Текст книги "Loving Him Off the Field"

Автор книги: Jeanette Murray

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Twenty

Killian walked up the steps of his apartment, keychain swinging around his finger, whistling. Life was good. Practice had been fantastic, the team had really rallied after that embarrassing show in Miami, and he was in his last week of his agreement with Aileen. After the interview was over and done with, he’d slowly start working his way toward telling her about Charlie . . . once he was one hundred percent positive it wouldn’t be a problem.

Not that Charlie was the problem. His son was never the problem. Emma, however . . .

As he stuck the key into the lock of his front door, he heard Mrs. Reynolds’ door open behind him. He sighed inwardly, plastered a smile on his face, and turned toward her.

And the smile froze as he saw Emma and Charlie standing on the threshold of Mrs. Reynolds’ door. Charlie clutched a Hulk action figure in his hand, and Emma held onto the handle of a rolling suitcase.

“Daddy!” Charlie squealed, then bolted at him. Killian barely managed to bend down in time to catch him. Hauling his son up on his hip—dang, the kid was getting huge—he gave him a massive hug, then looked him over once for injuries. “Hey, bud. You okay? What’s wrong? Anything hurt?”

Charlie giggled as Killian’s hand passed over his side. “That tickles, Daddy. No hurts.”

No hurts. He hugged Charlie again, pressing a kiss to his clean, baby powder–scented hair that was identical to his own. Then he glanced at Emma over their son’s head. “What the hell?” he mouthed.

She smiled grimly and stepped aside for Mrs. Reynolds.

“I caught these two hovering around your door about an hour ago. And I said to myself, there’s a young man who needs a cookie.” She gazed softly at Charlie, who giggled again and held up two fingers. “Or maybe two.”

“Uh-huh. Well, thank you, Mrs. Reynolds.” He swung the door open wide and gestured for Emma to walk in ahead of him. “I appreciate you entertaining them. Must have gotten my times mixed up.”

“Anytime I can have a wonderful little boy over for some lively entertainment is a good day,” she said, patting her hair. Not that any of it was out of place, with as much hairspray as she likely used on it. Then, with a sharp look that told Killian she’d caught on to the situation, she added, “He’s a good boy, that one. A good egg. I’m sure his parents are very lucky to have him.”

Killian nodded, his throat closing up tight. Then he walked in and shut the door. “Hey, bud, wanna watch a movie?”

“Yeah!” Charlie ran for the couch and jumped on it, bouncing once before settling. His bright red shirt with Iron Man’s mask stood out so much against the light brown couch. Beaming, his son slapped his knees and said, “Which one?”

“How about we try in here?” Killian went to the second door, took out his keys and unlocked it. Opening it wide, he grinned as Charlie gave a loud squeal of joy and ran in.

The second bedroom consisted of a twin-size bed with navy blue comforter, a simple dresser he’d bought at Target and assembled himself, and some posters of comic book characters and heroes he knew Charlie loved. The small TV and Xbox console that sat on the dresser, along with an assortment of DVDs and age-appropriate games were what really caught his attention.

The dresser and closet, Killian knew, also contained just a few sets of clothes, and an extra set of bedsheets.

By some people’s standards, it was a pretty basic room. But it was something he’d had to do.

“When did you put this together?” Emma asked quietly.

Killian shrugged, embarrassed. “Just, you know, things here or there if they caught my eye.” Which was a lie. The day he’d moved in to the apartment, he’d bought a crib and diapers to keep, just in case. The fact that Charlie had never used them was a sucker punch to the gut. But he’d been able to donate them to a shelter, and that had felt good. Sneaking them in and out without Mrs. Reynolds seeing had been another story altogether. And replacing them with little boy–appropriate furniture and accessories had soothed the ache.

“It’s sweet, that he has a place here.”

Not that he’d ever used it.

There was no reason for saying so. He was using it now, even if it was unexpected.

Charlie kicked off his shoes with flair and rolled around on the bed. “What movies do we got?”

After a quick debate, he chose The Tales of Despereaux. Killian started the movie, his heart swelling as he turned around and found Charlie already snuggling with a stuffed monster from Monster’s Inc. “Your mom and I are gonna be right out here, okay?”

Already engrossed in the movie, Charlie waved him off. “Okay, bye.”

Killian hated to make his son watch a movie five minutes after seeing him, but he and Emma were going to have a serious Come To Jesus, and their son needed to be sheltered from it.

He found Emma sitting primly at the kitchen table, a glass of water in front of her and her purse slung over the arm of the chair. The luggage, he noted, had been shifted to sit next to the couch. She waved him into the opposite chair, as if she were a queen bestowing a peasant the honor of her presence. He sat, because if he didn’t, he might go into the kitchen and find something to throw at her.

“What the hell, Emma?”

“Charlie missed you,” she said simply, as if that were all the explanation needed for why she’d broken a nearly six-year-long agreement to not pull this shit. “And I was sick of you blowing off his calls and visits.”

“I call back when I miss one of his. And one visit, Emma. One fucking visit.”

“Don’t use that word when he’s around,” she warned, but Killian sliced a hand through the air.

“You’re one to talk about rules. Sneaking around, breaking our own agreement? Nice co-parenting style you’ve got there, Emma.”

“You were—”

“The season is busy for me. Always has been. Always will be. It’s my job. And I’ve got a freaking reporter dogging my heels until the end of the regular season. You thought now, of all times, was the best opportunity to show me up?”

She bit her bottom lip for a moment, but he didn’t buy the innocent act. She was a good mom, a great one. And she’d been easy to work with in regards to Charlie’s custody and parenting. But something was up, and he wasn’t about to let her get away with just violating the rules so easily.

“I need some time off.”

Time off. “What, like a vacation? You want a vacation? For God’s sake, Emma.” He sat back and let his hands fall to the table. “You couldn’t have told me that on the phone? Two weeks from now, you can take a month off. You know I’ve never said no when you wanted a long weekend or a trip or whatever. As long as I could swing it, I’ve always said yes. I’ve always come up to stay with him when you wanted to go to a conference or see your mom out in Portland.”

Her eyes shifted to the side, and he saw how tired they were. “It’s not a long weekend, Killian. It’s . . . I need just some time off. I’m full-time mommy, full-time real estate agent, and . . .” She blew out a breath. “I’m seeing someone.”

That took him by surprise. “Oh.”

“He’s really nice,” she rushed on to say. “He’s forty-five, a mortgage broker. No kids of his own, but he’s good with Charlie. They’ve met a few times, but I’ve only told Charlie he was my friend.” She smiled a little. “It’s not serious yet, but I hope it will be. He wanted to take me away for a week and when you weren’t being plugged in, I just panicked. I’m sorry.”

“A mortgage broker.” He smiled at the job title, something so completely commonplace. The total opposite of his job. “That’s good, Emma.” She was nearly ten years his senior, and he’d wondered as she approached forty, if she would ever want to find a man and marry. Maybe have another child or two. He didn’t begrudge her the opportunity, and jealousy had no place in their relationship. They’d never been in love. But . . . “Does he know?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. Blonde tendrils of her professional twisting updo fell around her ears and she pushed them back. “He knows Charlie’s father lives out of state and sees him when he can, and that we were never married or anything. But not, you know, details.”

The details were potentially a deal breaker for anyone. “Emma, I don’t wanna tell you how to run your life but—”

“I know, Killian.” Her voice hardened. “I know. If he’s not the guy for me, I’ll figure it out before I share that little tidbit. If he is, then he won’t hold my past against me.”

Fear was like a struggling worm against a hook in his heart. It was all he could do not to reach across the table, grip her arms, and beg her not to say a word to anyone. For Charlie. But on the same side of the coin . . .

“I’ve sort of met someone, too.”

She raised a brow. “Did you?”

“Not like that,” he said, shooting her a narrow look. “She’s nice. It’s not like before. She’s not a groupie or . . . you know.” Even years later, he tried not to use the word in case it offended Emma.

“A call girl? Escort?” She smiled at that, as if amused by her former self. “Well, that’s good. Enough time has passed, you know. Maybe nobody will even put two and two together.”

“We agreed not to risk it,” he said in a low voice. “Both of us. Just like we agreed to time our visits better than this, with no surprises. We agreed not to take chances.”

“And I said I’m sorry. You don’t have to remind me like I’m a child. I made a mistake.”

Charlie yelled in the distance, egging Despereaux on in whatever adventure he was currently partaking in. They both sat quietly for a moment, listening to their son’s eager, happy chattering and encouragement.

“I always feel so guilty,” she said quietly. “That his start was so abnormal. So surprising. I love him, and I don’t regret him, but I feel like he got cheated out of a really great childhood. He’s got a good one, but it could be great, with both of us nearby.”

“I know.” He held out a hand and Emma placed hers in it. He squeezed. “We’re doing the best we can. Dr. Phil doesn’t have any parenting books with the subtitle, Help, the media is after me!” He grinned. “I checked.”

She laughed and squeezed, then released his hand. Her bracelet clinked against the kitchen table as she put her palms down to stand. In her simple navy skirt and light blue button-down shirt, she looked every inch the successful real estate agent and single mother she was. Nobody would look at her and think she’d once been a high-priced call girl for any athlete ready to pay.

“So, should I make dinner or will you?”

He shook his head, putting away thoughts of Aileen for the evening. “I’ll run out and grab something. There’s a great Thai place not too far. Charlie still like Thai?”

Emma nodded and smiled. “This week, anyway. And Killian?” When he paused at the door, she pressed a cool hand to his cheek. “Thanks for not freaking out on me. I made a mistake. You’re a big enough guy not to rub my nose in it.”

“You’re Charlie’s number one mom.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and grabbed his keys off the hook by the door. “And besides, I’m a big enough screw-up myself.”

“That you are,” she said with a wink, and closed the door behind him.

* * *

Aileen paused in the midst of knocking on Killian’s door. Her phone beeped and she checked the text. Maybe it was Killian, asking her to come over. Wouldn’t that be a cute little moment, to say Check the door, stud, and be standing there?

But no, it was Bobby, reminding her she had a week to provide more compelling footage or she was DOA.

“Charming,” she muttered, then shoved the phone back in her tote. As she debated sending the little “Invite me over,” text to Killian herself, Mrs. Reynolds’ door opened.

“Oh, sweetie, it’s you.” Killian’s neighbor smiled warmly. “Why don’t you come in and sit with me awhile? I saw him leave a bit ago.”

Aileen blinked and looked at Killian’s closed door. “Really? This late in the evening?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, reaching for Aileen’s arm. “Wheel of Fortune is about to come on. I always need a little extra help with the puzzles. Why don’t you come in, and we’ll pass the time together? You can help with all the pop culture.” With one frail arm wrapped around Aileen’s wrist in a surprisingly firm grip, Mrs. Reynolds towed Aileen toward her apartment. “Tell me, do you know who this Ke-dollar sign-heh gal is? Why does she need a dollar sign? Is an ‘S’ not good enough?”

Aileen chuckled and let herself be pulled. But when Killian’s door opened behind her, she whipped her head around.

A woman, close to forty years old, in a neat button-down shirt and dark skirt, walked out into the breezeway holding the hand of a small boy in a bright red shirt and unruly brown hair.

“Are you sure you left Iron Man in the car?” the woman asked carefully. “I don’t remember packing him.”

“Yes,” the boy said. “He’s in there. And I neeeeeeeeed him.”

Mrs. Reynolds relaxed her grip and sighed. “Well,” she muttered, “I tried.”

“Mrs. Reynolds,” Aileen said slowly. “Who—”

“Daddy said after the season’s over, we’re having a whole Avengers marathon.” The boy bounced on the balls of his scuffed tennis shoes as they headed down the staircase.

Aileen froze. Daddy? Her mind flashed back to the call the night before. The prank call, he’d said, when someone asked for Daddy.

No. There was no way. He wouldn’t have outright lied to her, would he have?

Of course he would have. He never wanted to do the interview in the first place, a little sinister voice whispered.

Give him the benefit of the doubt, she ordered herself. Even though it looked hopeless.

She went and knocked on Killian’s door while Mrs. Reynolds watched in unabashed curiosity.

“I told you, he left,” she reminded Aileen.

Aileen forced herself to take two calming breaths. Except they did nothing. She closed her eyes and let her forehead fall to the door.

Son of a bitch.

Mrs. Reynolds coughed loudly. “They’re coming back, dear.”

Aileen lifted her head in time to see the ice-blonde and the young boy approaching. In his hand, Iron Man rested.

“Hello,” the blonde said coolly. “Can I help you?”

“I . . .” Forgot my own name, apparently. “Hi. Is Killian available?”

“No, he’s stepped out.” The woman walked to the door, pausing while Aileen stepped out of the way. When she opened it, she shuffled the boy inside. She didn’t invite Aileen in—though why would she? They were strangers. “I can tell him you came by, though. What’s your name?”

“Just tell him Fr—Aileen came by. He’ll know why.” She stepped back, then couldn’t help but ask, “Are you his sister, by any chance?”

The woman just watched her, neither confirming nor denying.

“Right.” Something was gnawing at the center of her heart, leaving a bruise in its wake. “Okay, well—”

“Mom, who’s that?”

The voice was familiar, though Aileen couldn’t be positive if it were the one from the phone. She’d been half-comatose at the time. But when the little boy popped his head around what she assumed was his mother’s legs, there was no mistaking that face. Those unruly mink-brown locks. Those eyes.

Killian. Twenty-some odd years ago, that would have been Killian’s face.

The gnawing became a full-blown pain and she balled a fist against her chest. “I . . . I have to go.” She turned and stumbled toward the stairs, barely making it to her car before the tears started.

Chapter Twenty-one

Killian nudged the door open with his elbow and closed it behind him with his foot. “Dinner’s here. Get it while it’s hot, cause you know it’ll suck if we re-heat it.”

“Completely unnecessary use of the word ‘suck,’” Emma chided as she came to take one of the takeout bags from him. “But thank you for getting dinner.”

“Sure thing. Charlie! Come and get it!”

Charlie raced into the kitchen, green Hulk and an Iron Man clutched in his hands. “I’m busy saving the world. Can it wait?”

“Not if you want it to taste good. The world’s been here for a while now, I think it’ll survive another thirty minutes. Go sit down.”

“Go wash,” Emma corrected, shooing him toward the guest bathroom. When they heard the water run, Emma leaned on the counter next to where Killian was scooping food from Styrofoam boxes to plates. “Someone came by while you were gone.”

He paused mid-scoop. “Did you answer the door?”

“Sort of.” She waited for him to finish, then traded the full plate for an empty one. “She said her name was Aileen.” Watching him, she nodded. “So that’s her. I wasn’t sure, since she didn’t quite look like your type.”

“I don’t have a type,” he answered automatically. But he knew what she was saying. Aileen was almost the exact opposite of Emma in every way. “What’d you tell her?”

“She asked if I was your sister. I didn’t answer. Just said I’d tell you she came by.”

Not great, Killian thought as he stuffed the boxes in the trash can. Could have been worse.

Emma started searching the kitchen for silverware, grabbing forks when she found the right drawer. “And she saw Charlie.”

There was the worse. “Saw him? Like, hey, there was a kid in that apartment somewhere saw him?”

“More like, she got a really good look at him.”

Charlie was Killian’s mini-me in almost every way. You’d have to be an idiot not to catch on to the relationship. And Aileen was no idiot.

“I’m sorry,” she said again as he stared at her. “She caught us walking to your door. What was I supposed to do, shove him behind my back or throw my coat over his head?”

When the water in the bathroom turned off, he lowered his voice. “What did she do when she saw Charlie?”

“She . . .” Emma chewed on her lip and grabbed some paper towels for napkins, taking an absurd amount of time to fold each one into perfect squares. “She just left. Maybe she didn’t put two and two together.”

“She’s smart,” he said woodenly. “She’s a reporter. She’ll put it together.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. “I thought you said this was the special someone?”

“She is.” He tossed the serving spoon in the sink, wishing he had something to break instead. “She’s both.”

“Well, for God’s sake, Killian.” Emma delivered the plates to the kitchen table and turned back to him. “You’re dating a reporter?”

“Don’t start, Emma. Your little surprise is why we’re in this mess.” He wiped his hands on a dish towel and tossed it on the counter. “Son of a bitch.”

Charlie bounced in, action figures still in his hand, and slowed as he took in the mood of the kitchen. “Are you guys mad?”

“Yes,” Killian said just as Emma said, “No.”

“Tell the kid the truth,” Killian added when Emma glared at him. “Yes, your mom and I are angry. We’re talking it out, which is what you should do when you’re mad.” That was a mature, parent-like thing to say, wasn’t it? “Let’s eat, then you can get your PJs on and we’ll play some Star Wars before bed.”

As he sat down, fear coated his tongue and he realized he couldn’t eat anything. Fear for Charlie, that their secret would get out and negatively impact his life. Fear that Aileen wouldn’t hear him out, wouldn’t give him a chance to explain why he’d kept his child from her. Wouldn’t give him another chance.

He would put it aside. For now, he had to. His son—the reason they kept secrets to begin with—was here, and deserved his full attention. Tomorrow, he’d start working on what to do.

* * *

For the first time since they met, Killian waited for Aileen. He was leaning against the outside wall of her apartment, next to her door. His pose was almost a mirror image of all the times she’d hovered around the arena locker room or practice field parking lot, waiting for him to finish up and walk out. The thought made him want to laugh, even while his throat closed at the memories.

Only this time, the stakes were higher than he could count, and the pressure made it hard to breathe.

He heard the rattletrap car pull up before he saw it. She parked and got out, and he watched from several stories up, muttering about personal safety when she didn’t even pay attention to her surroundings as she hefted her large tote out of the backseat and over her shoulder. The urge to rush down and help her carry it up the stairs was heavy, but he pushed it back and waited. Better to catch her off guard, hopefully enough that she’d let him in. Or at least not immediately push him off the three– story balcony.

Her head was down as she approached the door, keys already in her hand. Her head moved side to side, and he saw she’d put in earbuds. Completely oblivious to anything going on around her. She never even noticed him standing to the side. As she put her key in the lock and turned, he waved an arm in her line of vision to get her attention.

“Oh, Jesus!” she screamed, jumping back and losing her footing. She fell before he could grab her, her tote landing on the concrete with a sharp thump. Papers and a few magazines spilled out and slid across the smooth concrete walkway. Her keys almost skittered through two metal balusters in the railing, down to the parking lot, but he managed to step on them to save them from going over.

Hand on her heart, Aileen looked up at him through dark shades that covered half her small face. “What the hell was that for, Killian?” she asked, her voice almost at a shout. Her hand rose and fell quickly over her heaving chest.

Kneeling down, he reached for her. She moved to the side, in a gesture that might have seemed coincidental. But he saw it for what it was. Purposefully widening the gap between them, both emotionally and physically.

“I’m sorry, I thought you’d see me. I wasn’t hiding.” He realized then she hadn’t even heard him, with her earbuds still in and playing music. He reached out before she could move and tugged them out so they fell into her lap. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I thought you’d see me.”

“I wasn’t paying attention. I warned you I had a major startle reflex.” She scowled at him—he could tell that even without seeing her eyes—and stuffed her earbuds into her sweatshirt pocket where he assumed a phone or iPod already resided. Then, gathering her things, she stuffed them back in her tote. Except, now that everything was in disarray, it wouldn’t fit. “Damn it,” she muttered.

“Here.” He picked up a large pile of papers and magazines and her keys. “I’ve got it. Let me help you get them inside.”

She sighed and stood, ignoring his offered hand. “Whatever.” Pushing her door open all the way, she walked in and dumped the bag on the ratty sofa. He placed what papers he had in his hand next to the bag and followed her to the kitchenette area. She was already guzzling a bottle of water.

She glanced at him over the bottle of water, then tossed her sunglasses on the counter. “I’m not offering you a drink.”

“Okay.”

“Offering you a drink would mean I wanted you to stay.”

He nodded his understanding.

She paused, as if waiting for him to say something. Then she waved toward the door. “That means I don’t want you to stay, which means you should go now.”

“I met Emma my first year in the league,” he began, and she moaned. Determined, he pushed on. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, pacing. This would be much easier if she’d offer him a damn seat. “I had almost no expectations, coming into the league. I was a natural loner.”

“No,” she gasped theatrically.

He could handle her sarcasm. He deserved it.

“So making friends was hard. I started latching onto whoever would offer to hang out. There was our punter at the time. Jerry VanHalson. Older than me, been with the Bobcats for almost ten years. Took me under his wing.”

Her forehead wrinkled, as if thinking back. “VanHalson. Name doesn’t even ring a bell. What happened to him?”

“As part of damage control, he was traded away.” When she blinked in surprise at that, he knew her natural curiosity was winning the battle between Pissed-off Aileen and Journalist Aileen. He just hoped, by the end, she made decisions with the Aileen who used her heart. “He was only with his new team one year when he tore something in his hip. He was close to retirement anyway, just came a few years early. But that’s getting ahead. My first year, he invited me to a few parties at his place, and I went. Wanted to bond with the guys, seem like part of the team. A couple of the guys would drink too much, or do a few lines. I wasn’t interested.”

She nodded, hopping up on the counter. The heels of her sneakers banged against the already-stuffed cabinets below. Clearly, she sat like this often. “I believe that.”

“I’ll have a beer, but drugs?” He shook his head. “So they made fun of the freshman boy scout. That I was too uptight. They weren’t going to push drugs on me, but maybe I’d unwind a little with some prime pus—um.” He coughed, remembering his audience a half second too late. “Unwind with some female companionship.”

She scoffed, not fooled. “Right.”

“Emma . . .” He looked at her then, wishing he knew what was going through her mind. Then immediately feeling grateful he didn’t. “She was older, and she latched onto me pretty fast. She showed me around the area, was at all of Jerry’s get-togethers, and we hooked up. Casually, not like we were together. Just . . . having fun.”

He rubbed a hand over his forehead, then pushed her tote bag out of the way and sat on the couch. As the entire studio apartment was probably no more than four hundred square feet, they were still close enough to talk. And he needed to sit to get through the rest.

“I thought the women hanging around Jerry and the others were groupies, or just friends of friends. Party girls looking for fun.”

Aileen was quiet, taking another sip of water.

“Apparently not.” He laughed and looked at the blank space by her front door. “I felt like such an idiot when I realized . . . such an idiot,” he finished, voice low.

She stilled, water halfway to her mouth, but said nothing. Watched him warily. And he could see in her eyes she’d guessed.

“She was an escort. Most of the women there were.” He tried to swallow back the snort, but didn’t succeed. “Escort,” he said again, derision plain. “They were prostitutes. I’d been having sex with a prostitute, and I didn’t know. When I asked Jerry about it, he laughed. Thought it was so fucking hilarious. The freshman noob with no clue how to tell the difference between an eager groupie and . . . you know.” He smiled wryly. “I punched him then. Just one good pop to his jaw. Felt so good.”

“I bet,” Aileen said, her voice a gravely whisper. Her face had gone white, one hand clenched around the edge of the counter. The other squeezed the bottle of water so hard it crackled in her grip.

“A few weeks later, the entire escort service got busted for being a front for a prostitution ring.” He closed his eyes a moment, hating having to clarify. “I never—”

“Paid her.” Aileen’s voice cut through his with definitive certainty. “Of course you didn’t.”

He looked at her, surprised. It wouldn’t have been a stretch to assume that in his stupid youth he’d done so. Either through peer pressure or just a willingness to make a stupid error go away. “How did you know?”

“Because I know you.” She hopped down and put the half-empty bottle in the fridge, grabbing a full one. She walked the few steps over to him, skirting her two-seater kitchen table and sitting next to him on the couch. They didn’t touch, but she handed him the unopened bottle. As he cracked the seal, she turned to sit cross-legged, her back against the arm, facing him. “You’re secretive and distrusting and you can be a total ass. But you’re not a guy who pays for sex.”

“I guess that’s something,” he muttered. He took a large swig of water to wash the dust away that coated his throat. “When they cracked down on the circle of women—you might have heard when it happened—they got the ring leader and most of her girls.”

“I heard,” she said quietly. “Big news, at the time.”

“A couple of the ladies were free, mostly because they were too new to rate the PD’s time and attention. A few guys—like Jerry—were in trouble, because they’d been stupid enough to be seen in public with them. I guess they just thought they were invincible.” He lifted one shoulder. I made a stupid mistake, but thank God I didn’t make it that big. Emma wasn’t picked out, either. Though we knew if she stayed around here, someone would say something. So, she left. I thought that was it. I’d escaped, she’d escaped, and it was over.”

“And . . . your son?” Her voice cracked a little as she asked.

He glanced at her from the side, taking a deep breath. It wasn’t fear anymore that held him back, but over six years of habit. Of convincing himself the truth was ugly.

“She came back a few weeks later. She’s pregnant and swears it’s mine.”

“You believed her.”

He raised a brow. “I didn’t not believe her, but I didn’t take her word for it, either. So she headed back up to Las Vegas—that’s where she and Charlie live—and I paid for her doctor’s appointments. Figured it was the least I could do, and if the kid wasn’t mine, I’d write it off as a good deed. He was born, we had him tested—using an attorney to keep my name quiet—and it was official.”

She nodded slowly, then held out her hand for the water. She took a sip herself, staring at the floor as if in a daze. “Why all the way in Vegas? Why not around here?”

“At the time, it was the big news story. We didn’t want people who knew—or guessed—what Emma’s former job was, seeing us, putting two and two together, and figuring out the whole thing. Vegas was a fresh start for Emma, and then she had Charlie. We wanted none of it to touch him. Emma started over there; she’s a real estate agent, and doing pretty good. I visit as much as I can—which isn’t often during season. And we meet up sometimes when I’m on the road, if we can. We just keep it quiet, stay private, and I don’t mention I’ve got a kid.”

“But you haven’t met up with him this season, have you?” She watched him closely. “Is that . . . because of me? Because I’ve been around you so much?”

“Freckles, I . . .” he started, then saw her eyes heat. She sensed bullshit coming on and wanted none of it. “Yeah. I would have seen him in San Francisco, but I asked them not to come.”

She settled back, a stunned look on her face. Raising one fisted hand to her chest, she blinked slowly. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It sort of is.” Her eyes closed. “This was all one big bowl of crazy from the start, wasn’t it?”