“Natasha?” I snap. “What is it?”
“You didn’t answer my call earlier. Are you avoiding me?”
Praying for you to disappear would be more accurate.
“I don’t have time to concern myself over missing one of your many pointless calls. I have a business to run, and a daughter to care for. What the hell do you want?”
I’ve had enough. I’m stressed to the max today after fighting with Tate, and Natasha always calls with the same bullshit. I should ignore her calls altogether. It’s always money she’s after.
“Charming way to talk to Peaches’ mom,” she drawls.
It’s barely six p.m., but I wouldn’t put it past her to be on her way to being drunk already. I doubt she recalls what it feels like not to be either drunk or hungover anymore.
I ignore her jibe. Rising to it will only prolong our conversation.
“I’m not giving you any money. I told you. Get clean, then we’ll talk.”
“I’m in New York. I went by your office, but they said I missed you.”
“What?” I snap, my eyes threatening to bug out of my head.
“I want to see her, Sullivan,” she demands, suddenly sounding far more lucid.
Cold sweat pricks along my hairline.
“No.”
“I’m not leaving until I do.”
“She doesn’t know you,” I spit. “You’ll be a stranger to her.”
“You managed it when I left her for you to look after. She didn’t know you then, either.”
“She was a baby!”
My grip on the phone tightens so much that it could shatter it at any second.
“I want my daughter back,” Natasha continues.
“You gave up the right to call her yours when you left her in a fucking box on my doorstep!”
She sighs like she’s bored of hearing it. But she needs to. She’s the shittiest excuse for a mother that’s ever existed. And I’ll do whatever it takes to protect Molly from her.
“I have every right. She’s mine.”
I suck in a blistering breath. Her argument is the same old one. But this time it’s different. This time she’s actually come to New York. Away from Florida where Molly was conceived on a stupid bachelor weekend years ago. Natasha was a drunk then too. But it wasn’t obvious. Not when everyone was having fun and partying.
I hate that Molly was the result of a one-night stand that meant absolutely nothing.
“She’s mine, Natasha,” I grit dangerously. “You don’t want to play this game with me.”
“You’re a fucking entitled asshole; you know that?”
She hangs up on me, but instead of feeling relieved, anger courses through my blood like liquid fire.
She’s in New York. Far too close for comfort.
The car rolls to a stop outside Seasons, and I leap out, tipping my head at Cliff before I storm inside.
