I’d tried the head of the charity auction—Persephone VanDoren—and she’d been like a ferocious little guard dog when I’d asked for Nixon’s information. Admirable, really. If I was a celebrity athlete, I wouldn’t want anyone handing out my information without my permission either, but he deserved to know.
So here I was.
At the Raleigh Raptor training camp, amid hundreds of avid fans, braving the southern summer and making a complete fool of myself.
I absentmindedly smoothed a hand over my stomach, not yet able to physically feel that life inside me, but there was something more there. A spiritual connection I couldn’t begin to explain, especially not to Nixon, who looked like he might vomit. And his super stoic bodyguard tried his best to keep his eyes off of mine, but I could see the pity flashing there.
Damn, had this happened before? Often?
The stone silence radiated from Nixon so much it could’ve had its own pulse. God, maybe this had been a huge mistake.
He deserved to know.
Right. That’s all it came down to.
“I don’t want your status or your money,” I elaborated since he continued to stare at me like I’d suddenly slipped on rival colors. “My mother was a missionary,” I continued. “I was raised all over the world. We traveled with only the clothes on our back and what we could fit into a pack. I don’t need or want your money.” I emphasized the last sentence, hoping it would sink in.
The sun reflected the bits of gold in his deep brown eyes, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. I swallowed hard and tossed my ponytail over my shoulder. I hadn’t anticipated anger—shock, sure. Hesitation, absolutely. But anger? Who the hell could be mad at this? Somehow, above the odds—i.e., a condom—a life had managed to create itself using pieces of both of us. And it wasn’t like I was begging him to marry me or give me a check every month. God, I just wanted him to know the truth.
“Here,” I said, shoving my card into his hand. “That’s where I work. If you need to find me, that’s where I’ll be tonight.”
I spun on my heels, excusing myself through the crowd of fans who had been waiting impatiently for their chance at an autograph or selfie with the Nixon Noble.
Well, they could have him.
I’d done what I’d come to do. He knew the truth, and now it would be up to him if he wanted a role in this baby’s life or not.
“Great job advancing to crow pose!” I high-fived one of my regular students as he walked out of the studio, the last lingerer of the night.
I blew out a breath, adjusting the straps of my sports bra, my fingers slick with sweat. I’d had three classes tonight, and I couldn’t wait to get home for a cool shower and a nice binge-watch session on Netflix.
After a quick cleaning, I flicked off the studio lights, grabbed my bag, and headed for the front door. Stepping into the cool night air rose chills on my skin, and I hurried to lock the doors.
“Hey,” a male voice said behind me.
I whirled with my keys clenched between my fingers, only to drop my fist when I set eyes on said male.
Nixon Noble, to be precise.
“God,” I groaned, my hand splayed over the center of my chest. “Lurk much?”
Nixon’s brow furrowed, the motion causing those sexy little grooves to form between his eyebrows.
No. Not sexy. Angry, remember?
Angry at me for simply telling him the truth.
I popped my hip out and crossed my arms over my chest as I glared up at him.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his palms raised. He wore a simple white T-shirt that did nothing to hide his array of carved muscles. The form-fitting jeans didn’t help him look less perfect either. His dark brown eyes trailed the length of my body, pausing on my bare stomach as if he could see through it to what laid beneath. “I apologize for being shell-shocked earlier today,” he continued, drawing his eyes back to mine. “But…” He raked his fingers through his brown hair as he blew out a breath. “I’m going to need you to go over everything one more time.”
My lips parted, exhaustion weighing my entire body. “Okay,” I said the word like I spoke to one of my classes for five-year-olds. “First, we had an ice-breaker drink.” I raised my hands to illustrate my story and ticked off one finger. “Then, we started laughing at each other’s jokes.” I ticked off another finger. “Then we had two more drinks.” Another finger. “Then those drinks tasted so good we thought it would be a good idea to have a couple more.”
I swallowed hard—I didn’t regret the outcome of those drinks, but I did regret not remembering what it was like to have him between my legs. I mean, my God, he looked like a good time, the best time, the once-in-a-lifetime can’t stop shaking from all the orgasms time. And I couldn’t remember it.
“In summary,” I continued. “Drinks. Two pink lines. One baby.” I narrowed my gaze at him. “Wait, you’re a twin.” I remembered how kind his twin Nathan Nobel and his fiancé had been when we’d all gone to Vegas. My stomach dropped. “It better be one baby!”
Nixon paced the small space of sidewalk before me as he rubbed the back of his neck. He stopped suddenly, his gaze intently on mine. “Are you sure it’s mine?”
I clenched my teeth together.
“Have you been to a doctor? Where is your proof?” Panic and anger coated his tone as he continued to spew questions so fast I didn’t even have a chance to respond. “Have you told the press?”
I gaped at him, exhaustion forgotten and replaced by adrenaline. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I snapped and stepped into his space. “I told you I didn’t want anything from you,” I said, shaking my head. “God, I assumed you’d want to know that in less than nine months, you’ll have a child.”
The muscles in his biceps rippled as he shoved his hands into his pockets, the uncertainty, doubt, anger, and panic all churning in those damn eyes of his.
I studied him a bit longer, taking a minute to breathe deeply. What kind of people had he dealt with in his past to cause this sort of reaction?
“Look,” I said, blowing out another breath. I took a step backward, calming that anger inside me. “I meant what I said. I don’t want a thing from you. The last thing I need or want is money or material things. They’ve never meant anything to me.” I shrugged, benefits of being raised on the road. “You can sign over your rights to me,” I said. “If that makes you feel better.” Something heavy sank on my chest for the baby at the thought that its father would want nothing to do with it.
The words seemed to sink in because Nixon shifted slightly, the tension in his muscular shoulders loosening a fraction.
“I know that being together for twenty-four hours doesn’t give us a history, Nixon,” I continued when he hadn’t bothered to respond. “But you’re the only man I’ve slept with in over a year, so, yes, it’s yours. And as long as you don’t ever ask that question again, I can forget the other questions.”
Nixon nodded rapidly like I might’ve broken him.
I gave him a saddened once-over—when I found out, I’d been scared, sure, but mostly excited. He clearly was leaning toward suspicion and paranoia.