He’s being very diplomatic. One of us should be ’cause I’m losing my shit over here.
One question repeats in my head like a bass drum—Is this really my daughter?
All I’m able to gather through the roaring in my head is the kid’s name.
She named the baby Layla.
Jesus, does this woman not listen to Eric Clapton? Layla’s a heartbreaker, not your cute little girl.
Rhett’s nodding and carrying on a conversation. He’s handling this better than I could, so I cross my arms and focus on not passing out.
After a minute, he clears his throat and gives me another look. Does he expect me to speak? Not sure I’m capable of more than blinking and grunting at the moment.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Internally, I laugh at the absurdity of this situation. I’m supposed to go on a national tour in a few weeks, but I had to turn into a fuckboy after Marlowe crushed me under her pointy boot, and here we are. I turn to the blonde. “My apologies, but what’s your name?”
She scowls. “Deanna. I told you that already.”
“Sorry, I was busy getting rocked by the news I had a, what, eight-month-old?”
“She’s a year old.”
Rhett asked that question already, didn’t he? “Okay, a year old.” I sit with that information for a beat. I squint at her through the bright sunlight. “Why now? Where were you since she popped out?”
She stares off into the distance. “I thought I could do this on my own. Thought I could handle it. Turns out I hate being a mother.”
The more I stand here, the more pissed I get. I take a deep breath so I can choose my words carefully. “Look, I can appreciate that it’s your body, and you choose whether or not you want to have a baby, but would it have killed you to have given me a heads-up a little sooner once you decided to have her?” Do I have serial killer written across my forehead? While I can admit I’ve never wanted kids, that doesn’t mean I’d abandon them.
Which I’ve now done by default.
Apparently.
After my mother took off and left us up shit creek without a paddle, I’d rather chew on broken glass than not be there for my kid.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Deanna’s telling me I have a child, and I haven’t been in her life for a goddamn year.
I’m the chill brother. The one who laughs everything off like a joke. The one you can trust to say something inappropriate to lighten the mood. Not the one who seethes with rage. But there’s definitely something simmering in my chest, and if I don’t get control of it right now, I’ll say something I’ll regret.
Bracing my hands on my knees, I bend over to breathe and remind myself that I don’t know what this woman’s been through, and I shouldn’t judge her even if I don’t remember hooking up with her. Although I suppose it could’ve happened.
Calm down. Deanna was probably doing her best with the hand life dealt her.
Once I get control of myself, I straighten and study the baby again. The little heartbreaker yawns and opens her eyes. I freeze when she smiles up at me, unaware of the chaos she’s unleashed on my life. She’s tiny. Fragile. And so fucking beautiful.
The back of my nose stings. I cough and turn to Deanna. “I always use protection. We used a condom. Right?”
“Yes,” she says quietly.
At least my dumb ass did that.Fat lot of good it did me, but still.
Rhett places his hand on my shoulder, his voice level. “Let’s all take a breath here. Deanna, we’re gonna need a paternity test. For everyone’s sake, especially that baby’s.”
She pulls a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “I knew you would want that, and while this probably won’t hold up in court, it shows Layla shares twenty-five percent of her DNA with one of your brothers.”
It’s a printout from one of those big ancestry companies. I stare at the tiny font that lists a match with Maverick and notes he’s likely the child’s uncle.
I have so many questions right now.
But maybe paternity shouldn’t be one of them.
