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He laughs, and it’s a dark sound. “Love,” he spits the word out as if it’s coated in venom. “He doesn’t love you. He’ll leave before that kid’s first birthday, and you’ll be alone and a fool.”
West moves in front of me. “Thanks, Dad.” Mr. Larson’s eyes spark with intrigue, like he thinks his son is suddenly and miraculously coming around to his point of view. “Thank you for showing me exactly what not to do. Thanks to your shining example, I know all the right ways to be the best husband and father possible. I’m ten times the man you are without even trying.”
He grabs one of the ultrasound pics he stashed in his pocket when we arrived and lets it flutter to the table. “There’s your grandkid. She’s eleven weeks along, by the way. We’ll know the gender in a month. If either of you want to be a part of this baby’s life—you know what? Fuck it. You’re both far too selfish to change. Have a nice life.”
And with that, he wraps an arm around my waist and escorts me out the way we came.
Chapter Thirty-Six
West
“Good news, baby mama,” I say as I walk into the house.
“In the bedroom,” Stacia calls back, her voice an octave higher than usual.
I march back to our room—yeah, that’s right, our room; I moved her ass downstairs with me the day after her OB appointment, while she was at work, and that was that—and stop in my tracks when I see her sitting in the middle of the bed with her red hair piled on top of her head, dressed in one of my shirts and a pair of tall socks, surrounded by scraps of paper, markers, and glitter. So much glitter.
“Stacia, baby, wanna tell me why it looks like a craft store puked all over our sheets?”
She huffs in frustration, and damn if she doesn’t look cute as hell. Not that I’d ever tell her that—she’d probably stab me with those scissors lying on the nightstand.
“Well, it’s simple really,” she bites out, shooting lasers at whatever is on the bed. “I wanted to make a card to give my family to announce our pregnancy. But, apparently, I craft as well as I cook.”
I nod slowly. “So, not at all?”
Her frustration melts away into a smile. “Exactly. Not at all.”
I lean back against the doorjamb. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”
Her eyes flit from me, down to the bed, and back again. “Uhh…”
“Let’s see it.”
She nibbles on the side of her lower lip. “You have to promise not to laugh.”
“Okay, promise.” I’m totally lying right now, even got my fingers crossed behind my back.
“Ugh, fine.” She holds up what appears to be a piece of cardstock with the words “You better sit down” written sloppily—and by that I mean the words are literally dripping down the page—with glitter across the front.
“That’s…it’s…um.” I try and find something positive to say. “The colors are nice.”
“You jackass. You promised!”
I hold up my hands and contort my face into the very picture of innocence. “Hey! I kept my promise; I didn’t laugh.”
She rolls her pretty brown eyes. “I didn’t laugh at your cookie cake decoration.”
“And I’m not laughing now, I’m just suggesting that we maybe go with something…store-bought.”
Stacia laughs. “Fair enough. So, you said something about good news?”
“That I did.” I walk over to the bed and extend a hand down toward her. “Let’s go talk somewhere less…sparkly.”
“Can we talk over some ice cream? I reeeeally want some ice cream.”
Ice cream—specifically mint moose tracks—is her new favorite thing. She’d eat it three meals a day if she could. “Can do.”
In the kitchen, I spoon two heaping scoops into a bowl and pass it to her. “So, I was talking to Colton today.”
“And…c’mon!” She waves her spoon in the air impatiently.
“And he was able to work some kind of voodoo. If we can secure proof of your pregnancy, the trustee is willing to allow early access to the accounts listed in the trust.”
Stacia freezes, her spoon midair and all. She doesn’t even blink for at least a minute. “Wait, wait, wait.” She spins to face me completely. “You’re saying if we offer proof that I’m pregnant, they will grant you access to the money in the trust?”
“That’s right.”
“Which means we could post my dad’s bond?” The pure hope in her voice is a vise around my heart.
I nod.
“What kind of proof do they need? What do I need to do?”
“Hang on, Colton sent it to me in a text so I wouldn’t forget.” I grab my phone and unlock the screen. “Okay, we would need a notarized letter from Dr. Flory.”
“Easy!”
“Time and date stamped ultrasound images.”
“Done!”
“And…something called an amniocentesis test to prove that I’m the father.”
“What…what’s that?”
“Honestly? No clue. Let’s ask Dr. Google.”
Stacia abandons her ice cream and comes to stand beside me. I type the word into my search bar and watch as thousands of results load. I tap on the second link, and together, we read.
