“We’re not old. Nor friends.”
He laughs, running his fingers through his hair. “This is why I like you.”
I arch a brow. “Because I hate you?”
He bites his lip in a gesture that I know he doesn’t intend to be sexual but oozes in sex appeal. “Oh, babe, we both know you don’t hate me.”
I take a sip of my coffee and set the cup down on the table. “I don’t?”
He leans in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Haven’t you ever been told the line between love and hate is thin? You think you’re on the side of hate, but I know better.”
I narrow my eyes. “That so?”
“Mhmm,” he hums.
“So cocky.”
“Confident, not cocky—there’s a difference, babe.”
Stirring my drink with the straw, I hesitantly ask him, “How long are you back in town for?”
“Permanently.”
“Why’d you leave?”
He plucks a marker from his pocket and starts doodling on his cup, not quite meeting my eyes. Pursing his lips, he finally says, “Because I had to.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Something shadows his face. “I know.”
My stomach drops. What if he has a wife and children somewhere else? I mean, I doubt it, but you never know and he’s acting weird.
His tongue sticks out slightly between his pouty lips as he works on whatever he’s drawing on his cup.
“For someone who wanted to have breakfast you’re sure being quiet.”
He looks up, flicking his hair out of his eyes. “You’re the one who said we couldn’t have breakfast and I need a lot longer than five minutes to talk to you.” Standing, he smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll see you later.”
Before I can reply, he switches our drinks in a blink of an eye, striding out the door before I can even offer a retort.
Picking up the cup, I study the roses and thorny vines he drew easily in only a minute. Spinning the cup, I find them wrapped around a number. His number. It’s different than the one I tried so many times to get ahold of him on. Looking out the window of the coffee shop I watch him disappear from sight and into his shop.
My stomach rolls, because if Travis is indeed back permanently there’s definitely no hiding the tiny human that’s half his who’s currently only a matter of feet from him and he doesn’t even know it.
Fuck. I’m so screwed.
Chapter Four
Alba
Locking the shop door behind me I stifle a yawn. It’s been a long day and I’m exhausted after working on a four-hour piece, but at least I’m not in pain like the client. It was worth it. The intricate dragon is one of the most detailed pieces I’ve had the pleasure of doing. Thankfully, my mom picked up Dahlia after she was done with her work, so I didn’t have to worry about the baby.
“You’re just finishing up too?”
“Ahh!” I shriek, throwing my heavy purse—I swear my entire life is in that thing—at the perpetrator.
“Jesus Christ!” The breath gets knocked out of Travis as my purse collides with his stomach. “What is that?”
“Don’t sneak up on people!” I shriek, causing more than a few heads to turn in our direction. Dropping to my knees I grab my bag, stuffing the few things that fell out back inside. Thankfully none of them are baby items.
“I didn’t sneak,” he defends, swiping a tube of lipstick and passing it to me. “You’re just oblivious.”
I narrow my eyes on his ridiculously handsome face. “Do you want me to punch you in the face?” I wiggle my fist menacingly but the way he laughs I must not look ferocious at all, which makes me frown. Here I am trying to look menacing and I probably look like a yapping puppy.
“You can try.” He rubs his jaw. “Could you even reach my face?”
“I’d find a way,” I grumble under my breath, walking around the building toward the parking lot a block away. “Why are you walking with me?”
He gives a shrug, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Thought I’d walk you home.”
My steps falter, panic rising, but then I remember he thinks I still live downtown. “I moved.”
He arches a brow. “Moved? Where?”
“Across town.”
My townhouse is nothing extravagant, but it’s definitely better for Dahlia and me compared to the old apartment I lived in.
“Why?”
“Why’d I move?” I repeat in confusion. “Because I can. Because I wanted to. What’s it to you?” I realize I probably sound way too defensive and wince, closing my eyes.
“You’re with someone now.” I don’t know how or why he draws this conclusion and I swear I detect the barest hint of hurt in his tone.
I don’t correct him even though I should. “Yeah.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear to hide the shaking in my fingers over the lie. “I am.”
He rubs his lips together, bowing his head. “That’s that then, I guess?”
“Mhmm.” I know better than to open my mouth because I suck at lying.
He clears his throat and looks away. “Let me at least walk you to your car. It’s dark.”
I nod, because this part of town can be sketchy at this hour. “Okay.”
It only takes us three minutes to make it to the parking lot and my waiting car. Thank God it’s too dark for him to see the baby seat in my car—my mom has her own when she has Dahlia.
I open up my car door and he stands a few feet away. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He taps the bottom of the carton against his palm a few times before opening the new box. He slides out two white cylinders, offering one to me since I used to smoke.
“No, thanks. I quit.” After I got pregnant I knew I had to quit cold turkey. It was hell, but I don’t regret it. I had been trying to quit for years and nothing ever worked, but I wasn’t willing to harm my unborn baby.
He chuckles, putting one away and placing the other between his lips. “A lot’s changed, huh?”
More than he knows. “Life goes on.”
He lights up and inhales a lungful, letting it go slowly as he looks toward one of the streetlights. “That is does,” he murmurs. His eyes meet mine in the dark and in them I see regret and something that looks almost like longing. “Be safe.”
He taps the hood of my car as he walks past and I slip inside, starting the engine.
Blowing out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, I finally put the car in reverse and go to pick up my daughter.
Chapter Five
Travis
I’ve been home a week and living off takeout, so that means a trip to the grocery store is necessary. Grabbing a cart, I stroll over to the fruits and vegetables first. More than a few eyes stray my way, zeroing in on the tats covering both my arms and wrapped around my neck. I can see the judgment, feel it too, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve always found it amusing how people want to base someone’s worth on whether or not their skin is naked or covered in ink. Last I checked, a tattoo doesn’t make someone asshole—that’s all personality. But apparently there’s this old school thought that if you’re tatted, you’re a thug.