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Glancing at the door, I bite my lip. Bruce won’t be back in time to know. My call will just be long enough to say hi and then I’ll hang up. Heart thumping, I sit down at the desk in the suite, open my laptop and start a video call to Colette. For a moment I wonder if she’ll still be asleep, but then the camera blinks on to reveal my friend sitting at the kitchen table, her brunette curls piled high in a bun at the top of her head. “You couldn’t even wait a whole day, could you?” she teases. “Did you miss your baby that much?”
“What can I say?” I reply. “I’m a mother.”
Colette laughs. “How is it over there? Freezing?”
“Not too bad, actually,” I reply, glancing out the window. “It’s colder inside the hotel than out, believe it or not.”
“Just another excuse to cozy up in bed with Mr. Big, then,” she says, winking.
“Oh, believe me, I plan to,” I say, smiling happily. “More important, though, how’s Riley?”
“He’s great,” Colette responds. “He ate all his chicken at dinner. Totally cleaned his bowl. He’s going to be a big boy, aren’t you?” she coos.
Then, my friend turns the camera so it’s facing my son, still in his high chair with food all over his bib. His face lights up when he sees me.
“Mama!” he cries, one chubby hand reaching out to grasp my image.
“How are you, sweetheart?” I ask gently, wishing I could scoop him up in my arms. “Have you been a good boy for Auntie Colette?”
The baby gurgles and waves his spoon as Colette starts to reply, but I don’t hear her words because suddenly, there’s a scraping noise behind me. I whirl around in my chair, and my heart stops. It shudders and then stills as my eyes go wide, every nerve in my body turning to ice. After all, Bruce is standing in the foyer, the room key in his hand, his expression unreadable.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper.
“I forgot my wallet,” he replies in a dangerous tone. “And it looks like you have something to share, Annemarie. Care to begin?”
8
Bruce
Holy fuck. Is this what I think it is? Annemarie opens her mouth and then closes it again, but on the computer screen, I can see the giggling form of a baby boy. Before I can get a good look, my girlfriend’s spinning around once more.
“Let me call you back,” she gabbles to the person on the other end, and then shuts her laptop abruptly. When the curvy girl gets up, she’s looking at the floor, her normally rosy cheeks as pale as a corpse. The fact that she won’t make eye contact makes me angry, even though I’m telling myself to calm down.
So what if my girlfriend has a son? Still, why didn’t she tell me? And who’s son is it? When did she have the baby?
Annemarie’s never looked more ashamed, and it’s infuriating. The fact that she won’t meet my eyes only makes it worse because I want answers, and I want them now. But the brunette looks scared and regretful, as if she’s hidden something from me. No, I think, my hands clenching into fists at my side as anger burns a streak through my heart. She doesn’t regret hiding it. She regrets that I found out, which is different.
My jaw clenches so hard that it gives an audible creak, rage and frustration flooding through my body. I don’t like secrets, and I especially don’t like being manipulated. And this woman has done both, all in the span of a couple months. You’d think I’d be more used to petty tricks, seeing that I deal with sharks in the corporate world everyday. Yet somehow, coming from a woman I trust, it feels different. It feels a thousand times worse.
“Annemarie,” I say through gritted teeth, stepping forward so that my shadow falls over her, “look at me.”
She sucks in a breath, but doesn’t lift her eyes from the carpet. “Bruce, I can explain,” she begins in a low voice, but I don’t let her finish.
“Look at me,” I state again, my tone cold and dangerous. There’s no room for argument this time; that much is clear merely from the ice in my voice.
Annemarie swallows hard and then slowly raises her eyes to meet mine. Her lower lip is quivering, and I can see tears welling up in those big brown eyes, but not even that is enough to temper my anger. How can she try to act like the victim here, when I’m the one being lied to?
“I can explain,” she tries once more in a small, shaky voice.
I stare at her, waiting for an explanation, but she doesn’t speak right away. I can see her searching my face, biting her lip as if she’s trying to decide how much to tell me, trying to figure out a way to soften the blow. That’s when it hits home for me: what I suspected must be true, and the blood roars in my ears
