“I never said you can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t? Which one is worse, Hart?”
I take a step back, cowed by the ferocity in his tone. “Felix?—”
“But I will, and I am. I’m taking care of Ellie because she’s my responsibility. At least for now.”
He turns and heads upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the echo of “for now” ringing in my ears.
I sink onto one of the barstools, my hand automatically going to my stomach.
For now.
That’s what terrifies me most, isn’t it? That we—my baby and I—will fall into the same category as Ellie. A temporary responsibility he’s managing until he can find a way out or pass us off.
My sister had no relationship with her father after he made it clear his new wife and kids were his priority. She was still only a kid when he pushed her out of his life. I saw the damage that kind of inconsistency caused and figured I was better off never knowing my dad. I also swore I’d never put a child of mine through the hell of being with someone who saw parenthood as an obligation rather than a gift.
But here I am, pregnant by a man who’s made it crystal clear he doesn’t want to be a father and is actively searching for a way to rehome the little girl upstairs—the one he’s so sweet and tender with and who clearly adores him. If he can walk away from sweet Ellie, who lights up when her Uncle “Fee” enters a room, what makes me think he won’t eventually walk away from our baby, too?
From me?
I press my palms against my eyes, fighting back tears I refuse to shed. I have to be smarter than this. It’s time to protect myself and my baby from the inevitable hurt that’s coming. Felix Barlowe wants me, that’s a given. Hell, he might even care about me.
But wanting someone and choosing them and the life they come with are two very different things.
And I’m terrified he’s never going to choose us.
15
FELIX
I’melbow-deep in flour at five in the morning, only to realize I’m taking my frustrations out on a ball of dough that never did a damn thing to me.
The rest of the house is dark, which fits my mood. Outside the kitchen window, there’s nothing but the faint outline of mountains against the pre-dawn sky. Inside, it’s just me, my thoughts, and the pummeled dough.
I force myself to ease up. Bread responds to careful handling, not unjustified aggression. Kind of like relationships, I guess. Not that I’m an expert on those.
Yesterday was a clusterfuck of epic proportions, from my brother finding out about Ellie to me finding out about the baby. Then getting punched in the face—which, fair. And the cherry on top of the shit show sundae? Piper going upstairs for a nap only to return two hours later, sleep-rumpled and looking at me as if the father of her child is a problem she needs to solve.
Ourchild.
The thought hasn’t stopped making my heart do funny things.
I start kneading with a gentler hand, folding the dough over itself in the rhythmic pattern I perfected during months of late-night baking sessions. Push, fold, turn. Over and over. It’s meditative in a way nothing else is. Sourdough takes control and patience, which I’m not exactly known for in other areas of my life.
The worst part of yesterday wasn’t Ian’s right hook, although it’s been years since I was clocked that hard. But that punch didn’t land as hard as the look on Piper’s face when I said Ellie was my responsibility “for now.” Apparently, I confirmed every fear she’s carrying about me and proved I’m exactly the kind of man she thought. One who makes an exit strategy before the game even starts.
Maybe she’s right. But who can blame me with my track record? Three serious relationships and three times getting my heart stomped on. My parents hated each other, and made damn sure Ian and I knew raising us was a major inconvenience. Why would anyone think I’ll be any different as a father?
I want to be different for Piper and the baby. Hell, maybe even for Ellie, who’s totally oblivious to all of this. Well, not totally. She definitely caught onto the tension yesterday. And I have to admit, it was hilarious watching my golden-god older brother try to win over a pint-sized female who was having none of his patented charm.
Damn if I didn’t love that. The sweet girl is impossible to resist, and I’m already in love with her. But love isn’t enough.
I shape the dough into a ball and place it in the proofing bowl, covering it with a damp towel. Now comes the hard part—having the patience to let the magic happen without interference.
“I guess I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. Piper stands at the edge of the kitchen wearing one of my T-shirts, this one from Cincinnati, which means she went into my room and took it—baller fucking move—and sleep shorts that showcase her long legs in a way that makes me need to adjust my own. Her hair is loose and tangled, and once again it’s confirmed: she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I can’t imagine a world where that ever changes.
