"Wait, wait, wait." London holds up both hands, his jaw working as he processes. "Cassidy is telling you that was the night? That specific night?"
"Yes," I rasp out.
London and Laney exchange a loaded look.
"Then, unless you banged her in the bathroom," London says slowly, "that baby isn't yours."
My head spins. "I didn't fuck her in any bathroom, but I can't be sure what happened after I left the bar. I woke up in my truck the next morning, and I have this vague, blurry memory of a blonde in my passenger seat."
"That was me." Laney's voice cuts through the chaos in my brain.
London bites his lip hard, and she swats his arm.
"I'd rather have him know the truth than watch them destroy each other over a lie." Her eyes lock onto mine. "London followed you outside to take your keys so you wouldn't drive drunk. He put you in the backseat and came inside to get me. We got in the truck with you and considered driving you home, but then..." She smooths her hands down her dress, color rising in her cheeks. "We had other plans."
"Other plans?" Asha's voice drips with skepticism. "There's still unaccounted time where he was alone."
"We didn't leave," she answers. "We had other plans." She emphasizes each word through clenched teeth.
The pieces slam together, her words, the blurry blonde, that foggy memory. "You two fucked in my truck while I was passed out in the backseat."
London actually laughs, and Laney's face goes crimson.
"In my front seat." I force a laugh that sounds broken even to my own ears. "That's messed up, man. You owe me a detail." The attempt at humor falls flat because, inside, I'm still drowning in the whiplash of almost-fatherhood as I bend over and grab my knees that are threatening to give out.
"I'd say we're even. I just saved your ass," London tosses back. "You have an alibi for that entire night. We passed out and left when the sun came up. You came strolling into the house about twenty minutes after us. I’m pretty sure when we slammed the truck door, you woke up and drove home."
I pull in one last breath, filling my lungs to calm my racing heart, but when I look up, I see my girl. Asha's arms are wrapped around her middle like she's physically holding herself together. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, and I hate that I somehow put them there. Hate that I allowed myself to be in a situation where a mistake could have happened.
"Sweetheart." The nickname leaves my lips on a whisper. "Come here." I close the space between us in two strides. "I'm sorry," I murmur into her hair, pressing my lips to the crown of her head. My hands shake as they settle on her back.
"You have nothing to be sorry for." Her voice muffles against my chest. "I'm the one who?—"
"Who needed a minute to breathe after her world just got rocked." I cut her off because I know she's about to apologize for running, and she has nothing to apologize for. That news didn't just shake her. It brought her to her knees the same way it did me.
"Wait a second." Laney's voice cuts through our moment. "Why would Cassidy falsely accuse Trigger if she knew damn well he wasn't the father?"
The question sits heavy in the silence, unanswered and damning.
Asha goes rigid in my arms. Then she pulls back, her jaw set in that way I know means trouble.
"I know who." Her voice is cold, deadly calm.
"What?" Laney leans forward.
"My father." Asha's hands curl into fists at her sides. "He's been trying to break us up since we got back. This is exactly the kind of thing he'd orchestrate."
"Asha." I reach for her, but she's already moving.
"No." She holds up a hand, her eyes blazing with a fury I've never seen before. "No, I'm done letting him control my life."
She turns on her heel and stalks back toward the party, her stride purposeful.
"Shit." London exhales. "This is about to get ugly."
We follow her up the hill, past the pristine white fencing that cuts across the manicured lawn of the estate. There’s a crowd gathered near the massive outdoor screen, everyone watching the races in tailored suits and cocktail dresses, but still Asha doesn't slow, doesn't hesitate, even though whatever words she’s about to deliver are going to be in front of an audience.
She cuts straight through the crowd like a woman on a warpath, and that's when I see him. Standing by the bar with a whiskey in hand, laughing with a group of men in expensive suits, is Warrick Fairfield.
