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“Please don’t,” I respond quickly.
His face falls, and I feel a tinge of guilt even though the thought of anyone calling me ‘dad’ makes me break out in hives.
“Uh, you should get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I reach out as if I’ll awkwardly pat him on the head and then I think better of it.
He smirks at me like I’m an idiot and swaggers to the bedroom. I cringe when the door slams shut.
* * *
That night,when I go to bed, I can’t sleep.
I know nothing about this kid except the fact that Alexa claims he’s my son. What if she’s lying? Not just about who he is but about his age? What if he’s a baby-faced eighteen-year-old con artist? What if his only job is to trick unsuspecting marks and open the door for his seedy criminal friends while I sleep?
Uneasy, I grab a bat and roll back into bed, staring at the ceiling and listening for any weird noises.
What feels like seconds later, I’m startled awake by the sound of something crashing to the ground. I launch up and notice sunshine on my face.
Is it morning already?
Another loud crash sounds.
My heart beating a mile a minute, I jump out of bed. Sprinting down the hallway to the kitchen, I wield the bat around, swinging like a kid at a piñata.
It takes a few seconds to realize that my kitchen isnotover-run with thugs, but itisover-run with dirty pots and pans, milk spilling on the floor and a banana peel hanging from the low-lights.
I blink rapidly. “Rowan.”
“Morning.” The kid slinks toward me. He’s holding two plates of eggs, bacon, and waffles. “I made breakfast.”
I note the flour on his face and on his T-shirt. It looks like he went to an EDM rager.
“Who asked you to do that?” I bite out. I’m trying to be calm, but I can feel my annoyance meter spiking.
“I always make breakfast at home,” he says innocently.
“And who cleans up when you make breakfast?”
“Mom.”
Alexa is a saint.
A burning sensation hits my chest and I glance down to make sure it’s not singeing through to my T-shirt.
“I’m gonna take this into the living room and eat,” Rowan says, casually walking away.
A moment later, I hear the TV strike up with Sunday morning cartoons.
My head aching, I squeeze my eyes shut and let out a tight exhale.
I really hope this kid isn’t mine.
I am not ready to be a father.
CHAPTER3
THE EXTRA EMPLOYEE
NOVA
