Who's Your Daddy? (21 page)

I shook my head and went back to working on the car. He’d be back.

By the time I’d finished replacing a faulty belt, it was almost seven. He’d been gone a couple of hours, and he still hadn’t returned. Patience, I told myself again and again.

I tried to relax in front of the TV for a while, but couldn’t think of anything except where Donovan might have gone and how he was doing.

Eight o’clock came and went. Nine o’clock. Ten.

By eleven, I convinced myself I needed to at least try to sleep. I had a few early appointments in the morning. They weren’t paying to see a counselor who nodded off in the middle of a conversation.

Lying in bed with my hands laced behind my head on the pillow, I stared into the darkness and listened for his engine. It had been ages since he’d disappeared for this long.

All I could do was be patient.

I balanced on the fine line between asleep and awake until a low rumble brought me back into full consciousness. I blinked in the darkness, searching for the sound and its meaning. A moment later, slow, heavy footsteps came up the stairs.

Relief flooded through me, and I glanced at the clock. It was about twenty past twelve.

The door opened slowly. Donovan didn’t turn on the light as he got ready for bed. He barely made a sound, probably trying not to wake me. When he climbed under the sheet beside me, I rolled over and put my arm over his waist.

“Hey,” I whispered.

“Hey. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

I kissed the back of his shoulder. “I wasn’t asleep.”

Donovan didn’t say anything. I slid my palm down his forearm until I found his hand. When I did, I closed my fingers around his, and he pulled our joined hands close to his chest.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Better than I was earlier.”

“Where did you go?”

His shoulder moved in an exhausted parody of a shrug. “Just drove around.” He pressed his lips to the backs of my fingers. “And then I went to my dad’s place.”

I stiffened. “You…what?”

“After everything he said this afternoon,” Donovan said quietly, “I went to his place to talk to him again. To say my piece.”

“What did he say this afternoon, anyway?” I asked.

He took a deep breath. “I didn’t even get to the part about how this happened before he went off on me.

“What do you mean?”

He laughed bitterly. “Once he found out we were expecting a baby—didn’t even get to the fact that it was Carmen or that this wasn’t some surrogate thing—he flipped out. Said I was an irresponsible parent for deliberately bringing a child into our ‘arrangement’, as he called it.”

“Jesus…”

“Then he said…” Donovan trailed off.

“You don’t have to repeat it.” I held him tighter and nuzzled his neck. “If it’s too much.”

He kissed my fingers again. “He said that as it was, if I was going to set this kind of example, then Ryan would have been better off staying with Julia. From the get-go.”

“What?” I breathed. “That’s…”

“I know.” He sighed. “And I just kept thinking about that while I was driving around. The more I thought about it, the more pissed off I got. I mean, the asshole thinks my son is better off with her than with me.”

He let go of my hand and reached for the nightstand. The light clicked on, and we shifted so Donovan was on his back.

Touching my face, he whispered, “All the things she’s done, all the ways she’s been an irresponsible parent while I’ve busted my ass trying to be Ryan’s dad, and my fucking father thinks the kid’s better off with her just because I’m with you.” His thumb brushed over my cheekbone. “I mean, what the fuck is wrong with him?”

I clasped his hand and kissed the back of it. “Don’t know. But it speaks volumes about what kind of father
he
is, not what kind of father you are.”

Donovan nodded. “Well, it doesn’t matter now anyway because he’s not going to have anything to do with any of us.”

I blinked. “He said that?”

“No.” He ran his fingers through my hair. “I did.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You said it…to him?”

“I told him when he decided he could bring his impossible standards down far enough for his lowly son to please him, he was welcome to come back, but until then, he could kiss my bisexual ass.”

I laughed. “You’re kidding. You really said that?”

“Well, I used a few more choice words when I said it to him.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all.” I kissed him. “I’m proud of you, Don. That took some serious balls.”

“You’re not going to go into therapist mode on me, are you?” He grinned, and
damn
it was good to see that.

I chuckled. “No, just going into ‘gloating boyfriend who doesn’t have to put up with the asshole father-in-law’ mode.”

Donovan laughed aloud. Then his expression turned a little more serious, and he shifted his gaze away. “I should have done this a long, long time ago. It was bad enough having him around Ryan. Maybe we can spare this kid.”

I trailed my fingertips down the side of his face. “You weren’t ready before. It just took you a while to figure out you don’t need his approval.”

“I don’t need his approval,” he whispered. “I don’t need him.” Donovan pulled me closer. “I have everyone I need.”

I kissed his cheek. “And none of us are going anywhere.”

“I know.” We held each other’s gazes for a long moment. Then a playful grin spread across his lips.

“So,” he said. “Since you’re the victorious gloating boyfriend, are you going to collect your spoils of war?”

“Depends.” I slid my hand under the covers, moving slowly down his abs. “You in the mood to give me my spoils?”

“I don’t know. You—” His voice caught when my fingers wrapped around his cock. He recovered, looked me in the eye, and whispered, “You tell me.”

Neither of us said another word.

Chapter Sixteen

Carmen

As I dressed to go see my obstetrician, I didn’t even think twice before grabbing a snug pair of jeans out of the drawer. If there was one benefit to the stress of my divorce, it was the weight loss. I’d gained about twenty pounds in the last year before I left Paul and lost almost thirty since I walked out the door. Now some of the jeans that he and my mother kindly reminded me were “getting a bit tight, don’t you think?” finally fit comfortably again.

I pulled them on and started to draw the zipper up. Tried to draw it up anyway. Cursing, I sucked in my stomach and managed to get my jeans zipped.

Barely.

When I tried to inhale, the denim bit into my skin. I couldn’t pull in a full, deep breath, and I could barely move.

I turned sideways and looked in the mirror. It probably wasn’t all that noticeable to anyone else, and I wouldn’t have noticed at all had I not just forced myself into painted-on jeans, but holy crap, there was definitely a difference. Just a hint of a swell, probably enough to make my mother point and scowl.

Already?

“Are you effing kidding me?” I was barely out of my first damned trimester and already my clothes didn’t fit? Almost every non-sports bra I owned was already worthless, and now the massacre had begun on my jeans? Son of a bitch.

After glaring at my reflection for a long moment, I finally gave up on telekinetically flattening my stomach. I unzipped my jeans, peeled them off and—swearing on my life I’d wear them again one day—tossed them on the bed. They were the tightest pants I owned, so chances were, anything else I had would still fit, but I wasn’t in the mood to find out.

I found a skirt that did a reasonable job of covering that slight swell that was now painfully obvious to me. A sports bra wasn’t the greatest thing in the world to put under the matching blouse, but it would have to do. And apparently I would have to do some shopping soon.

I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard my wallet whimpering inside my purse.

Once I was presentable, I headed out.

Rose was in the tiny living room, gathering her own purse and jacket. “Oh, hey,” she said. “On your way out?”

I nodded. “Doctor’s appointment.”

“How exciting,” she muttered, and we exchanged grimaces. “Have fun. Oh, and by the way, I’m back on nights next week, so I’ll be around during the day. I won’t be in your hair while you’re working, will I?”

“You’ll be sleeping, won’t you?”

“Well, part of the time.”

I shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I can write with a marching band going by.”

She laughed. “I won’t make that much noise.” She glanced at her watch. “I’d better get going. Keep me updated after your appointment, will you?”

“Will do. They’re doing an ultrasound today, so…” I trailed off.

Rose smiled. “At least get a copy of the ultrasound. I want to see!” Her smile faded a little. “Are you sure you don’t want someone to go with you?”

“I’ll be okay. The guys offered, but…” I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Okay,” she said with a slight nod. “But you know the offer still stands for any of your appointments.”

“Noted. Thanks.”

Rose left for work, and I left for my appointment. All the way there, my stomach turned and threatened to shift into reverse. The morning sickness hadn’t been bad lately; it was becoming clear that
most
of the nausea was related to nerves. I was a little queasy in the mornings and occasionally in the afternoon, and certain smells made me gag, but it was mostly when my nervousness about the pregnancy got the best of me that I truly got sick. Facing my parents, discussing it with Don or Isaac, trying to fit into my clothes.

Or driving to the OB’s office.

At the office in question, I paused outside the door just like I did every time, and I willed myself to relax. This was, after all, just another routine appointment. Save the nerves until delivery day.

Delivery day. Oh,
that
thought helped.

Finally, I convinced myself to walk in, and after I’d checked in with the receptionist, I took a seat near the back corner of the waiting room. The magazines on the table were horribly outdated and frighteningly covered with photos of babies and headlines about some must-have item, how to protect one’s child from this or that catastrophe, and the latest medical advances that would probably worry me into a panic attack.

I dug through the stack and found a copy of
Time
magazine. At least that only had stories about the perilous state of the economy, horrible disasters from every corner of the globe, and something that caused cancer. Right now, that was less terrifying than “twenty ways your house is killing your child
right now
”. I shuddered and flipped open the copy of
Time
.

Not that it really mattered what was in the magazine in my hand. The page held my gaze for only a moment or two anyway before I surreptitiously looked through my lashes at the woman sitting a few seats away from me. She was heavily pregnant, at least eight months or so, and struggled just to get comfortable in the chair, which was probably as obnoxiously hard and non-ergonomic as mine. At her feet, a toddler played with brightly colored plastic toys, and a child who must have been about five wandered back and forth to the toys provided by the doctor’s office. Just watching them made me tired. As if my own baby didn’t already zap my energy like nothing else.

The woman glanced up and caught my eye. We exchanged smiles, and hers was so exhausted, a cool ripple of fear went through me.

God, what have I gotten myself into?

Eventually, a nurse called the woman back. Wincing, she got up, gathered her purse and kids, and they all disappeared through the door.

I let my gaze wander around the rest of the waiting room. Some of the other women could have been here for anything; there was nothing about their appearance that tipped me off if they were pregnant or not. Maybe I was just as incognito. I couldn’t ignore the hint of a belly that had kept me from wearing my favorite jeans, but anyone who didn’t know me probably wouldn’t notice.

Some of the other patients were well past the point of “Is she? I can’t tell”. Some must have been weeks, if not days, from their due dates. I tried to imagine myself in their shoes. What would it be like? In a way, I envied them. They were probably well past the queasiness that still plagued me, though with less severity now than in the very beginning. They’d undoubtedly felt their babies move by now, and as nervous as I was about this whole thing, I was curious how that would feel. And kind of excited about it. Okay, really excited about it. I mean, how cool would it be to actually feel my baby move?

On the other hand, those ladies who were well ahead of me in the pregnancy journey were also closer to the part I was dreading.

No. Don’t think about that. Wait ’til the third trimester,
then
dwell on that part.

The door opened, and another woman walked in. She was petite, maybe five foot five or so, and the only reason I knew she was pregnant was she looked like she’d swallowed a basketball. Her face didn’t show the slightest hint of swelling. Her wedding ring still fit. She wore a cute pair of sandals without any puffiness on her slender ankles. I’d heard that pregnancy could give a woman gorgeous skin and hair, but this chick had abused the privilege. She was absolutely stunning. And smiling too.