“And the letter S, apparently.”
I snort. “Yeah, I guess so. Oh, and he also collected vintage Hot Wheels.”
Hazel wrinkles her nose. “Is that some kind of sportscar?”
“Yeah.” Good God, we come from different worlds. “Toy cars. Tiny die-cast ones. My old man had tons, and my only clear memory of the dickhead is him promising me I could play with them when I got older.”
Her eyes spark with interest. “Did you?”
“No. He split town before that. Two months later, Mom saw all the Hot Wheels stuff in a pawn shop.”
Hazel blinks. “Did your mom buy it back?”
“She was a broke single mother,” I mutter. “What do you think?”
The mention of single motherhood sparks something in Hazel. She seems to recall what we’re doing here. Straightening in her chair, she clears her throat. “If this is about money, I promise I’ll never come after you for child support. If you look at page six in your packet?—”
“Fuck the packet.” Now I’m pissed again. “I’m not signing away my own children. And I don’t give a fuck about the money.”
I need to simmer down. To speak to her calmly, this woman who’s apparently carrying my kids. “If you’re having these babies—a decision I applaud, by the way—I want to be part of their lives. Of your life. If you thought otherwise, you’re either willfully ignoring reality or you’re just plain dumb. And since you’re one of the smartest people I know, my money’s on willful ignorance, which bodes well for our babies.” I wink when she gasps, which just makes her madder. “If we’re lucky, the kids will get your brains and my personality and not the other way around.”
“You’re serious.” She searches my face like she’s certain I’m joking. “You actually want to be tied to these babies. To—to me?”
“Don’t sound so horrified by the prospect.” I nod at the big stack of papers in front of her. “I’m happy to do whatever DNA magic is required to prove I’m the daddy. I’m assuming you’re certain I’m the prime suspect?”
She narrows her gaze. “Why? You don’t think I’m capable of attracting another man?”
“I think you could have any man you wanted, honey, but you’re choosy.” It’s flattering, when I put it that way. “Would you rather I go around assuming you bang every stranger who shows up on your solid-gold doorstep?”
“Go to hell.” Crimson stains her cheeks. “You lost your father at five, but I lost mine in my thirties, and let me tell you, buddy—that’s hard, too. I know what it feels like to watch my father hauled off in handcuffs. To see the man I’ve admired get branded a criminal instead of the hero he’s been to me.” Tears fill her eyes, and she’s balling her fists like she’s ready to punch me in the junk. “I won’t have my own children go through that. A dad who’s a criminal is no better than one who’d abandon his children.”
So that’s what this is about. “You think I’m a criminal?”
“I know you are,” she snaps. “You went to prison, remember?”
“Gee, I forgot.”
“And you’ve been in trouble since then.” She flips through her packet, a document I’d cheerfully douse in lighter fluid. “Driving with a suspended license,” she recites from a page in the middle. “You went back to jail for two weeks.”
“That was four years ago.” I might be making the wrong point. “They tacked a suspension onto my license when I got out of prison. I could still drive to and from work, but since I was doing odd jobs for my brother-in-law, work wound up being a weird gray area.” I don’t owe her these details. “I haven’t gotten so much as a parking ticket since then, Hazel.”
Her eyes dart back to the packet. “You got pulled over for speeding six months ago. The officer let you off with a warning.”
“Jesus Christ.” Does she also have a record of the last time I jerked off? “I seem to recall you got a speeding ticket the same day you fucked me in your foyer. Does that mean your next step is robbing a bank?”
With a frustrated huff, she slaps the packet shut. “I’m not concerned with petty offenses. What does concern me is a pattern of criminal behavior. A pattern that includes hard time in prison. Not jail, Luke—actual prison.”
“You keep repeating that like it’s news to me. I lived it, you know.”
“Oh, I know.”
I order myself to take a few deep breaths. “You want to hear the story, or just count on heresy and gossip?”
Her chin tips up. “I did a thorough background check.”
“Background checks don’t tell you everything.” When she doesn’t respond, I start spilling the story. “I got into street racing as a teenager. And no, it’s not legal, before you state the obvious.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
