“So, Goldie …”
Lifting a brow, I check the time on my phone. Mainly to get a reprieve from seeing Oliver comfortable and undone from the day. Here, in bed with me. “What about her?”
“Her mom is … ?”
Shrugging, I shake my head. “We don’t know. Actually, we don’t even know who she is.”
“Are you serious?” His brows knit together.
“I mean, Prescott does, but he won’t tell us. Only he and our parents know. A woman knocked on Prescott’s door one day with a six-month-old baby in a carrier and handed him a note.”
Oliver’s head rears back. “Was it the mom?”
“Nope,” I sigh. “It was a friend of hers, apparently. She told him she never wanted to be a mother and that this little accident from their one night stand didn’t change that.”
Oliver’s jaw drops.
“The birth certificate was included in a bag she sent with her friend that had shot records, some diapers and formula,” I continue. “But Prescott was listed as the father.”
“Oh my gosh,” he whispers. I can’t help the easy smile that spreads across my face, thoroughly confusing him. “What?”
“I like that you don’t hold back with me,” I admit. “Your reactions are honest. At least, they are when we’re alone.”
Oliver breaks into a shy smile. “You make me comfortable.”
In the process of internally denying every warm and fuzzy feeling buzzing around in my stomach, I beam back at him.
“What did he do? After that?” he asks.
“Prescott? He, um, went to our parents’ house and showed them everything. They went to the doctor to confirm paternity. Obviously, it was positive.” Sighing, I search Oliver’s expressive eyes. “It’s honestly crazy how one tiny moment can change your life forever,” I muse. “And then the rest is history.”
Oliver watches me intently, cataloguing every emotion I try to hide as they flicker across my face. Something intense lies behind his outward expression, something trying its hardest to break through to the surface. He finally nods. “And then the rest is history.”
16
Oliver
The sun eventually breaks through the curtains, dancing to its own perfect rhythm on our ceiling. Based on the relentless teasing from the clock on my bedside table, I’ve been awake for nearly four hours. Four tortuous hours. Thinking. Recalculating.
Hoping.
The bed creaks as Callie stirs, and the leap in my chest is honestly ridiculous. Sighing, the woman sleeping beside me settles back into her peaceful dreamstate.
Rubbing my hands back and forth over my face, there’s no use lying to myself anymore. There’s not a single part of me that’s left unconvinced, that hasn’t already succumbed to the reality in front of me. Or beside me, I suppose. What was supposed to be nothing more than a simple transaction has turned into this. And if I’m really being honest with myself, I think I knew I was done back on Thanksgiving. It would’veseemed premature, sure. But looking back, there was never any other path.
When Calloway Rutherford walked into my office that first day, I was a goner.
I just didn’t know it yet.
One more glance at the clock and I know John’s awake. Even on vacation, the man never sleeps. It drove me crazy back in college. He would be up before dawn with his workout done, breakfast eaten, and ready for whatever the day held.
But I’m taking advantage of his insanity this morning.
Careful not to wake the woman who has my heart, I climb out of bed and slip on my houseshoes and coat. Grabbing my phone off the charger, I pad over to the sliding glass door and step onto the balcony, shutting the door softly behind me. With one more peek back through the window to make sure I didn’t disturb Callie, I dial John’s number.
Like the early riser he is, he answers on the first ring. “What’s wrong?” The man sounds as if he’s already had a couple cups of coffee.
Much too alert for this early in the morning.
