Fire shoots from her eyes. No, not literally, but if that could happen, I would have been burned by the flames. “Funny, you’re still denying responsibility.”
My heart stops beating. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Did she just…did she just say what I think she did?
She stands up, her chair scraping loudly on the floor as it slides backward. She pins me with a look that would make a weaker man tremble, but for some crazy reason, makes me excited. “Go to hell, Tate Steele.”
Chapter Four
Ashtyn
Ugh, I know it’s not appropriate to punch people, but I could seriously deck this guy in the face. Who does he think he is? I told him who the father is—that he was the father—months ago. He denied it and basically told me to go away. That was after he ignored my first message.
Screw him.
Screw his blasé attitude.
He just waltzes in here with food, under the guise of being a concerned friend of my brother’s, and accuses me of trying to pass off my son as his. Like I’m some Tate Steele groupie, who throws their panties on the field every time he tosses a ball. Or grins. Or waves.
Or just looks at you with that smoldering intensity.
Damn him.
I open my mouth to let everything that’s built up inside me since the moment I peed on the stick—hell, probably since the second I woke up in my brother’s guest bed with only the memories of what happened the night before—when we’re interrupted.
“Uhh, Ash?” my brother hollers from the living room, a hint of nervousness in his voice that catches my attention right away.
I turn and head that way, Tate hot on my heels. “What? What’s wrong?” I ask the second I cross the threshold.
My brother looks horrified, my son starting to squirm in his arms. I can tell by his mannerisms he’s about to let a very unhappy cry fly. I realize instantly what’s wrong when the unforgiving scent hits my nose.
Tate sniffs beside me and gasps in disgust. “Holy shit,” he mumbles, bringing his arm up to cover his nose. “That smell is coming from that tiny human?”
“Dude, I think it’s seeping through the blanket. My arm feels wet.” Alex looks at me with pleading eyes, but I can’t help it, I laugh. “Really? This is funny?” He gapes at me, trying to hide his gags.
I nod, feeling somewhat lighter as I giggle at my brother’s disgust and discomfort. “Sorry,” I reply, trying to push my giggles aside to help. I carefully lift my son from my brother’s arms, noticing the wet, brown mark on the arm of his T-shirt.
Alex seems to notice at the same time. “God, that’s disgusting.”
“Your nephew shit on you,” Tate states matter-of-factly, but there’s no missing the humor dancing in his hazel eyes.
“It happens,” I say with a shrug before turning and heading off to the nursery. Rowan starts to squirm, no doubt not happy to have poop seeping from the top and bottom of his diaper. In Rowan’s two short weeks of life, I’ve been pooped on three times and peed on twice. That thing’s like a jet hose the second it’s exposed to air.
Carefully, I remove the swaddle blanket, setting it aside to wash, and start to work on his onesie. Yeah, there’s greenish-brown sludge everywhere. “You’re not going to like this, Little Man, but a bath it is.” The cord fell off his belly button a few days ago, so bathing is a little easier. He doesn’t mind, as long as his body is submerged in the warm water, but he’s not a fan of soaping up.
I grab wipes and start to clean him as much as possible while removing his clothes. He really starts to get upset the longer it takes, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Worse, my boobs hear his cries and think it’s time for a feeding. I can feel the wetness seeping through my bra, but sadly, it’s going to have to wait. Taking care of Rowan comes first.
I move to the bathroom, grateful when I don’t see my brother or Tate in the living room. I’m assuming they’re in the kitchen, eating the rest of the lunch they brought. I push the door so it’s only cracked open and crouch down by the shower. I grab the infant bathtub and set it down. I’ve become a pro at doing things one-handed. Rowan still voices his displeasure, but it’s not as bad now, as I fill the small tub with warm water. I strip off the clean diaper and carefully lower him into the water.
Squatting beside the tub, I lather up his little body, mindful of his face and eyes. Using a little frog pitcher, I use fresh water from the spout to rinse away the suds. “You definitely smell a lot better now,” I tell him, as the door creaks open behind me.
I assume it’s my brother, so when another voice fills the room. “Much better now.” When he notices my startle, he adds, “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
Ignoring his presence, I finish giving Rowan his bath. When he’s clean and rinsed, I reach for a hooded towel, which, of course, is just out of my reach. Tate moves silently and quickly, pulling the top towel off the stack and handing it to me. I’m already smiling as I spread the terry cloth across my legs, because it has bear ears on the top, making my little guy look like the cutest bear in the world.
The moment his naked body hits the cool air, Rowan lets out a very unhappy holler, drawing his legs up as I lie him down on my lap. I work quickly, drying him off and wrapping him in the towel, completely oblivious to the very wet marks in the centers of my bra. When Rowan is secure, I stand up and turn around, only to be stopped in my tracks by a six foot four inch brick wall.
My gaze locks with his for a second before his drops down. He’s staring intently, and while I assume it’s at Rowan, the moment I follow his scrutiny, I realize it’s not on the baby. Not at all. Tate is openly staring at my chest. Specifically, at the wet circles around my nipples from leaking.
I gasp, my mouth falling open as my shocked eyes meet his. “Uhhh…”
I adjust Rowan, using him as a human shield. “Can we pretend you didn’t see that?” I ask, mortification burning my face.
“Is that…”
“Yeah, milk. Sometimes, when he cries, my breasts think it’s time to eat.”
Tate glances back down to my face, and then over my shoulder. It’s as if he doesn’t quite know where to look. He clears his throat and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
I take the opportunity to slip around his huge body. “I need to get him dry and dressed,” I state, heading straight for the nursery. I don’t pay any attention to Tate, though I know he’s there, lurking in the doorway. I can feel his presence. I’m still not sure why, but I plan to find out.
Just not now. Not with my brother nearby.
When Rowan is dressed in a clean diaper and outfit, I scoop up my son, prepared to feed him. The moment I rest him against my chest, I realize I’m still wearing my wet shirt. I hate the feel of damp material against my skin, and especially against Rowan and his fresh outfit. “I need to change my shirt,” I mumble to no one.
A shadow falls over me, and I look way up to meet Tate’s hazel eyes. They look greener right now in the dim light, and I hate how much I love that particular color and the way my heart skips around in my chest with excitement. “May I?” he asks, breaking through my thoughts and holding out his hands.