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The corner of his lips curls. “I prefer to stand.” He prowls around my office and studies pictures of Mila. Ron is in one of them, and that is the picture that he stares at the longest.
“Who’s that?”
I sorely want to say ‘my boyfriend’ but we are both adults here, and Zayn will find out sooner or later. “A friend.”
He turns to look at me. “A special friend?”
I blink at him, “If that’s your way of asking if Ron’s my—”
“Are you married?” Zayn asks abruptly, cutting me off.
“No,” I reply curtly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“That’s good to know.”
I stare at his back, not knowing what is going on through his head but refusing to take the bait.
“What’s her full name?”
I feel reluctant answering that, but I do. “Wolfe. Her full name is Mila Wolfe.”
That surprises him, and he turns around to look at me, his eyes containing shock. “You gave her my last name?”
I feel a hint of discomfort. “I wasn’t planning on keeping her from you forever. Just until she had gotten a little older. And you are her father, whether I like it or not.”
He gives me a dry look. “Now, now. No need to make this emotional.” He walks over to my desk and gives the uncomfortable chair there one look and tucks his hands in the pockets of his pants. “I want to meet Mila.”
“She’s at school.”
“Does she know about me?”
I lean back in my chair and look at him. “She hasn’t asked me about you yet, and I’ve never brought you up.”
He gives me a hard look, which I ignore.
“I want to meet her someplace she’s comfortable. I want her to know me, and I want to play a role in her life.”
I raise a brow. “And what role would that be?”
His eyes flash, and I lift my hands, showing him that I mean no harm. “I’m simply asking how you plan to be a father to her.”
This time he looks uncomfortable. “I can start by paying child support checks. And pocket money. Kids like pocket money, right?”
“She’s four, Zayn. She doesn’t need pocket money,” I correct him, now actually feeling sorry for him, he has no clue about what it takes to raise a child.
“I can take her out for dinner sometimes.”
I wince. “Have you ever taken a four-year-old out to a restaurant? They’re loud and messy.” I sigh. “Look, just come by the apartment. Meet her first.”
“Yeah. That sounds okay.” He almost looks relieved.
I can’t help the begrudging admiration I feel at the fact that he is actually trying to insert himself into his daughter’s life despite the open pass I give him.
“There are a few things, ground rules,” I say, sharply. “You don’t bring women around her. I’m teaching her to respect herself and seeing women consistently come and go from your life, I don’t know how that will impact her.”
“I’ve slept alone for the past six months,” he tells me, his eyes fixing on mine in a way that has my throat going as dry as the Sahara.
I smile and take a sip of water. “Having a bit of a dry spell, are we?”
