Having Jay's Baby (Having His Baby #2) (8 page)

“He’s a decent guy, right?”

I kept packing. “I think so.”

“Do you love him?”

I stopped, agape. “No,” I said, half amused. “I barely know him.”

There was a beat before she spoke again. “Could you see yourself being in a relationship with him?”

I stopped packing. When I looked over at my best friend, I was surprised to see admonishment. “Who says he wants a relationship? Why are you asking this stuff? You read too many romance novels.”

“Well, he got Nina tested. Obviously he wants something.”

“He wants to stop someone from sending him crazy text messages,” I said, and turned back to the packing.

“What do you want?”

“I want my house back.”

I want my house on 45th Street. I wanted my daughter to be happy, and to have a life of opportunities ahead of her. I want the peace of knowing that both of us have a safe, welcoming house to come home to at night, a house that no one can take from us.

I want … someone to love us.

My stomach churned with a mix of hunger and anxiety. “He’s still married, you know.” I threw a glance at Monica. “His wife was there last night.”

Her jaw loosened.

The words just kept flowing from me. “I slept with him again, last week.”

“I knew it!”

I sat down. I folded the romper suit in my lap and patted it. “He told me he was getting a divorce.”

“Is he?”

“Obviously not, if he’s taking her out to fashion shows!”

“It could be for appearances,” Monica said. “You know what these society types are like.”

“No, I don’t.” I sighed. “Married is married; I don’t particularly appreciate being made the other woman without my knowledge or consent.”

“Listen—just don’t jump to any conclusions. You need to know what his intentions are, Stella. Sooner rather than later. Once you know that, you can decide how you want to move on.”

“I know.” I nodded in agreement. “I’ll call him. As soon as I’ve got Nina settled in the new apartment, I’ll call him and arrange to meet.” I paused, swallowed. “He’ll have to meet Nina.”

Monica looked circumspect, her fingers playing with my daughter’s soft hair. “Maybe you should ask about the test results first,” she said, “just to make sure everything’s on the up and up. Talk things through.”

I nodded. We both stared at my daughter. Like a fuzzy picture that had come into focus, I couldn’t see anything but the Fitzsimmons genes staring back at me.

#

Jay’s apartment was on the Upper East Side, bound by the East River and Central Park. It was an old building with a distinguished awning at floor level, the entrance bordered on both sides by well-tended greenery. It was one of those imposing apartment blocks that I’d walked past a million times without registering. I looked up at the massive height of it and then back down at Nina in her pram with a tense sigh.

Last night I’d dreamed that Nina had grown up to be exactly like Elizabeth Fitzsimmons. I’d woken up covered in a film of sweat.

“Can I help you, miss?” A doorman was watching me, with part wariness, part polite concern. His gaze dropped to Nina and he smiled before looking back at me.

“Is this 995 Lexington?” I asked.

“It sure is,” he said, jovially. “Are you calling on someone here?”

I nodded. “Jay Fitzsimmons?”

“Come on through, miss.”

We walked into a dimly-lighted lobby. The floor was marbled, as were the walls, and the furniture was nicer than anything I’d ever owned. Nervous, I leaned down and fussed unnecessarily over Nina’s dress. Her trusting eyes were limpid on me, and I clutched at the burst of effortless love in my chest, holding it tight against uncertainty.

Monica had advised against bringing Nina here today. “Get the business end of the discussion out of the way first,” she’d said, but I needed Jay to meet his daughter before this went any further. He’d promised his wife would not be there, and I needed him to know we were talking about the future of a very real, very needy human being. If there was any doubt in his mind about that—any bravado or ego involved in this at all—I planned to quash it today.

“Just press that button over there,” the doorman said. “Enter six-three for Mr. Fitzsimmons. He’ll send the elevator down for you.”

He had his own elevator? I stared at the doorman for a hot second of disbelief before nodding. How long had Jay lived here? To think we’d spent the best part of three months wrapped up together in that tiny apartment of mine in Brooklyn back in the day… and why had he been staying at the Four Seasons when this was here, for that matter?

It was with a million burning questions that I pressed a button next to the elevators. A screen flickered to life above it. I stared at the rolling ‘Please Wait’ text, wondering, worrying, when suddenly Jay’s distracted profile was staring back at me. The noise in my head quietened for a moment as I took in his handsome features.

“It’s me,” I said, inanely.

His brows lifted. “So it is.”

The elevator doors next to me swished open with an entitled ping.

“Come on up,” he said.

I smiled, feeling foolish, and pushed the pram into the elevator.

The doors opened on to a hallway floored with cream marble. An antique chair and a console table sat against the staid wall. There were two doors, one at either end of the hall. I stood for a second, staring between the two before the one on the left opened. Jay, dressed in suit pants and an open-necked white shirt, appeared in the doorway. His eyes flickered over me for only the briefest of seconds before dropping to the pushchair.

I resisted the urge to blow out a breath. Why did he have to look so fucking together all the time? Harried after the move yesterday and a fractured night’s sleep, his sleek, effortless gleam—something that usually attracted me—was irritating.

“Come in,” he said, his voice polite.

I turned the pushchair and approached him. “Do you want me to leave this out here?”

His brows lifted. “Do you normally leave her outside?”

An abrupt, faintly hysterical laugh escaped me. “Not Nina, the pushchair,” I said.

His brows inverted. “Whatever you think,” he said, clearly at a loss. “Do you need it?”

Pulling myself together despite the nervous urge to keep laughing, I looked around at the pristine hallway and the apartment inside. The floors were parquet, so no carpet to dirty, even if the place did seem a bit sterile. “I’ll bring it in,” I said. “She’ll need a nap soon, anyway.”

Once we were inside, he stared at the tiny body in the pram for a moment before looking at me. His eyes flicked over my features. I wondered if he was looking for likenesses. Considering he’d presumed I’d just suggested leaving her in the hallway, I guessed he didn’t have a lot of experience around babies. This had to be an absolute trip for him. Was he awed or terrified, or just uncomfortable? I couldn’t tell a thing from his blank expression.

“Follow me,” he said, turning. He made his way down the hallway.

The walls were a pale blue colour, the woodwork pristine white; ornate light fittings and dark wood furnishings gave it the feel of a Georgian mansion. In fact, I had the sense of being in a museum, the air just as barren and odourless. In the midst of this, Jay seemed aloof. He had the same kind of unmarred polish, I realised with a start—today, at any rate. It was the untouchable brand of success that people were only ever born with.

The pram wheels turning in slow, gritty circles on the parquet was like nails across a blackboard. I wanted to cringe. Like we were a dirty secret, as we glided down the hall past one door and then another, I had a sense of being rushed through the house unseen.

He finally stopped at a door at the end of the hall—the study. He gestured for us to enter and then closed the door behind us. The feeling intensified. A guest should be shown into the living area, surely, not the study. The study was a place where people went to take care of business.

That said, the room was marginally less oppressive than the rest of the apartment. Pale grey, it had open windows looking out over the park, and the mussed air of a home. Books littered the shelves and the desk was covered with devices and papers and all manner of random bits and pieces. I noticed, however, a distinct lack of family photographs.

I glanced at him, wondering, not for the first time, who he was. It was surreal that this man’s family was Nina’s family. I might know his body intimately; I might know how he liked his coffee in the mornings: I might know that he slept naked, and always on his side, but I had no idea where he came from. There was a strange woman out there somewhere who was my daughter’s grandmother. I suddenly realised that the boorish, arrogant man I’d seen getting a blow-job from his P.A. was her grandfather.

“Take a seat,” he said, and I did so gratefully, my head spinning again. He tossed an expensive-looking phone down on the desk with disregard. “Do you need anything?” He frowned into the pram. “Does she?”

I gathered my wits. “Nina,” I said, pointedly.

He nodded.

“I’d like to see the test results,” I said, uncomfortable already. I angled the pushchair towards me. Sure enough Nina’s large eyes were hooded with fatigue; she looked ready to pass out.

He moved to the desk and rummaged in some papers. “Here,” he said, and handed me a standard letter sized sheet of paper. He was doing his best not to stare at the small occupant inside the pram but I could see his eyes being dragged back there time and again as though magnetised. He didn’t seem altogether entranced; he had the kind of look people often had when watching a crazy person loose in the street.

Shelving the ambivalent swirl of troubled emotions this stirred up on me, I turned my attention to the piece of paper.
Imagen Technologies
was printed in bold at the top, followed by ‘Observed Phenotypes’. There were two rows of three columns: mother, child and tested man. There were a bunch of numbers under each, more or less the same but not exactly. There was a lot of explanation, and I dug in, planning to read every word.

Jay obviously didn’t have the patience for that. Standing next to the fireplace, hands in his pockets, he said, “The first test is on the surfer in California,” he said evenly. “You can see that the numbers don’t match. The second is mine, and the numbers do match.”

I didn’t look up. “I get it,” I said. “I want to read it.”

“You don’t need to read it, Stella. Look on the other side.”

It was an effort to ignore him. I moved my eyes back to the start of the paragraph.

He waited a beat before exhaling. “Stella, the summary is on the other side.”

I turned the paper with a sigh.

“The first test is the surfer’s-”

“He’s a surf coach,” I said, irritated. “His name is Aaron.”

“Well, Aaron the surf coach’s test is inconclusive,” Jay said dryly. “Mine is conclusive; Nina and I share DNA.”

“How can you say this isn’t illegal?” I asked, the paper falling limp in my hand. “I mean, where did you get this DNA to test us? You can’t just test people, randomly, for parentage. Did you have someone following us?”

He paused for a fraction of a second, but long enough for me to notice. “I told you,” he said. “I have a friend in Washington who took care of it.”

“Yes, but was he sneaking around swabbing our cups? Where did he get Nina’s DNA?” Not for the first time since the fashion show, I was pricked by genuine alarm. It slithered across my skin like leeches.

Who is this man?

“And how did you find Aaron? I only ever told you about him in the vaguest terms.”

“None if this is important, Stella.”

I tossed the paper aside. “Don’t tell me what’s important, Jay. It’s important to me.” I stuttered for a moment, too many questions colliding in my head.

After a few deep breaths, I aimed for reason. “I realise I should have agreed to this earlier,” I said. I clasped my hands together in my lap. “But I didn’t refuse it, either. I just—didn’t believe it, didn’t think it was necessary. That doesn’t excuse your going behind my back.”

“Quite the contrary; I’d say it perfectly justifies it.”

“You’re married.” The accusation spilled over the edge of my control. “You’re clearly not particularly family-focused, Jay.” I glanced around at the comfortable but sterile room before resting my gaze back on him. He loomed above me, as cold as a bronzed statue. “What’s your wife saying about all of this?”

“Will you please stop going on about my marriage?” he said sharply. “It’s got nothing to do with this.”

I laughed despite myself. “You might want to check with your wife on that first.”

“I’m serious, Stella. I told you she wouldn’t be here today. I don’t want to discuss her.”

Sensing I’d hit a nerve, I reeled my emotions in a little. He crossed to the other side of the fireplace, hands firmly pressed into his pockets. I had no idea what kind of marriage he had to this woman. He’d been cheating on her despite what he’d told me, I knew that much. As far as I knew our original affair had happened before they’d married, but he’d lied to me since, so he could have been lying about that, too. Perhaps she knew and tolerated it.