Which will make my life easier, but it’s also hard to process this new normal that will be my life. Raising a child with Foster Davis, the bad boy of baseball, the man who I’m pretty sure has never had a steady girlfriend. The hothead, the one who can’t control his temper on the mound. This man is a part of my life forever now. It all seems surreal.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. We head down the hallway, following signs to the doctor’s office. When we step inside the office, everyone’s attention turns in our direction. Most of the women have swollen bellies, and there’re only a scattering of men accompanying the women.
I ignore them all and head over to the receptionist.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Hi. Callie Carlisle. I have an appointment with Dr. Amato.”
She glances at Foster, who’s acting as if we’re velcroed together, and tilts her head, but then smiles.
How did I not think about Foster being recognized?
“Okay, thank you for doing the pre-check-in, and I show you have a forty-five-dollar co-pay.” She holds out the payment processor.
I open my purse, but Foster pulls out his credit card and taps it on the keypad. I balk at him, but he doesn’t grant me even a glance, tucking his card back in his wallet as if it’s normal for him to be paying for things for me.
We really need to talk about this whole “I’m his to protect” thing he’s got going on right now.
“Great. Here’s your receipt, and have a seat. The nurse will call you back in a little bit.”
Foster hands me the piece of paper.
“It’s yours,” I say softly.
“Use it for your flex spending.” He pushes it between us again, leaving me no choice but to take it unless I want to make a scene.
“But…” I hold it limply as he walks away from me and sits in one of the two chairs in the corner, behind a large potted plant.
I’m baffled that Foster Davis knows about flex spending like some middle-aged dad who budgets and tracks his spending.
I sit next to him, crossing my legs. He leans back, manspreading. I don’t look, but I can feel a lot of eyes on us. It’s either because he’s Foster Davis, or it’s his neck tattoos and the fact that he’s hot. Probably both.
The only thing we have going for us is the fact that the Colts haven’t had any stellar years lately where people recognize the players more, but Foster has a distinct look.
“Where do you want to go to lunch?” he asks, picking up a magazine and flipping through it, but he tosses it back on the table without reading any of it.
“What is going on right now?” I whisper, leaning in close.
He turns to face me, and we’re so close, I draw back. It feels way too intimate.
“You need to eat, and I’m hungry. Plus…” He scans the room, probably judging who is listening to us, who is slyly trying to take a picture. This could be bad if anyone here leaks that Foster Davis was in an OBGYN office with a woman. “We need to get to know one another better.”
“We need to get to know one another better?” I repeat what he said, hoping it makes more sense when I hear it from my own lips.
He chuckles. It always throws me when he laughs because it happens so rarely. He’s so grumpy and brooding and matter-of-fact that it’s weird when he’s enjoying himself. “Sorry, you’re stuck with me.”
A weird sensation ignites in my stomach, and I realize I may have grossly underestimated Foster. What if he’s just succumbed to being the person everyone believes he is?
Then again, how many times has a man fooled me before? How many times did I swear an asshole wasn’t an asshole only to get burned in the end? There’s no way I can try to figure out Foster and protect our baby. If their mom is heartbroken from thinking she saw something different than what everyone sees in their dad, that’s not protecting them.
It’s safer if we just stick to co-parenting.
“Callie?” a nurse calls.
“Here!” I bolt up out of my seat.
The sooner I’m in that room, the sooner I stop imagining that there’s a different man under the tattoos and hard exterior. Because imagining is exactly how I’ll end up hurt.
