He pulls out a bottle of water, turning just as Birdie decides to do her best impression of a limp noodle, knowing it makes her difficult to hang onto. One corner of his mouth quirks up as he watches me attempt to get a better grip on my boneless, dead weight toddler.
I continue struggling as he takes a long swallow of his beverage, the line of his throat working with each gulp, eyes never leaving where I stand.
I stare right back. It’s not a hardship.
I’ve seen pictures of Tucker, and I honestly thought I was prepared to come face-to-face with the man studying me a little too closely. But pictures don’t really do him justice.
They sure as hell didn’t make the long lines of his solid body seem quite as broad or quite as muscular. Didn’t show how sun bleached the wavy hair dipping to his brows is. And they sure as hell didn’t even hint at the way a quirk of his lips changes him from cute to devastatingly handsome.
He tips his head at my daughter as she starts flailing her legs, taking advantage of my temporary distraction to worm her way a little closer to freedom. “You can put her down. She’s not going to hurt anything.”
A sharp laugh comes out of me at the thought. “You obviously don’t have much experience with toddlers. They can hurt just about anything. And what they can’t hurt, they’ll manage to make sticky and covered in crumbs.”
I expect Tucker to be disgusted. I’ve heard all about how he lives his life, and the man is as single as it gets. Very much by choice. Because I’ve also heard about how he makes it perfectly clear to any woman who expresses interest that the pleasure of his company is a one-time thing. No girlfriends. No kids. No messes or chaos.
And Birdie is all mess and chaos.
But Tucker just shrugs, taking another drink of water beforesetting the bottle on the counter. “It doesn’t matter. If she breaks something, I’ll fix it.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I’m pretty sure the claim is bullshit. So instead of letting Birdie hit the floor the way she wants to, I bounce her back up on my hip, hoping to redirect her energy and the conversation.
“Don’t you have any questions for me? Want to know how her life has been so far?” I don’t expect he does. If Tucker has no interest in being in a relationship, he certainly has no interest in becoming a father.
That’s why he was the perfect choice for this. He’s rich enough that paying me off won’t put a dent in his pocketbook. He’s had sex with enough women there’s no way he’ll know I wasn’t one of them. And he’s famous enough that a DNA test would likely get leaked to the news and become a scandal that would affect his mother’s reputation.
On paper, my plan was perfect.
In practice, it’s not really panning out the way I thought it would.
Because instead of whipping out his checkbook to make me go away, Tucker leans against the kitchen island, an easy smile on his handsome face. “I have a million questions for you, actually.”
I swallow hard, because a million questions doesn’t sound anything like rushing me back through the door with a check in my pocket and promise to disappear on my lips.
“Okay. That’s fine. Ask me whatever you want.”
My insides twist wondering where he’ll start. If he’ll want more details about the night we were together. Question how I know Birdie is his. Ask why I’m just now showing up.
“What’s her name?”
I blink, brain stumbling over the completely different directionhe chose. “What?”
“Our daughter.” His eyes focus on my little girl. “What’s her name?”
I rub my lips together, feeling weird over him calling herourdaughter. “Birdie.”
The weirdness in my stomach can’t possibly be guilt. Absolutely not.
“Birdie.” He says her name carefully. Like he’s rolling it around his mouth. Testing it out. “I like it.”
I start to tell him that I don’t really care whether he likes my daughter’s name or not, but then I remember I'm trying to convince him she’s his daughter too. “That’s good.”
Tucker falls silent, the seconds ticking past as he studies me. I pretend like I’m studying him back instead of considering turning and running out the front door. I think we might be in some sort of a staredown, but I’m not sure why. What I am sure of, is that Birdie and I need to get out of town as fast as possible, and this man is the only option I have to make that happen.
I’m out of money. Out of opportunities. Out of time.
“Where are you two living?” Tucker’s next question surprises me just as much as the first one.
And while I didn’t necessarily see any harm in giving him my daughter’s nickname, I’m not so interested in him knowing where we live, so I keep it general. “About thirty minutes from here.”
