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She went into her living room, sat on her sofa, and hugged her knees up to her. “When?”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“You heard me.”
“I... He’s asleep.” Not that that made any sense, but it was what she said. Her head was being bombarded with so many thoughts that nothing made sense. Maybe it never would again.
“Maybe asleep is better.”
“You’re in Atlanta.”
“I’m not.”
He wasn’t in Atlanta. Her breath came in rapid little breaths she had to consciously stop by inhaling a deep, slow one.
“You’re here.” It wasn’t a question. Trace was there. In Tennessee. In Chattanooga.
“Parked at a gas station. I want to come to your house.”
Trace was here! She gripped her phone tighter.
“I just got out of the shower. I’m not even dressed.” Panties and an oversized T-shirt didn’t count. Not where Trace was concerned. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I’m not coming to see you, Chrissie,” he reminded her. “I want to see the boy.”
The boy? Probably because of her already raw nerves, but his calling Joss “the boy” irritated.
“His name is Joss,” she reminded him with enough force to make her point. “I told you that.”
“Joss,” he said. “I want to see Joss.”
“I...” She took a deep breath. “Okay, fine. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll let you in. Be quiet, though, because he really is asleep.”
She gave him the address, then hung up and pulled on a pair of sweats, put her bra back on beneath her shirt so she didn’t feel so exposed, and was combing through her damp hair when she heard his car in her driveway.
Five minutes. Ugh. Of course he’d come straight there, even though she’d asked for fifteen minutes. Maybe he’d sit and wait the extra ten minutes she’d asked for—minutes in which she’d planned to do a quick run-through clean of her house.
No such luck.
Within seconds, he was knocking on her front door.
Her heart skipped a couple of beats and her head spun.
Trace was at her house. Knew about Joss. Was about to see their son for the first time.
A wave of intense protectiveness swept over her, making her question every move she’d made that had led up to this moment. Making her wonder if she should snatch up her son and run.
Good grief. Where had that thought come from? She was not like her father. She’d never do that.
Only, hadn’t she already kept their son away from Trace?
Remorse and guilt flooded her as she opened her front door and saw the pale, almost ill-looking man standing on her porch.
What had she done?
* * *
