He’d picked up Becca’s text after he woke up around two o’clock. He hadn’t even had a chance to grab a cup of coffee. So he was still a little groggy as he read the news. It was force of habit to check his phone the minute he rolled out of bed to make sure he was on top of things at the hospital, to make sure he hadn’t missed an important call or text.
In this case, he had.
Becca had called. Then, when he’d slept right through that, she’d texted. Her message had said, The results are in. She’d included a link to a website and a password.
He’d known what the results would be before he’d typed in the first character. He’d known in his bones that Becca wasn’t the kind of woman who would try to pawn off another guy’s child on someone else. He supposed he’d known the truth since the moment he’d set eyes on her again in the emergency room, but he hadn’t been able to wrap his mind around it.
A father. He was going to be a father. He couldn’t imagine a worse person for such an important job. The kid deserved better than anything he could offer. Of course he would provide for the child, but love? How could he love someone else when he didn’t even like himself sometimes?
The bald reality rolled around inside his gut, cold and heavy like a large ball bearing. To make it stop, he pushed up off the sofa bed and made short order of putting the couch back together, tossing the cushions into place. The chore had become a routine because if he didn’t put away his bed, it dominated the living space in the tiny efficiency apartment that sat above George and Mary Jane Hewitt’s garage. He’d rented the place on a month-to-month basis, figuring he’d find something more permanent once he got settled in his job and got to know the area. Since the place came fully furnished, he’d had the movers unload everything he owned, except his clothes, into a storage shed.
He didn’t spend much time at home, and as the modest apartment came with everything he needed, he really hadn’t missed the stuff that was stashed in those boxes. The Hewitts’ granddaughter was coming to live with them in January. So they wouldn’t offer more than a sixty-day lease. By that time, Nick figured he’d be settled in at the hospital and have a better read on the town. He’d even planned on looking up Becca.
It didn’t make any sense to unpack only to pack it all up again when he moved again after the first of the year. It felt good and light and free to not be weighed down by worldly possessions, even if temporarily.
But he hadn’t counted on the news that Becca was carrying his child.
He was going to be a father.
Maybe if he repeated the words to himself enough it would start to sink in. Yeah. No, that hadn’t happened yet.
As Nick made his way into the tiny kitchenette, he uttered a silent oath that was utterly unfatherly. He braced his arms on the edge of the slip of kitchen counter, where the coffeemaker and toaster lived. He knocked his head against the cabinet in front of him for not being more careful.
But he had been careful. They’d used protection. Short of being celibate, how much more careful could he be?
The only thing that was crystal clear now was, with Nick as its father, this poor kid was screwed. Nick wasn’t cut out to be a dad or a family man. The most devastating part of the equation was that this child hadn’t asked for this, hadn’t selected him. He or she—God, this was a person, a living, breathing human being whom he could screw up—deserved so much more than such a poor excuse for a father.
But like it or not, this child would arrive in about six months. There was no changing that. He squeezed his eyes together and raked both hands through his hair, which was still sleep mussed. Then he grabbed his phone and called Becca.
The phone rang three times, and he thought it might go to voice mail, but she answered.
“Hi, it’s Nick.”
There was a beat of silence, and for a moment he wondered if the call had dropped. He was just pulling the phone away from his ear to look at the screen when he heard her.
“Hi, Nick.” Her voice sounded neutral, almost businesslike. Of course, she was probably at work. And nearly four hours had passed since she’d texted him this morning.
“I just picked up your text.”
“Okay.”
She wasn’t going to make this easy on him, was she? Well, why should she?
Okay, so he had some smoothing over to do to convince her he wasn’t a first-class creep. But he still felt justified asking for proof positive. He hoped Becca would understand that the test results were the first step in moving forward.
“We have a lot to talk about,” he said.
“Do we, Nick?”
Her tone wasn’t hostile, just calm, eerily calm, a matter-of-fact answer to his feeble attempts to meet her halfway.
“I would ask you to have dinner tonight, but I have to work at seven. Would you have time to meet for coffee after you get off work?”
“Meet me in Central Park in downtown Celebration at five o’clock.”
He released a slow, controlled breath, both relieved and surprised that she’d agreed to see him. But she had, and that was the first step. They’d take it from there.
“I’ll see you then.”
“Nick,” she said. “I don’t expect you to marry me. So, don’t worry.”
What was he supposed to say to that? It was one of those damned if you do, damned if you don’t situations, and he wasn’t going there. This impassive front she was projecting was probably just a defense to gain control over a situation that felt way out of control. He felt out of control, too.
Becca had just told him he was off the hook. She’d just handed him a free pass. If he knew what was good for him, he’d take it and run. But he couldn’t. And that made him feel so out of control it was as if his world was spinning, and all he could do was hang on or risk being flung off into parts unknown.
Actually, maybe that had already happened. Maybe this weird alternate universe was where he’d landed.
“I’ll see you at five.”
* * *
He arrived at the park a little early. He left his motorcycle in a parking space along the street and sat on a bench, looking at the fall decorations adorning the gazebo. Kids played in the park, running and laughing and chasing each other, as he sat there trying to gather his thoughts before Becca arrived.
Her words I don’t expect you to marry me rattled in his brain. If Becca Flannigan was one thing, it was sincere. If she said it, she meant it. Nick knew he should’ve been relieved, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was feeling—
Until he saw her walking across the grass toward him in her red coat and boots. Something pinged in his gut. Awareness flooded his senses, and his body tightened in response.
An image of the night they were together played through his mind. A guy like him would be wise to ignore feelings like this. He shouldn’t lead her on and make her think he was promising things he couldn’t deliver. Becca and the baby deserved better than anything he had to offer. He had a history of tearing things apart, of ruining anything good that had ever come into his life.
She deserved to be married to the father of her child, if she wanted to be. Deserved to have a traditional family, a traditional life. The house with the white picket fence with dogs and cats in the yard, if that’s what she wanted.
He didn’t know for sure, because he didn’t know her at all. Even if every cell in his body tried to convince him otherwise. As he stood to greet her, he shook off the unbidden memory of their night together—holding her, kissing her, making love to her. He had to man up and knock it off.