Forbidden: A Stepbrother Secret Baby Romance (7 page)

What the fuck did I just do?

CHAPTER TEN

TESSA

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

I wake up to the sound of Paul walking around. "Honey?" I mumble into the dark room.

"Yeah?" he asks. I look over and realize that his hand is already on the knob of the bedroom door. "I'm leaving for work."

I roll over to face. "Did you feed Ryan yet?"

I hear Paul sigh. "No, he's not awake and I wasn't about to wake him up. I've really, really got to go. I have a lot of work to get ahead on before we fly out tonight, okay?"

His words sting. I would have a lot of work to do as well, but today will just be another day with my six-month-old baby instead. I love Ryan; he is a bundle of chubbiness and giggles and is overall an incredibly mellow baby. But I’m going stir-crazy stuck at home all day without adult interaction. To make matters worse, today is going to be spent with the mind-numbing tasks associated with travel: getting the house cleaned up for our return, packing everything up, and cleaning out the fridge. "You already packed your suitcase, right?" I ask Paul.

He opens the door and starts to walk out. "No, Tessa, I didn't. Seriously, I need to go. You're going to have to figure it out on your own." He leaves the room without another word.

I hold back tears as the front door slams and the key clicks in the slot, locking me in behind him. A moment later, I hear Ryan's startled cries ring out through the hallway. So much for another half hour of sleep; the sound of the door slamming woke him out of his tenuous slumber.

I push my feet into slippers and hastily wrap myself up in my warmest robe. Paul is insisting on saving money by not turning the heater on until January first. Unfortunately for us, winter arrived with a biting ferocity two months early.

I walk into Ryan's nursery; in the glow of the night light I see my breath forming puffs in the air. I put my hand into Ryan's crib. He is like a little nuclear reactor. In his fleece sleep suit, he is actually sweating. He gurgles as he looks up at me. "Hey there, buddy," I whisper, reaching into the crib and lifting his warm, rubbery body into my arms. He laughs jovially as I carry him into the kitchen.

I flip the light switch and the peeling, laminate cabinets greet me along with a chorus of cracked tile backsplash and the backing vocals of a leaky faucet. I’ve been asking Paul to fix it for months. He keeps saying he will get to it, but has forbidden me to try to fix it or call someone. “It’s too expensive,” he always mutters.

I set Ryan into his high chair, buckling him in safely. I pour water into the kettle and hit the switch. The steam will warm the room up a little. I busy myself with preparing Ryan's bottle of formula. I weaned him off of breast milk a few weeks ago. My milk has dried up but miraculously, they’ve maintained the size they were during my pregnancy. I still love them, even if I don’t love the tire of fat that doesn’t seem to be budging from around my midsection. I know that Paul doesn’t like either. He can barely bring himself to look at me.

Last week, we had a half-hearted sexual interaction, the first since Ryan’s birth. Paul had finished in about three minutes and refused point-blank to let me have my turn.

The kettle whistles. I pour water into a mug and sink a teabag into it, then use the rest of the hot liquid to mix up Ryan's powdered formula. It’s so cold in the kitchen that I know it will cool down quickly to a safe temperature. Ryan is babbling to himself, banging his sticky palms on the metal tray of his high chair.

"Hold on, baby," I intone. I shake the bottle of formula and then twist off the top, letting the steam rise into the frigid air of the kitchen. Within two minutes the formula is the perfect temperature. I walk over and hand Ryan the bottle, his hands happily smacking together with glee.

The squeak of the chair legs screeches out across the kitchen. My mug of tea warms my hands. I run through my mental checklist. We will be staying at my mother and stepfather's house for seven days. I am already panicking about flying across the country with an infant.

My cell phone rings. I pull it out of my robe pocket. It’s Jillian. “Hey,” I say sleepily.

She shrieks. “Girl, please tell me that you’re all packed and ready to go!”

I look at the clock. “What on earth are you doing up? It’s like three in the morning in California.”

She laughs. “I haven’t gone to bed yet, to be honest. I was just calling to check in. I’ll be down in Santa Barbara in a few days for Thanksgiving. Wanted to make sure you’re holding up alright!”

I sigh and rub my eyes as Ryan sucks on his bottle. “I just have this feeling that Paul is going to cancel. I don’t know why.”

Jillian makes a disapproving noise.

“Spill, Jill,” I say.

“It’s nothing. It’s just – I still don’t know why you’re with him. He’s an asshole.”

“We are having a baby, Jillian.”

“Terrible reason to stay with someone, honestly,” Jillian replies. “I mean, Ryan is going to grow up in an unhappiest household with a bitter mother who blames him for her being stuck in an awful relationship.”

Ryan throws his bottle onto the ground and formula sprays everywhere. “Wrap it up, Jill. Anything else you want to add while I’m on the line?”

“I can’t promise I won’t punch Paul when I’m down there,” she says. “Love you, girl. Travel safe.”

“Love you, too,” I reply, hanging up the phone. I grab paper towels and clean up the formula mess while Ryan laughs. I still can’t shake the feeling that Paul is going to miss the flight.

I shake my head. Why would I think that? He's never done that before. The plane tickets were expensive. There is no way he will want to cancel.

I reach over as Ryan suckles the bottle and take another look at my phone. I see that I have twelve text messages from my mother, which is par for the course with her. Most of them are reminders to not be late (as if I have any control over that) because dinner tonight is at eight o'clock on the dot and her chef has to leave early for some family obligation.

The rest of the texts are links to articles about how the flu is spreading across the country and to make sure that I don't touch any bare part of my body to anything on the airplane. I roll my eyes.

I scroll to the weather app. I see with relief that the weather at my mother's house is going to be sixty-eight degrees and sunny the whole week. Maybe it’s being housebound with the baby or maybe it’s the fact that our heater isn't turned on yet, but this winter is already wearing me down.

Ryan finishes his bottle and throws it onto the ground with a clatter. The noise makes him burst into uncharacteristic tears. I reach over and grab him, cradling him in my arms to soothe him. He calms down almost immediately and starts playing with my hair. I let him do it. I open my phone and send a text to Paul. "Hope your day is a good one, honey," I type with one thumb. I hover over the send button, reluctant for some reason to ship it off into the great void.

I have the feeling that Paul is avoiding me.

Two can play at that game. I delete the message and set my phone down, gulping down my already lukewarm tea. I squeeze Ryan’s butt and realize he needs a new diaper.

Well, Paul won't be able to avoid me once we are in California. In California, everything will be better.

Ryan screeches in my ear as if to punctuate this thought.

Six hours later, I am standing in the foyer of our house with Ryan in his car seat and three suitcases next to me. Paul isn't answering his phone. I dial for the tenth time and he finally picks up. He sounds like he’s out of breath. "Hey, Tessa," he says. He sounds happy, which is a mood I haven’t found him wearing in months.

"Where are you?" I ask, rocking my foot on Ryan's car seat to keep him asleep. "We need to leave for the airport in five minutes. If I miss this flight, my mother is going to kill me."

Paul actually laughs at this. I am stunned by the sound. "Come on, Tessa, we're the only ones coming this Thanksgiving anyway, right? What's the big deal?"

"Paul, you know how my mother is. I'm not arguing about this with you. Where are you?"

He exhales. "Tessa, I'm going to have to take a different flight. Maybe one tomorrow?"

I feel my stomach drop like a stone. "Tomorrow? Tomorrow is the day before Thanksgiving. The busiest travel day of the year. How exactly are you going to get a flight at the last minute again?"

"I can have my assistant do it, she always works her magic on these things," Paul replies easily.

"You're really serious right now, aren't you? You're not messing with me? You're leaving me to fly alone with a six-month-old baby, cross-country? You’re going to make me drive to the airport in the snow?" I stare out the window at the flakes that are falling more thickly than they have all day.

I’ve already checked; the rest of today’s flights have already been cancelled. I hold the phone against my shoulder and pick up Ryan's car seat in one hand and two of the suitcases in the other. "Fine," I reply angrily. "I'm leaving your suitcase in the damn hallway. Don't bother calling me until you're sitting on the tarmac at the Santa Barbara airport, tomorrow, okay?"

I hang up on him and open the door clumsily, the arctic winter air blasting my body. The wind cuts like knives and the force of it wakes Ryan up. He starts screaming and I feel angrier than I ever have at Paul.

He is going to pay for this.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JAX

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the final boarding call for Flight 687 into Santa Barbara. Final boarding."

I push myself away from the bar counter and toss a fifty-dollar bill behind me, tucking it underneath the empty, sweating glass still sitting on the counter. The bartender has been patient with me as I've requested glass after glass, never once questioning me. I lift up my heavy duffel bag, swinging it over my shoulder. I’ve had easily eight glasses of whiskey but I'm barely feeling it. They must water down airport liquor nowadays. Shame.

There are people sleeping on the floor of the airport, human bodies nearly stacked on top of each other in a sea of luggage and ad hoc pillows made out of hastily balled up sweatshirts. The mass of phone and tablet screens are like Christmas lights. People are clustered around the few available outlets.

Thanksgiving. This is what I get for flying during the holidays.

"Paging Jax Hadley for Flight 687 into Santa Barbara."

Shit. I quicken my pace. The crowd of people standing up parts easily for me as they see my hulking frame flying toward them. I nearly knock over a teenage boy lost in the depths of his cellphone. I reach out and steady his shoulders as he starts to topple, saving him just in the nick of time from crushing his baby sister. The kid barely blinks, not taking his eyes off his phone. Good for him. At least he's inured to the chaos surrounding him. I make it to my gate, which has already started filling up with people for the next flight out.

I flash a reluctant smile at the gate agent as I hand him my boarding pass. "We nearly left without you this time, Mr. Hadley.”

"Thanks for holding the plane for me, Andrew," I say, not looking at his name tag. I've taken this flight a hundred times and I always board it at the last minute. Every time I book this flight to go home I tell myself I don’t have to get on it.

I always do, though.

I take a deep breath as my heavy steps echo down the jet way. The noxious smell of jet fuel fills my nose and my stomach lurches at the stench.

I hate flying.

I duck my head as I step into the plane, my body screaming at me that this is the final opportunity for me to back out onto safe, solid ground. It's more than tempting. The buxom flight attendant puts her hand on my arm. "Jax," she mutters through a clenched, beaming smile that is for the benefit of the other passengers and not me. "Late again, I see."

I pat her hand. "You know I like living on the edge."

"I saved your seat for you. You owe me," she squeezes my arm and puts out her other hand to motion me down the aisle. I move sideways to scoot toward my chair. I can't fit any other way. I find the last open compartment and manage to shove my duffel bag into the impossibly tiny remaining space.

I move three aisles forward toward my aisle. Indeed, my seat is open. It's the exit row window seat, with no seat in front of it so I can spread out my long legs. I can almost feel multiple people sigh with relief as they realize I'm not going to try to squeeze next to them. There are two people on my row: a businessman with salt-and-pepper hair and skin so pale he almost looks translucent and a young blonde woman with perky tits. I clear my throat. The businessman rolls his eyes and unbuckles his seatbelt, shifting out of the way into the aisle without looking at me.

I know that I've pissed him off and probably prevented him from typing out whatever angry, abusive email he's sending to one of his many subordinates. I know guys like him. I work with guys like him. Actually, guys like him work for me. But Mr. Business doesn't know that. I'm in my casual clothes, set free from the constraints of my professional gear that makes me look like any other fucking suit walking around. The tattoos always make people nervous.

Sorority Girl is still lost in her iPhone. "Excuse me," I say as politely as I can.

She snaps at me without even looking up. "Yeah?"

"I'm the seat next to you."

She sighs and puts her phone into the elastic pocket, the blue, fake leather creaking under her touch. She unbuckles her seatbelt and stands up. That's when she sees me and her mouth opens. "Oh, hi," she says sweetly, pushing out her breasts so her t-shirt reveals a strip of pale midriff. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from rolling my eyes as she squeezes past me, taking up far more room than is necessary.

"Thanks," I grunt back at her, bending down to keep my head from smacking the ceiling. I stretch my legs out comfortably and take a few more deep breaths. I ride motorcycles at speeds that aren't legal. I've bungee jumped off of bridges. And yet I hate airplanes.

One of the flight attendants starts the safety run-through. I gaze out the window, forcing myself to count the rivet points on the wing of the plane in the hopes that it will distract me. It does for a brief moment until I realize that Sorority Girl's leg is pressing firmly against mine. I glance down, worried that I'm taking up more space than my intended share. Then I realize she has her legs spread out.