looked in through the glass frontage until he found the Allens.

  He watched for a few minutes, assessing the dynamics of the small group and growing anxious without understanding why—unless it was that they seemed so nice. Laughing, talking, helping serve each other from the platters on the table, focused completely on each other instead of the potential talent at other tables. Vastly different from the rare get-togethers he endured with his parents, during which the only indication they were a family came from his obvious physical resemblance to them both.

  Romy didn’t look anything like either of her parents—her father was stick thin and dark, her tiny mother looked like a damn movie star—but you could tell they were a solid unit. Assessing them, he wondered if the way he’d visualized his daughter, as a Matt/Romy combination with hazel eyes and red hair, might be way off the mark.

  Something flickered through him like quicksilver—a sense of...disquiet. He stared at Romy’s parents, trying to anchor the thought, but before he could latch onto it his view was blocked by servers clearing their table and he realized he’d have a better chance of latching onto whatever was bothering him if he actually joined them.

  The moment he entered the restaurant, Romy looked straight at him—as though she sensed him. Her parents swiveled in their chairs to see what she was looking at, Romy dipped her head and said something to them, and next second they were on their feet, beaming at him.

  Matt beckoned to the maître d’ and after a quick explanation, the guy conducted some weird wordless cross-restaurant communication with Romy, and then he was allowed to make his way to them.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he announced upon arrival at the table.

  Romy’s father grabbed his hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “No need for apologies, son,” he said.

  Matt blocked a start at the “son” a fraction too late, and then started again when Romy’s mother opened her arms. Shit. She was going to hug him. He didn’t want that. He hadn’t earned that. Didn’t...deserve it.

  Matt considered side-stepping her, making an excuse about needing the restroom, but it was too late; he was folded against her. And then that wasn’t enough for her: her hands reached up, his head was dragged down and he was kissed soundly on each cheek. Another hug, and he was released, only to have both his hands held, gripped.

  “I’m so very glad to meet you, Matthew,” she gushed. “I’ve been wanting to thank you, personally, for what you’re doing for Romy.” And sure enough, there were tears swimming in her eyes! He wasn’t going to cope with this. He shouldn’t have come. He didn’t belong here. He had to leave. But then she rubbed a rueful thumb against his cheek and said, “Lipstick, my darling, sorry,” and his resistance melted because she was adorable.

  His place setting was arranged as if by magic, his chair positioned opposite Romy and between her parents, and Mrs. Allen fussed him into his seat.

  She smiled at her husband, who was seated on Matt’s left. “Pour Matthew some wine, my love.” Back to Matt. “Or would you prefer beer? Romy says you like beer.”

  “Wine,” Matt said. “Wine is great, Mrs. Allen.”

  “Now, Matthew,” she chirped on, taking her seat on his right, “none of this Mrs. Allen business. My name is Lenore and the handsome gentleman on your other side is Graham. And we should warn you that we’re already half in love with you, but if we get too embarrassing give us a stern word and we’ll stop.” She shot him a little twinkling smile. “Or at least we’ll try to stop, but I can’t promise absolutely.”

  “Mum!” Romy shook her head. “Matt’s not demonstrative.”

  Lenore reached for Matt’s hand. “Matthew can be whatever he wants to be and we’ll still love him.” She gave his hand a squeeze before releasing it. “We’ve had our appetizers, I’m afraid, and Romy’s already ordered share plates for our main course. But I’m sure we can increase the portions. Romy—shall I call the waiter over and ask for Jules?” Back to Matt. “Jules is one of the chefs here, an old boyfriend of—”

  “He knows Jules,” Romy put in quickly. “I’ll ask Francois to get a message to the kitchen.”

  Lenore leaned toward Matt conspiratorially. “It’s over with Jules, of course. A lovely young man but not for Romy.”

  Romy got to her feet with a screech of chair. “Mum! Matt doesn’t care about my boyfriends.”

  Lenore raised an eyebrow at her. “I thought you were going to find Francois?”

  She waited until Romy had walked over to the maître d’, then focused on Matt again. “So! Now! Matthew! Romy may not have told you this, but Graham and I met at university just as you two did...”

  By the time Romy returned a few minutes later, Matt had learned that Lenore and Graham had been married for thirty years, that they lived in Barnes (only thirty minutes away from central London but a world away in its “village family feel,” which was “perfect for grandchildren”), were planning to renew their vows in two months’ time (because “love should be celebrated”) and that he was invited to attend the ceremony (because he was “practically family”).

  So far, so...what? Good? Bad? He had no fucking idea.

  Romy took her seat and asked him apprehensively, “Are you okay?” which he assumed meant she had no fucking idea, either.

  “Fine,” he said, and took a giant sip of wine.

  He did his best to keep up with the conversation, but as Romy reached for her water glass, that goddamn platinum ring on her pinky finger flashed, distracting him. Why did that ring bother him so much?

  He sifted through his memories of the past ten years of the three of them—him, Romy, Teague—trying to find one that exposed some deep-seated jealousy that would explain his unexpected ring paranoia. The night he and Romy had met three months into their freshman year and they’d almost kissed, but he’d rewound and pushed Teague’s barrow instead. Romy asking his advice ahead of her first date with Teague: What should she talk about? The night she broke up with Teague. Her twenty-first birthday dinner—and yeah, Teague producing the ring had seemed an over-the-top gift, but hey, it suited her. The Fourth of July ball at Teague’s family estate. Matt had been too busy with one of the other guests—Leah Carnegie-Phillips—to resent Teague monopolizing Romy; Matt had described himself as Leah’s bit of rough when he’d told Romy about it, and called Teague Romy’s bit of smooth, which had irritated her so much he’d ended up getting her in a headlock and telling her to get over herself—bu
t they’d been friends again within half an hour.

  So many memories. Harmless memories.

  He heard a clatter and snapped his attention back to the present. Romy had dropped her fork to her plate and was directing a pinch-mouthed headshake at her mother.

  What had he missed?

  Lenore smiled at him, a faint stain of pink on her cheeks. Remorse. “I apologize. I thought it was all settled.”

  “It is,” Romy said.

  “What’s settled?” Matt asked, because it was clearly something to do with him.

  Lenore looked from Matt to Romy to Matt. “The adoption,” she said.

  Matt frowned at her, uncomprehending. “Adoption?”

  She patted his hand. “There’s no difficulty with it, so don’t worry that it will be an inconvenience.”

  “Huh?”

  “If you were going to be named on the birth certificate, we’d have to get your consent, and Romy’s told us you don’t like being bothered with paperwork.”

  “I don’t—Wh—? I thought this baby was—” He looked at Romy. “You’re keeping the baby.” Not a question—a demand for confirmation.

  “Yes, of course I am,” she said, flustered. “Mum means when I marry, should my husband want to become...become...”

  “The legal father instead of a stepfather,” Lenore finished for her. “Romy’s birth father was on the birth certificate, you see, so he had to give consent, and it took a while to track him down.”

  “Hang—” Head spinning. He looked to Romy. “You’re adopted?”

  “Yes. I thought...you knew.”

  “No.”

  “I guess... You see we don’t...don’t think of it, we just... I just know Mum and Dad are my parents, even though I do...I do write to my birth mother, so...” She looked ill. Stricken. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Matt stared at her. “Not a big deal?”

  “No, that didn’t come out right. I mean things...things have changed, so... Oh God.”

  He was still staring at her, but he couldn’t speak, almost couldn’t find the will to breathe.

  “Matt, this is something we can talk about,” she said, and reached across the table for his hand.

  He jerked his hand away from her touch, pushed his chair back and stood. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have to...have to...go.”

  Romy made a move, as though she’d go with him, and he shot her a do-not-even-think-about-it look and headed out of the restaurant.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MATT LET HIMSELF into the apartment, went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face and then just stood there, holding on to the sink. Holding on, on, on.

  Was he in shock? It felt like he might be. He needed a cup of something warm to take the ice out of his veins. Or someone to hold him and tell him everything would be okay.

  He laughed at that. A harsh, ugly, mirthless sound. Who was there to do that for him, when Romy was the architect of his pain?

  Funny, he’d been so busy telling himself a baby would make him irreplaceable to Romy, too busy thinking she’d always been his and always would be his, to consider what he’d actually be to the baby once some other man came on the scene. He’d just assumed he’d never be off the scene. But now he knew he couldn’t act the part of the benevolent godfather from a world away, smiling from the sidelines while some other guy lived with his kid, loved his kid, was loved by his kid.

  Godfather. What did that even mean? He couldn’t remember who his own godfather was—some guy who’d been a friend of his parents twenty-eight years ago but hadn’t been in their lives for at least twenty years. Easily forgotten.

  As he would be.

  “Aaarrrggghhh!” The cry tore out of him, doubling him over. His child, oh God, oh God, his child wouldn’t be his. He couldn’t breathe; it hurt too much to breathe, hurt so much he wanted to die.

  How could Romy think it would be okay for some guy to adopt his kid? How could she tell him she loved him and then give his baby to someone else? How could she sit there with her parents and listen to them tell him they wanted to love him, too, and then let them talk about someone else taking his child as though it was as easy as scrawling a signature across a page, cutting him out of the picture?

  He raised his head, looked at himself in the mirror. His face was white, bloodless, and yet there was a wildness in his eyes he recognized. His father’s wildness, his father’s eyes. He wished he could tear the mirror off the wall, smash it and use a piece of the broken glass to cut them out and deny that truth.

  But what difference would that make? The evil wasn’t in his eyes any more than it was in his red hair. It was bred in him deeper than the bone.

  And there it was—the truth of that quicksilver glimmer of disquiet he’d felt when he’d seen Romy with her parents in the restaurant and wondered what his child would look like. The truth was it didn’t matter if his child was a hazel-eyed redhead or a green-eyed brunette or anything else—what mattered was the hidden stuff, the soullessness he might pass down. The soullessness that wasn’t just part of him, but had been actively encouraged by his parents. What right did he have to want to spawn a child let alone raise one, hammered as he was on both sides of the nature/nurture debate?

  He heard the door open...close...then nothing.

  But he knew Romy. She’d be wanting to talk, ready to convince him that adoption would be a good thing, that it was all about protecting him, that this way there was nothing that could impinge on his lifestyle. She’d tell him she’d make sure the child was as happy as she’d been with her adoptive parents. She’d say he could still be as involved as he wanted, if he was sure that was what he wanted, as long as there was certainty because children needed certainty! Well, the best way to give her certainty was to take himself out of the picture altogether. Because Romy, for all her comments about his revolving bedroom door and his jumbo boxes of condoms and the moans, grunts and squeals she was tired of hearing and the women she was tired of him flaunting in front of her, didn’t know the half of what he’d seen, what he’d done, what he was.

  But it was time she did.

  He straightened. Splashed more water on his face. Shook out his hands. Reset his brain.

  She was out there, preparing to talk things through. And this time, he would talk. He’d tell her everything at last, and end the game of make-believe he’d been playing with her for ten years so that she finally saw him as he truly was: not a superhero, but a soulless, heartless, worthless bastard.

  And all it would cost him was his child.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  NERVOUS DIDN’T BEGIN to describe how Romy felt waiting for Matt to come out of the bathroom.

  And when he did emerge, nervous ratcheted right up to terrified at the look on his face. She knew, in that moment, she was about to lose him.

  So she decided she might as well go straight for the jugular and said, “I love you.”

  Miraculously, a crack appeared in his facade. It was blink-and-you’d-miss-it—just his hand jerking an inch upward—but it convinced her that Teague was right when he’d said the way to reach Matt was to make him hear those words.

  “And before we begin this conversation,” she continued, striking while the iron was hot, “I should tell you my parents think you love me, too. Me...and the baby.”

  “Don’t, Romy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s too late.”

  “It’s not even ten o’clock.”

  “I mean it’s twenty-eight years too late.”

  “I don’t...understand.”

  He sent her a brief, chilling smile, and took his old position on the extreme left end of the couch, waving a hand at her old position on the right. “Then take a seat, Romy, because I’m going to make you.”

  She did as he bid her, her heart lurching. “That s
ounds ominous.”

  “I’m just going to tell you the truth,” he said. “It’s time you heard it.” He took a deep breath, waited a moment and then began. “Earlier tonight, I asked you why I’d never met your parents.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “And you said you and I didn’t have the kind of friendship that would make such a meeting easy.”

  “Yes, but I meant—”

  “It doesn’t matter, Romy. What really matters is why I didn’t introduce you to mine.”

  She said nothing, but she watched him like a hawk.

  “You see,” he continued, “the last time I took a girl home to meet my parents, I was seventeen.”

  “Seventeen...” she said, as dread worked its way down her spine. “Gail.”

  “I should explain that sex was allowed in my parents’ house—they were...permissive—so it was assumed that Gail and I would sleep together. It wasn’t the first time for either of us, but it was the first time in my bedroom at home and it felt...important. The first night, we professed undying love for each other, the next I gave her a promise ring, like the romantic idiot I was.” He laughed suddenly, but it trailed away as he frowned as though trying to recapture a memory. “And then at the end of that week I found her in bed with my father.”

  Romy, taken aback by the conversational tone of such an obscene utterance, sucked in a shocked breath, then wanted to kick herself when it made him laugh again.

  “Yeah, it took me by surprise, too,” he said.

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t all that exciting. My father is a charismatic man. He groomed her, seduced her. She was a year older than me, more sophisticated than I was, but she didn’t stand a chance. Not her fault—mine, for not warning her what to expect, not protecting her.”