Bad Boy's Baby_A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance Read online

  I unlock the phone with a swipe of my finger and a tap of my passcode. Jacob is my home screen, of course, and I can’t help but smile when I see his picture.

  His face is round and chubby, and his smile is so sweet. His hair’s black and wavy, and his eye are clear blue. He’s my little handsome boy. He’s the most important thing in my life, of course. He’s my everything.

  But there’s something deep inside me that tugs when I look at his picture. Sliding my finger along the edge of my phone, I inhale deeply, close my eyes, and keep the air inside my lungs for a moment.

  And my mind starts spinning. I do those damn mental calculations, even though they’re all in vain. There’s an answer, I’m sure of it; of course there’s an answer. But I’m not asking the right questions. I’m spinning my wheels, getting close to the questions, but I’m never completely confronting them. Instead, I’m doing the mental gymnastics that answer nothing; all they do is keep me in the dark on purpose.

  My cycles are predictable. I’d had two partners around that time. The calculations keep spinning through my mind, but I don’t want to know the answers.

  If I really wanted to know the answers, there are better ways to find them than obsessively go over that time in my mind.

  I exhale sharply, letting the memory of the saltwater and tequila and Dylan’s fingers laced through my hair and his palm on the back of my neck escape into the air around me with my breath.

  Because it doesn’t really matter, does it? Maybe I don’t want to know the answers because I know it ultimately doesn’t matter.

  Or maybe I don’t want to know the answers because it really does matter.

  I bite my bottom lip and shake my head as I call up Jacob’s nanny.

  “Amanda!” Sarah chips brightly. I know that tone. It’s the one she uses when she’s raiding my refrigerator. I don’t care, though. I tell her time and again to make full use of the apartment and anything in the fridge. I think she likes being coy about eating all my food, though, and likes being teased about it.

  “Hey Sar,” I reply, resting my phone between my ear and shoulder, “everything going good over there?”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “I just put Jacob to bed. He ate and had a bottle. Everything’s perfect with him.” I hear the ding of the microwave through the phone. “I hope you don’t mind, I found some popcorn in your pantry.”

  “Please Sarah, of course I don’t mind. And if you’re having popcorn, you should watch a movie.”

  “Already ahead of you,” she replies. “I was just perusing the choices on Lifetime. Let’s see. A Devious Wife, A Wife’s Affair, A Devious Affair...oh, how about this one! A Devious Wife’s Affair.”

  “If we had work schedules that synced up I think you and I would be best friends,” I say with a laugh.

  “Maybe one night you could come home early and catch a movie with me and Jacob,” she says hopefully. It sounds as though she would really enjoy it, and even more importantly, Jacob would like it. As would I.

  “That would be a lot of fun,” I say, “I need some girl time. And it would give both of us a break. I can’t imagine Jacob would argue with having both of us doting on him simultaneously.”

  “He’s a little too young to argue, but I know what you mean,” Sarah says, “anyway, you coming home soon?”

  “Yes,” I reply, “soon. You want me to pick up some dinner? Did you eat yet?”

  “I’m good,” Sarah replies, “I had some pasta earlier. But if you want to stop somewhere, don’t worry about getting home. Take your time. You’ve been at work for like twelve hours and you could use a break.”

  “Maybe,” I say as I stack up a few of the documents I was working on. “I’ll see what mood I’m in. Alright Sarah, thanks for everything. See you soonish.”

  Hitching my purse over my shoulder and slipping my phone inside, I start out of my office and flip the light off on my way out.

  But as I leave my little space and start into the hallway, I hear the desk phone inside my office ring.

  I pause, looking back inside. It’s not unusual to get a call this late. Because of the kind of work we do and the cases we take on, we get calls at all times of the day and night. And because it’s a small office, we don’t have a receptionist or a secretary and the main line of the business rings directly to the phone in my office.

  I begin to walk away, but the phone keeps ringing.

  “Screw it,” I say under my breath as I go back into my office. I could let it go to voicemail, but what if someone’s having an emergency? “Gamble and Associates, personal injury attorneys,” I answer, “this is Amanda Keane. How may I help you?”

  At first there’s nothing on the other end of the phone. Then I hear breathing. It’s a man. God, another freaking creep? We get calls like this once in a while. They aren’t that frequent, and I don’t take them too seriously, but they’re an annoyance.

  “Hello?” I say forcefully. “You know, I don’t appreciate this. If you’re calling for an attorney, do us both a favor and speak up. If you’re calling to screw around, do yourself a favor and just hang up.”

  “Ms. Keane?”

  The voice on the other end of the phone finally speaks.

  And I sink down into my chair as my skin grows cold instantly upon hearing his voice.

  “This is Amanda Keane,” I say. I swallow hard.

  It can’t be him. It can’t be Dylan. But I know that voice. The honeyed darkness, the sex in the soft tone inside the contours of the words.

  Of course it could be him. Of course. It could be anyone on the planet. It could be anyone in the state.

  “Amanda,” he says again, softer this time, “do you know who this is?”

  My heart slams inside my chest ruthlessly. Hard. It flutters deep inside me.

  “Yeah,” I say, “I know who this is. Do you need an attorney or are you just calling to screw around?”

  There’s a pause. I want to just hang up. I slip one leg over the other and sink back deeper into my chair.

  “You tell me,” he breathes.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  “How should I know what you need?” I ask. I want it to come out defiant, but it doesn’t. I sound small. I sound as though I am daring him to tell me what he needs - as if I want to know. As if I give a damn.

  Don’t I, though? At least a little bit?

  “You shouldn’t,” he replies. “I have to be honest Amanda, I didn’t think you’d answer. I didn’t think anyone would answer, but least of all you.”

  “You should have known there was a chance I’d answer.”

  “You should have known there was a chance I’d call.”

  I swallow thickly and bite down on my bottom lip. God, his voice is doing something strange to me, deep inside. I lick my lips as my breathing hitches deep inside my chest and I attempt to breathe at a steady pace. But my body won’t let me breathe at a steady pace. My body won’t let me tell myself all the lies I’ve been telling myself since the last time I heard Dylan’s voice.

  I guess I never thought he’d have the guts to call.

  “Of course I knew,” I reply, “there was a chance. A sliver of a possibility.”

  “You could have called me,” he says. I can feel the sardonic smile in his voice. “You could have just called me instead of forcing my hand. You put yourself on TV knowing I’d call you, when you could have just called me yourself. You could have saved a lot of time and effort. I’ve never had a girl take out a TV ad to get my attention before. This is a good one.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I say. “I did that for my business, not so you would call me. Like you said, if I wanted to talk to you, I could have called you. Simple.”

  “But you didn’t call me, and yet here you are, talking to me. Are you saying you don’t want to be talking to me right now?”

  I uncross and cross my legs under my desk again, and slide my purse off my shoulder, putting it down on the desk.

&nb
sp; “I’m good either way,” I say. “I don’t have to be talking to you. But I don’t have to not be talking to you, either. I’m indifferent.”

  “Okay, then hang up,” he says, “if you’re okay not talking to me, hang up.”

  “No,” I say, “you hang up. I told you, if you were just calling to screw around, then hang up.”

  “I’m not screwing around,” he says, his voice dripping with silky sex, “unless you want to be screwed around with.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I gasp. There is a growing heat, a bundling intensity between my legs with each tantalizing, confusing, infuriating word he says.

  And I should just hang up, but I can’t.

  “Yes you do, Ms. Keane,” he says, “you do. You said I should hang up if I wanted to screw around. Is that really what you want?”

  “I don’t know,” I say in a small voice, barely a whisper.

  “Yes, you do. You know what you want. Just tell me.”

  “I don’t know,” I repeat, feeling my voice shake. I try to hide it, but I know he can hear the uneasiness in my words.

  It’s not a lie. It’s the damn truth. I don’t know what I want. All I know is that I can’t hang up. That, and maybe I was hoping he would call me.

  Maybe.

  Maybe he’s right.

  “Let’s split the difference. I’ll hang up if you let me see you,” Dylan says.

  I inhale shakily and let my breath out just as ragged as I took it in.

  “Okay,” I agree, “let’s meet. But not tonight. I have to get home.”

  “You have to get home?” he asks, with an edge to his voice. There’s a pause. “Home to your man?”

  I nearly let out a big laugh, but I reign it back in.

  “No,” I say, chuckling softly, “not home to my man. There’s absolutely no man in the picture.”

  Not counting my little man, of course. But he doesn’t have to know about Jacob. This isn’t even a lie of omission. Not technically, because technically, of course, I don’t have a man.

  Not now. And I don’t know if I ever did.

  But Dylan did make me feel like his woman. His princess, once upon a time.

  I don’t know what happened the morning after we had that incredible night together. I don’t know why he grew so damn cold so suddenly. I knew it was going to be just one night. I knew it all along. Part of me wanted more, and part of me knew it was never intended to be something more.

  “I’d like to see you tomorrow, Amanda,” Dylan exhales softly on the other end of the phone. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know if he’s at his tattoo shop, or in his apartment. Maybe he’s looking out that big picture window at the gorgeous view of the ocean.

  “Tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow is Saturday and it’s supposed to be Sarah’s night off. I could ask Dylan to come to the house. Maybe I could cook for him.

  No. After the abrupt goodbye we had, and the way I’ve felt and wondered what the hell happened to him over the many months that have passed since I last saw him, I am not letting him back in without some careful consideration. I need to be more guarded with my heart this time.

  If I even open it up at all. But I can’t say no. I can’t help myself. I can’t...I couldn’t.

  I shake my head and remind myself it was never supposed to be more than one night. I remind myself it was never going to be something more.

  So then why the hell is my mind spinning right now? Why do I feel so damn giddy and confused by the idea of Dylan wanting to see me?

  “Tomorrow,” he repeats, a bit more force behind his voice this time. “Does that work for you?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That works for me.”

  I’ll ask Sarah to watch Jacob tomorrow night, and I’ll have all day with him.

  “I was afraid you were going to say you were indifferent about the idea of seeing me. You know, like how you’re indifferent toward talking to me right now.”

  “No,” I reply, “I’m not indifferent about seeing you. I definitely do want to see you.”

  It’s not a lie. I do want to see him. I just don’t know what the hell is going to come out of my mouth when I finally have him in front of me, all muscle and shining eyes and that mischievous trademark grin.

  “Good,” he replies.

  “Tomorrow night?” I say, “do you want me to come to the shop? I think I still remember where it is.”

  “No,” he says, “let me come to you. Let me pick you up and take you out so we can talk.”

  “Well, alright,” I reply. I swallow thickly. Just because I’m conflicted doesn’t mean I’m ambivalent about seeing him. Part of me wants to tell him to go to hell, but part of me wants to stay on the phone with him all night and catch up and ask questions and get answers. But I certainly do want to see him.

  “You don’t work tomorrow, do you?” he asks. “I know attorneys have long hours. You get any time to yourself, princess?”

  Ha.

  “That’s a bit of a loaded question,” I say. “Here, give me your number. I’ll text you my address.”

  “I’ll get you at eight,” he replies.

  “Okay,” I say, standing up. I jot down the digits as Dylan gives me his phone number. “Goodbye, Dylan.”

  “Goodnight, princess.”

  I put the phone back in its cradle softly and consider what the hell I’m doing. I’ve been able to make it without him for this long. God, I don’t even know what I’m saying. Make it without him? I don’t need him. There’s no without him because there’s no him. Just the vague memory of him, like the memory of the icy cold saltwater on my shins when I jumped into the ocean, or footsteps that fade in wet sand. Everything leveled off, evened out, and I can barely even remember what he looked like.

  I take my cell phone out to text him my address, pausing on the picture of my son again.

  I don’t know what’s what. I can barely remember what Dylan looked like. Maybe I’ve blocked him out, or maybe the normal passage of time has caused me to forget. But when I look at my son and see those clear, bright blue eyes, it comes back to me just a little bit.

  It comes back like a wave crashing on the shore, tickling my toes. I can feel it and it’s nice but I’m uncertain about what it means. All I know is that the idea of walking into the ocean and throwing all caution away is scary but very, very tempting.

  And that’s what Dylan is. Tempting.

  And maybe something more.

  9

  Dylan

  What the hell do you wear on a date with the woman you’ve thought about for almost two years? The woman you know next to nothing about, but who captured your heart and your mind and shook you to your core, refused to let go?

  Princess Amanda. She deserves a damn king.

  Well, that’s who I am. I might not be the kind of king she expects, but I’m the kind of king she deserves.

  Because I can give her anything she needs, anything she desires. I might not have a lot of money, and I don’t have the status and clout that I know swirled around her in the rarified air of the life she once had, but I know I can give her what she needs and wants.

  But I have questions for her.

  When we hang up, she texts me her address quickly. My heart pulls inside my chest and I shake my head, smiling to myself. It’s unreal to know I’m going to see her again. I always dreamed of the day I’d see her again. I just can’t believe the day is almost upon me. I feel like all the time since I saw her last doesn’t matter. All that matters is her, and the promise of seeing her again.

  And I don’t know what the hell her damn situation was a couple of years ago. That text stung my heart, it broke me to my core, but I couldn’t just forget her. I couldn’t just put away the memory of that sweet girl with the curves in all the right places and the sassy mouth.

  But right now, I want to impress her. I want to blow her away with what I can offer her. Am I getting ahead of myself right now? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe she’ll meet me and tell me
to fuck off. Maybe she fucking hates me. Maybe she’s been dripping with need for me and wants me to throw her down, kiss her, and then slide down her body to put my mouth where she really wants it. I know the tone of her voice on the phone meant she still wants me, and if there’s even a fucking chance that I can peel back the hesitation and show her what I’m made of, that means I have to make a really fucking good second first impression.

  So that’s why I’m standing in front of my closet, tugging on my chin, surveying my options for our date tomorrow.

  I’m not good at clothing. I’m not one of those pretty boys. What’s inside my closet is kind of sad and a little bit pathetic. Most of my clothing is folded up - or, okay, just kind of throw - in my chest of drawers that I picked up at an estate sale down in Philly a few years back. You don’t really need to fold, iron and hang up jeans and t-shirts.

  But I do have a couple of good suits that I keep for weddings and funerals.

  I pull one of my suits out of my closet. I should have zipped it up in a garment bag, but instead I have it hanging up without anything shielding it. The shoulders are a little bit dusty, and I brush them off carefully as I hold the suit up in front of me.

  I go over to the bathroom and take a look at myself in the mirror. The expression on my face surprises me. I didn’t feel myself smiling like a damn idiot back when I was looking at my closet. But I look happy. Imagine that. Me, happy. Mike and Paul would be as surprised as I am right now.

  Taking my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans, I debate whether I should text the guys to get their opinion. Is that something guys do with each other? Get fashion advice before a big date? But I quickly realize I couldn’t care less what guys usually do with each other; these guys are like my brothers, after all, and of course I care about their opinion.

  What do you wear on a second first date? I text the guys.

  I toss my phone down on the counter next to the sink and hang the suit up on the shower curtain rod. I lean forward to check my appearance in the mirror. I could shave; I haven’t shaved in about two weeks. I try to remember what I looked like when I first met Mandy. For the life of me I can’t remember whether I was wearing some shitty sweat pants and a t-shirt, whether my hair was a mess, whether I’d shaved. I can’t even remember what tattoos were fresh at the time, what ink I’d just had done, what was old. All I can remember is the smell in the air when she tumbled into my shop and the look on her gorgeous face when we locked eyes for the first time.