My panic and secrecy had created this mess. Not Chloe’s unavailability. Not bad timing. Me.
She’d found out, just like Arthur told me she would. She’d told me exactly how she felt, demanded we talk face to face with phones off and no interruptions, and made it clear she expected the full truth. That was Chloe — direct, honest, refusing to let me off easy even when she had every right to walk away. The woman who dealt with life-and-death decisions every day, who delivered hard truths to pet owners, who could perform emergency surgery with steady hands and unwavering focus.
That was the Chloe I should have trusted from the beginning.
But there was another side to her, one I’d seen in our most intimate moments. The Chloe who’d sobbed in my arms after losing those fifty-seven cattle, devastated by deaths she couldn’t prevent. The woman who still carried scars from Sean’s betrayal and her former best friend’s treachery — wounds that made her question whether she was worthy of love, whether she was somehow less than she should be. I’d watched her struggle with that internal voice that told her she wasn’t enough, the one that whispered doubts even when everything was going well.
She moved between those two sides of herself — the confident professional who faced down emergencies without flinching, and the softer woman who felt everything so deeply it sometimes overwhelmed her. It was the reality of being someone who cared enough to let things hurt, who was strong enough to keep functioning even when she was breaking inside.
I’d been trying to protect that softer side. Trying to shield her from more pain, more reasons to doubt herself, more evidence that the people she loved kept secrets. But in trying to protect her, I’d hurt her anyway. I’d created the exact crisis I’d been trying to avoid.
My stomach had been in knots since I woke up, checking my email every ten minutes like a man obsessed.
What if the test came back negative? What if Leo wasn’t mine, and I’d potentially destroyed my relationship with Chloe over a child who belonged to someone else? The thought made me feel sick because I’d handled everything so badly based on an assumption.
But Leo was mine. I knew it in my bones. Every time I looked at him, I saw myself at that age — the same cowlick, the same expressions, the same way of tilting his head when he was thinking. The test was just a formality, a legal confirmation of what my heart already knew. Still, I needed that confirmation.
My phone buzzed with an email notification around 10 AM. The subject line read:“Paternity Test Results - Confidential.”
I opened it with steady hands this time. No panic, just certainty about what I’d find.
99.9% probability.
Leo was mine.
I sat with that knowledge for a moment, letting it settle. I had a son. A four-year-old boy who needed his father. And in a few hours, Chloe and I would figure out how to deal with this together.
I was texting Kate about the afternoon delivery schedule when Jenna walked through the front door of The Copper Fox like she owned the place.
I watched from behind the bar as she surveyed the dining room, taking in the exposed brick walls, the warm lighting, and the comfortable booths. Her eyes lingered on everything with the kind of assessment that made my skin crawl.
She looked like she was going to a cocktail party, not having a custody conversation with her son’s father. Out of place for a mid-morning conversation.
“Sam,” she said, approaching the bar with a confidence that immediately put me on alert. “We need to talk.”
I glanced toward the front door — unlocked because this was Willowbrook, where people wandered in and out even when the “Closed” sign was up. The bar was empty, quiet except for the hum of the refrigeration units behind me.
“Sure,” I said, gesturing to one of the booths. “Have a seat.”
The main dining area felt safer somehow than my office would have — more open, less intimate. Though as Jenna slid into the booth with practiced grace and I sat across from her, I realized we were still completely alone. No witnesses, no buffer, just the two of us in an empty bar.
“Where’s Leo?” I asked.
“With a babysitter.” Jenna waved her hand dismissively. “This conversation is better had without a four-year-old present.”
Something about the casual way she’d left him with a stranger bothered me, but before I could ask more, she pressed on.
“You got the results,” she said.
“Yes.” The results were emailed to both of us, so she already knew I had them.
“And?”
“99.9% probability.” The words felt strange in my mouth, too big and too small at the same time. “Leo is my son.”
Jenna’s smile was sharp, victorious. “I told you he was yours.”
“You kept him from me for four years.”
