“Hey,” I answered as the sun hit my face, and the door swung closed behind me. The air was sticky with humidity.
“Nixon?” she asked, her tone slightly hesitant.
“Yep.”
“This is Liberty.”
“I know.” The corners of my mouth lifted in a slight smile. “You put your name into my phone, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” I pictured her shaking her head. “I have the proof you asked for…if you still want it. If not, my offer stands. You can sign your rights over and delete my number. There’s zero pressure.”
Damn, my chest felt like it was in a vise at those words. “I want it. The proof,” I rushed the second part and wondered just how awkward this conversation could get.
“Okay. I’m free tonight, but my car is in the shop so I can’t come—”
“I’ll come to you,” I interrupted. “What time do you want me?”
There were a few heartbeats of silence. “You’re willing to come to my place?”
“Do you really think I’m that big of an asshole that I wouldn’t come to your house when you’re telling me that you’re carrying my child?” My temper flared, and I looked both ways, making sure no one heard me nearly shout that. Where was my trademark control?
“Well, no. You just didn’t seem interested.”
“I’m interested.” I pressed on the spot between my eyes, feeling a headache coming on.
“Well then, okay. I’ll text you my address. Seven o’clock work for you?” Her voice perked up.
I mentally ran through my schedule. The last thing I would do to Liberty was make any commitment I couldn’t follow through on. “That works for me.”
“I’ll see you then.”
There was no way my baby was going to grow up here…if I was actually having a baby. The floors of the stairwell that led to Liberty’s fourth-story walk-up were filthy, and there wasn’t even a lock on the exterior door. Anyone who wanted could walk in, and the only barrier would be Liberty’s own door.
Did she feel safe here? How was she going to carry a baby up those steps every day? Or a stroller?
The hallway reeked of beer, which was pretty typical of the buildings close to any college campus, but now it made me cringe. There were at least six different songs being played from six different systems down the hallway. Could a baby even sleep here? Could Liberty? Didn’t pregnant women need sleep?
I reached apartment 419 and knocked, then curved the brim of my Reapers baseball cap. It was the only hat besides my Raptor one in the car, and that one had been blatantly obvious.
“I’ve got it!” I heard Liberty shout.
A few seconds later, the door opened, and those green eyes hit me like a punch to the stomach when Liberty looked up at me. Fuck, she was beautiful.
Stop it.
“Hi.” I swallowed. Barely.
“Hi.” She stared for a second—we both did. Then she shook her head rapidly and smiled. “I mean, come in.” She stepped back and swung the door wide.
“Thank you.” I walked in and removed my hat, shoving the fabric into my back pocket, bill-out, because even though I hadn’t lived at home for eight years, I still subconsciously feared my mother’s arched eyebrow. It was the same at the dinner table. There was zero chance that Nate, Nick, or I would have risked getting caught with a hat on. But that was before Nick died.
Wait…where was Liberty’s dining room table? Where was her dining room?
I scanned the cramped surroundings as she shut the door behind me. We stood on a square of linoleum that served as an entry. The carpet was worn and frayed. A basket of mail overflowed in the pass-through to my right that looked into the small, galley kitchen, and the living room began where the linoleum ended. There were three women who looked to be about Liberty’s age on an avocado-green sofa that looked like it had survived at least a handful of presidents, but thankfully they were engrossed in whatever major league baseball game was on TV.
This was the type of place I’d lived all through college, but I couldn’t imagine raising a baby here.
“Sorry, my roommates already had plans to watch the game,” Liberty said quietly from behind me.
“No problem.” I turned sideways so she could slide by and tried like hell to keep my eyes off her ass in those tiny, cut-off shorts. I failed. My hands clenched as if they remembered the feel of grasping that ass tightly and swinging her into my lap. Had that actually happened, or were my fantasies of her that vivid?
Her brow puckered as she glanced from her roommates to me and back again. “Maybe we should—”
A guy with a shaggy haircut walked around the corner from the kitchen, carrying a couple of beers, and glanced our way. His eyes widened in a way I knew all-too-well, and he startled.
“Holy. Shit. You’re…you’re Nixon Noble. Guys, that’s Nixon Noble!” He juggled the beer cans, trying to recover from the sudden jolt, but it was a lost cause.
One flew free, and I snapped my hand out and caught it before it could hit Liberty.
“Whoa. Your reflexes are insane,” he praised, drawing out the last word.
“They’re all right.” I stacked the caught can onto his pile.
“Cory, why don’t you go watch the game?” Liberty told more than asked. “Heather, help me out here?”
“Wait, how do you know Liberty?” Cory asked, clearly bewildered.
Don’t snap on the kid, I reminded myself, but it was hard. I just wanted to get Liberty alone, not deal with a star-struck grad student.
“The charity auction thing, remember, honey?” a worried redhead said as she reached for Cory’s hand. Her gaze bounced between all three of us. “Come watch the game.”
“Wait, so you two are like…dating?” Cory asked.
Liberty tensed.
“That’s none of our business,” the redhead—Heather—snapped, then tugged him into the living room.
“I saw three of your games last year!” the kid called back.
“Thank you.”
“Quick, follow me before he starts citing stats or something,” Liberty urged, grabbing my hand and rushing down the hall to the left.
How many people lived here? I dodged piles of laundry like they were tackling dummies and nearly froze at the sight of their bathroom. There were towels and makeup and girly shit everywhere. Everywhere.
She pulled me into the first bedroom and shut the door behind us.
“How many roommates do you have?” I asked, spotting two twin beds, two dressers, and a mountain of shoes. Books lay in heaps on top of a spindly, mismatched desk, and clothes oozed out of the closet.
“Three. I share this room with Heather. Monica and Julie share the other one.” She squirmed past me and flushed at the sight of the closet. “Sorry, I was at work until about an hour ago, and I chose a shower over cleaning the room.”
“I don’t care,” I said, noting that one bed was made and one wasn’t. Please let hers be the made one.
She shoved the pile of clothes back into the closet and threw me a disbelieving look. “You look like you do.”
“I don’t.” I lied. It wasn’t that I was judgy. I didn’t care how other people lived. But in my life, everything had a place, and if it wasn’t in that place…well, I put it there. Clothes were hung by occasion, color and sleeve-length. Shoes were shelved in pairs. Socks were mated, then organized by purpose and color. How the hell could she find anything in here?