The asshole missed the first three years of his life, what makes him think he has any right to waltz back in?
He doesn’t deserve Jameson.
“Tell that sperm donor to go fuck himself,” I hear over the extension.
That doesn’t make any sense. Not unless...
“What the hell is he talking about?” I snap, wondering if she’s so drunk she’s now spewing fictitious shit.
Then again, Becca doesn’t have to be intoxicated to spin her webs of deceit.
“Hold on. I’m going to the bathroom.”
A few seconds later the music dies down.
“Sorry—”
“Why did that asshole call me a sperm donor?”
I hear her fiddling around with something. “Because that’s what I told him.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to tell my new boyfriend that I have an ex-boyfriend who still hangs around me and my kid. It’s weird and it would only make him think he couldn’t trust me.”
I have to stifle a laugh because she can’t be trusted.
Nevertheless, I get where she’s coming from. Not only is the dynamic hard to explain…it’s even harder to understand.
A strange sense of relief fills me because it’s much better than the alternative scenario I had in my head a minute ago.
The one that ended with me losing him.
“Where’s Jameson right now?”
“With Charlotte.”
“Again?” I question, not bothering to hide my annoyance.
“Yes, again. Where else would you like him to be?”
“I don’t know. How about with his mother?”
She huffs, like I’m wrong for even suggesting such a thing. “It’s Saturday night, Preston. I’m allowed to have a life.”
Going out on the weekends is one thing. Spending more time away from your kid than with him is another.
“He sees me more than he sees you.”
It’s frustrating as fuck how she doesn’t seem to comprehend that being a parent isn’t a recreational activity. It’s a lifetime commitment.
“You’re right.” For a moment I think I’ve managed to finally knock some sense into her, but then she says, “I think you and Jameson need to take a break. I’ll let you know when and if you can see him again.”
Panic curtains the edges of my vision and the walls feel like they’re closing in. “Be—”
The line goes dead.
I call her back, but it goes straight to voice mail.
“Goddammit.”
Rage spirals through me, and I throw my phone. It hits the wall with a loud thump, shattering the screen.
She’s ripping him away from me.
“Whoa. What’s going on?”
I whip around at the sound of Kit’s voice. She’s standing in the doorway of my bedroom, concern marring her pretty face.
I become worried for an entirely different reason.
How long has she been standing there? How much did she hear?
Given my balls are unharmed, I presume it wasn’t much.
Still…it was way too close of a fucking call.
“Did you forget how to knock?”
She doesn’t bother hiding her offense. “I tried, but you didn’t answer. Then I heard a loud bang followed by you yelling.” She turns on her heel. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I catch her elbow before she can flee the room. “Did you want something?”
“Huh?”
“Why were you snooping outside my door?” I clarify.
Yanking her arm away, she spins around. “I wasn’t. I came to tell you that the party starts in ten minutes, so if you want to escape without running into a bunch of people, now’s your chance.” Her nose scrunches. “You’re awfully defensive right now. Were you planning on doing something you shouldn’t?”
Here we fucking go. I knew this bet was a terrible idea.
But the reward was way too tempting to turn down.
“No.” The opportunity to kill two birds with one stone has now presented itself, so I take it. “That was a bookie of mine on the phone. The odds for an upcoming basketball game are phenomenal, but I told him I had to pass.”
Her expression softens. “I guess that explains why you were so upset.”
I nod and the smile she gives me nearly stops my fucking heart.
“I’m proud of you.”
She shouldn’t be. The odds that I’ll fuck up and disappoint her are far greater than the phenomenal ones I fabricated a few seconds ago.
Despite my earlier claims, I’m fully cognizant of the profound influence gambling has over me, and the trouble it’s caused me…
And my exceptions.
I just can’t bring myself to stop.
Reaching down, Kit gives my hand a squeeze. “I know it’s hard, but we’ll get through it.”
The contact heats my blood and I rake my gaze over her frame. I figured she’d be in a dress or some shit because that’s what most chicks wear to parties.
But not Kit.
She’s in a pair of tight jeans and a white top that shows off her toned, flat abdomen. The black blazer with rolled up sleeves should make her look like a character from an ’80s sitcom, but somehow she makes it work. Even with all the black shit lining her eyes.
Unable to resist, I trace the crest of her high cheekbone with my thumb. I want to run my fingers through her hair and drag her mouth to mine, but it’s pulled back in some kind of messy braid concoction.
“You look good.”
More than good. She’s gorgeous—so perfectly imperfect—she still steals my breath every time I look at her.
Her long lashes sweep upward and a faint blush colors her cheeks. “Thanks.”
Fuck. I want her. Badly.
So much it consumes me.
But as visceral as the urge to bury myself balls deep inside her is…it’s not why I agreed to the bet.
I’d never fuck her unless I was positive she wanted me to.
However, one day my house of cards will crumble.
Because I’m going to tell her the truth.
Not only will she be destroyed, she’s going to see me for exactly what and who I am.
And when that happens, I’m going to want something even more than I want her body, money, or poker…
Her forgiveness.
Chapter 23
Kit
“I should go.”
Am I telling him…or myself?
Definitely the latter. Because the way he’s looking at me right now—like I’m the only one in the room is seriously screwing with my head.
Then again, technically I am the only one in the room. Well, other than him.
Holy cannoli. Get a grip, Kit.
But I don’t. Instead, I mock punch his shoulder. “Catch you on the flip side.”
I’m about to leave, but he catches my wrist.
“Why are you acting weird?” He makes a face. “Well, weird for you.”
Because you’re giving me butterflies.
Little, itty-bitty, baby ones. But still butterflies, nonetheless.
Especially now that I see how hard he’s trying to better himself.
For me, but most importantly…for himself.