My Secret Irish Baby: A Second-Chance, Secret Baby Contemporary Romance (Irish Kiss Book 7)

by Sienna Blake

  "Z, baby, you need to get up," I called from beneath the covers as I scrolled through the seemingly endless mountain of emails. "Sandra's going to be here in an hour to take you to school."

  Landing this personal assistant job at Levi, Levi, & Burke had been an absolute godsend. They paid me enough that I was able to quit my night shift at the gas station and only had to work three out of four weekends a month at the front desk of the dental office to make ends meet for my little family. It was difficult, demanding work, to say the least, but at least up until this point, I'd managed to work for actual humans.

  This “M” sounded like a robot, and not even the kind of robot that made the slightest attempt to sound human. In just the handful of emails I briefly skimmed through, there was more work than a whole legal team could whip up in a month. I was somehow expected to have all this on his desk the moment I brought him back from the airport later today. And not a “please” or “thank you” in sight.

  "Z," I shouted when I heard nothing but silence from her bedroom across the narrow hall from mine. "Zara, you have to get up, baby."

  I dragged a hand over my eyes, already feeling tired as the emails kept coming and coming, and forced myself to fling back the covers. I slid out of bed before I was tempted to slip back under the warm sheets and pushed my hair out of my face as I padded across the hall, still browsing through M's list of demands with sleepy eyes.

  "Zara, I'm serious," I said, pushing open her door. "It's time to—"

  I frowned when inside my daughter's room I found not just an empty bed, but a made bed. I checked around the room.

  "Z?" I called. "Z?"

  In the living room, the two glasses and the empty bottle of wine still remained from Friday night, and in the kitchen was my daughter, in an apron five sizes too big, standing on a step stool from the bathroom, cleaning dishes at the sink.

  "I made a frittata," Zara said without turning toward me. "My book on the Grand Canyon is due back to the library today, so I need to finish the last few chapters."

  I sank into a chair at the kitchen table in front of a slice of vegetable frittata.

  "Um, okay, baby," I said, glancing around for a fork.

  Zara dried her hands on a kitchen towel, hopped off her stool, and brought me a fork before disappearing out of the kitchen, past the living room, and back toward the little desk in her room where it seemed her bassinette had been just weeks ago. I sat staring at the fork in my limp fingers.

  This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be taking care of her: getting up early to cook, keeping track of the library due dates for her books, reading to her together on the couch before school. I didn't know who I was, what my role was if it wasn't taking care of Zara, living for Zara and her needs.

  I barely tasted the frittata as I chewed it in the dead silence of the kitchen, which felt cold and empty. I picked up my phone mostly to distract myself from the oppressive lack of noise, laughter, joking, talking. I wasn't really reading, mostly just letting my eyes go through the motions.

  That was until a particular email jumped out.

  I dropped my fork and it clattered off the table. I shoved my chair back, leaving half my frittata untouched as I darted to my bedroom.

  "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

  "What's that, Mom?" Zara called from her desk.

  "Nothing, baby," I shouted. "Just fun. Having fun. Fun, fun, fun."

  My fingers fumbled with my cell phone as I tore through my unorganised closet. This shirt needed to be ironed, these pants needed to be hemmed. The matching jacket for that skirt was still at the dry cleaners and there was still a coffee stain on that blouse. I growled as I flipped through hanger after hanger.

  Sandra finally answered and I exhaled a sigh of relief. "Girl, I told you not to worry," she said. "I'll be there on time to get Zara."

  "No, Sandra, I—"

  "I mean, what is your blood pressure these days? Have you had it checked?"

  "Listen, San—"

  "It can't be healthy with your levels of stress," she said.

  "Sandra, that's—"

  "You know what's scientifically proven to help with high blood pressure?"

  I reached the end of my closet without success. I resorted to grabbing two hangers at random; so much for a good first impression with Mr Robot.

  "Sandra, I—"

  "Sex! Sex, Abbi," Sandra said. "Getting laid is scientifically proven to lower cholesterol."

  I frowned, pausing bent over with one leg in my pants. I hoped to keep my balance.

  "I'm not sure that's true," I started to say before shaking my head. "But that's not the—"

  "Cheerios, schmeerios," Sandra interrupted. "Sex, Abbi. You need sex. Dirty, nasty, 'not like your mama did it' kind of sex. Down and dirty, animal-like, 'make your poor grandma turn in her grave’ kind of sex. Nasty, dirty…"

  I put the call on speaker phone and tossed my cell phone onto the bed as Sandra continued so I could tug whatever blouse I grabbed at random over my head.

  "Sandra," I shouted, interrupting her 'sexy scientific findings'. "Sandra, Sandra, I need you here earlier."

  "Huh?"

  I grabbed my purse and swept the makeup spread across the top of my dresser into it; what were red lights for if not the rushed smearing on of mascara?

  "My new boss," I told her. "My new boss got on an earlier flight, Sandra. He's going to be here in thirty minutes."

  "Abbi, you're forty-five minutes from the airport."

  I dropped to my knees, sweeping my hand beneath my bed to snatch two heels, only pausing long enough to make sure they were the same colour, if not completely matching.

  "Can you be here in five?" I asked, slipping on one heel and then the other.

  Sandra laughed. "Abbi, I'm at the mechanic."

  I snatched up my cell phone. "What?"

  "You were so worried about me being able to get Zara to school for you that I scheduled an oil change for my old clunker. Just to be extra sure."

  I squeezed my eyes shut. "And they're finishing up right now?" I asked, already anticipating the answer.

  Sandra hesitated. "Um, they just started."

  My head fell to my chest. Somehow I'd managed in my tireless efforts to be responsible for creating a situation where I was irresponsible, both for my job and for my daughter.

  "Okay, okay," I said, sighing. "I'll have to bring Zara. I'll drop her off after taking the new boss to the office."

  "Sorry, Abbi," Sandra said.

  I shook my head. "My fault."

  I hung up and allowed myself three steadying breaths with my hands planted on my knees. Then I pushed myself to my feet and grabbed my purse.

  "Z? Z, we've got to go."

  My ride to the Denver International Airport consisted of me speeding while checking the mirrors for red and blue lights, applying makeup at red lights and the occasional green light, and assuring Zara I'd explain to her teachers why she was late.

  "I had perfect attendance!" she wailed from the back seat.

  I saw signs for the airport exit and applied more pressure to the gas pedal, nervously checking the dashboard clock. M's flight landed fifteen minutes ago.

  "Zara, it's going to be fine."

  "It's not going to be fine," she protested, stomping her feet. "I could have waited at home for Sandra!"

  I frowned at her in the rearview mirror, eyes wide with incredulity.

  "What? What? Absolutely not. Absolutely not. How could you even sugg— I mean, what?"

  "I can take care of myself!" Zara shouted.

  I found myself growing angry as the terminal signs flew by faster and faster. It was my job, taking care of Zara. It was my life, taking care of Zara. It was my identity, the one who was there for Zara, always there for Zara.

  I shook my head as I whipped into the next lane.

  "No, young lady," I said, laughing darkly. "Absolutely not."

  Zara pouted and huffed, dramatically crossing her arms over her chest
in the back seat.

  "I can take care of myself," she said again. "Just like you."

  My eyes darted back toward her. "What does that mean?" I asked, willing the car in front of me to hurry up, to speed recklessly like me.

  "You always say you don't need anyone," Zara explained grumpily. "Well, I don't need anyone either."

  "What?" I said.

  I followed the signs for arrivals before turning my attention back to my daughter.

  "No, Zara," I tried to explain while simultaneously checking the clock again. "I'm here so that you don't ever need to not need anyone. That's why, I mean, I—"

  "I don't want to need anyone," Zara insisted. "Just like you."

  "No." I shook my head. "Listen, Zara, I don't have time for this."

  "Then leave me at home!"

  I swung the car into the pickup lane outside of the signs for the airline the new boss had taken from New York. There was one man standing with a briefcase and small suitcase that I barely saw as I whipped around, frustrated at my daughter.

  "That is not happening," I hissed. "End of discussion."

  Zara opened her mouth as I shoved open the door.

  "End of discussion."

  I climbed out and was ready with an apology about being late, about missing his email till this morning, about bringing my pig-headed daughter along on the first day, but even the smallest, simplest words died on my lips as I laid eyes on my new boss.

  At first I almost didn't recognise him. I didn't know the dark furl of eyebrows, the harsh scowl of lips, the stiff, cold posture of shoulders. I didn't know the air of domination that seemed to swirl around him like the storm clouds at the peaks of the Rockies that struck without warning. I didn't know the cruel, brutal, ruthless glare in his eyes.

  But I knew that colour.

  Green like lush mountains in the morning sunlight. Green like a dance floor of wild, knee-high grasses. Green like a plaid skirt slipping from my hips, pooling on the floor at my feet.

  Green like the 100 euro notes he left when he left my life forever.

  Or so I had hoped.

  But there he was.

  Standing in front of me.

  Staring at me.

  M.

  Michael.

  Abbi

  Michael stared at me and I didn't move, like a deer frozen on a mountain road in the glare of yellow headlights.

  "Abbi?" he said, and I didn't move.

  He took a hesitant step toward me and I did not move.

  His eyes slid from me toward the car. That’s when I was able to move; when his gaze, which had kept me frozen, released me. I jumped back inside my car, slammed the gas, and sped away without even yet fully closing my door. Michael waved his arms and ran after me and I drove faster.

  I didn't know which was more difficult: keeping my racing heart steady in my chest or keeping my sweaty palms steady on the steering wheel. The smell of burning rubber and an overheating engine wafted in through the open windows as I sped away from the airport, sped away from him.

  "Mom?" Zara asked from the back seat. "Mom, what are you doing?"

  From the rearview mirror, I caught her straining against her seat belt to turn around and spy through the back window.

  "Zara," I snapped. "Zara, turn around right now."

  My eyes flicked out of control between the speedometer, the side mirrors, my shaking fingers, my cell phone vibrating on the passenger side seat with his number, the rearview mirror. I couldn't focus on any of it until I saw Zara: she was still peering out the back window, searching the crowd of people with their suitcases and bags, searching for him.

  "Zara!"

  I lost it as my whole body seemed to shake. I hardly bothered to keep the front wheels pointing in my own lane as I leaned into the back seat and pulled Zara around.

  "No," I said, pointing a finger at her. "You listen to me. You sit like that and do not move."

  "Why?" Zara protested, already stubbornly trying to turn back around.

  I checked the road just long enough to make sure that we weren't going to crash and then grabbed her again.

  "Why?" she whined again.

  "Because it's dangerous, Zara! You could get hurt!"

  I wasn't certain about many things in life, especially these days, but I was certain of one thing: that man was nothing but pain. There was no way in hell I was letting him anywhere near my daughter. I'd do everything in my power to make sure that she never again laid eyes on him, let alone knew his name, knew who he was. I would protect her at all costs, even if that meant getting fired from the best job I'd ever had. Even if it meant sleepless nights to take extra shifts at the gas station. Even if it meant I never got to see my daughter.

  At least he wouldn't either.

  "I don't want you to get hurt, Zara," I heard myself saying and realised I'd been repeating it over and over. "I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want you to get hurt."

  It was then that I saw her wide, confused, frightened eyes searching for mine in the rearview mirror. I was scaring her, I realised with a pang in my chest. That wasn't what I wanted. That was never what I wanted. I'd lost control. I'd let her see my emotions, raw and vulnerable and scared; that wasn't responsible. I wasn't being responsible, breaking down like that in front of my young daughter. I forced a shaky exhale and attempted to return a steadiness to my voice even though my heart still hammered painfully in my chest.

  "If we crash…" I tried to explain calmly, non-emotionally, plainly, "if we were to crash, you can't be looking backwards like that. If…if we crash, Zara. You can't. You just can't."

  She frowned, eyes once more glancing toward the airport, which was disappearing behind us. She glanced back up at me as I flipped on my turn signal to take the exit toward Denver, wanting, needing distance, more distance, as much distance as I could manage.

  "Mom, why would we crash?"

  Zara's voice from the back seat was quiet, small, uncertain. I gripped the steering wheel tighter and forced my eyes to focus on the dotted white lines flying past.

  "Mom?"

  "Z, baby, you don't always get to choose when you crash or not," I said distantly.

  The tall, snow-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains disappeared, replaced with low hills shining like emeralds as the sun dipped behind them. My thundering heart became the pounding of a drum, the pounding of feet. His arms were around me, his palms searing through the thin cotton of my blouse, his fingers branding the small of my back, my wrists, my neck. His lips were on my ankles, on the bracelets I still stupidly kept in the bottom drawer of my dresser. His breath was in my ear, ragged and desperate, as he came inside me in that mountain cabin.

  I hadn't asked him to interrupt me as I tried to break into that linen closet in that hotel. I hadn't asked him to look at me the way he did, like he saw me, like he saw me. I hadn't asked him to stop, to see me, to crash into me.

  I had been fine, fine as a ghost. People passed by me, through me. I moved through the world unseen, unnoticed, invisible. I was fine. I never asked for more. I never asked for someone to make me feel real, feel solid. Solid enough to hold, to kiss, to become one with in the dark.

  I could have gone my whole life without crashing; I could have…I could have.

  As I drove I felt tears start to gather in my eyes, felt that prick of tears that had become so foreign to me. I cried that night, in the ruins of Zara's bassinette. I cried till I could cry no more. I cried till the tears dried on my cheeks, on the front of my shirt. I cried till I fell asleep.

  But when I awoke I told myself I was done crying. I needed to be strong for my daughter. Or at the very least, I needed to make her think I was strong. Tears became a luxury I couldn't afford, just as superfluous and irresponsible as new designer clothes or diamonds or any makeup besides the cheapest brand at the discount chemist. It was as simple as that.

  So the swell of tears caught me by surprise in the car. Then it made me mad.

  Zara was in the back seat and she
was more than likely still watching. I didn't dare check; I wasn't sure I could maintain my composure if I looked back into her green eyes, a dead ringer for the eyes I just left at the airport. I could only assume that she was watching me, still confused over our abrupt departure.

  That meant I needed to get control over myself. That meant I needed to grab hold of my emotions and shove them back, back, back, drown them in the dark waters of my mind. I needed to grab hold of my pain, my tender, aching pain, and grind it beneath the heel of my palm. I needed to wrangle my hurt, tightening the rope tighter and tighter till I choked it out and it lay limp and dead in my chest. I needed to get control, even if it meant leaving myself feeling cold and empty and lifeless inside.

  A blank face was better than a tear-stained one, haunted by memories. Empty eyes were better than ones that were red-rimmed and longing for a life that was out of reach. Lips stretched into a taut, straight, tense line were better than ones that gasped like the air had suddenly grown thin and unbreathable.

  "Mom?"

  Zara's voice was quiet, uncertain. I blinked, threw on an easy, carefree smile and looked back at my daughter in the rearview mirror.

  "What's up, baby?" I asked, checking the road like it was my only worry in the world.

  "Where are we going?"

  I forced my smile higher, deeper. "I'm taking you to school," I answered. "I don't want you to be late."

  My cheeks ached and I looked again into the rearview mirror to reassure my daughter, only to find her attention focused on the passing tumbleweeds out the window, her face blank, her eyes empty, her lips drawn into a taut, straight, tense line.

  I allowed my smile to fall, like a mask tumbling from my face. But I didn't feel any sense of relief. The lie was deeper than my lips. The lie was rooted in my heart. The lie that I was fine.

  Fine.

  Totally fine.

  Michael

  I was quaking with anger as I finally stormed into the law offices of Levi, Levi, & Burke on the top floor of a skyscraper in Denver. My tie was askew and rumpled, my back drenched in sweat, my pants stained, and my suitcase gone. The receptionist at the front desk visibly scooted back in her wheeled chair as I stalked toward her, wild-eyed and crazed and fuming. She seemed ready to lunge for the phone to call the police about a homeless intruder as I slammed my hands flat against the wide marble desk, making her jump.