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“Emelia,” she says knowingly.
“No.” I shake my head emphatically. “Definitely not.”
“But she—”
This is the last thing I want to talk about— now or ever. But it’s better to get the truth out in the open. “Sued me for paternity of her unborn child? Yeah, he’s four months old and looks nothing like me. What Emelia didn’t tell anyone is that we only ‘dated’ for two weeks— and I use that term loosely—and had sex three times.” I hiss through my teeth. Even the thought of Emelia frustrates me still, months later. “The whole time she was sleeping with at least one other guy. I knew that baby wasn’t mine.”
“Why?” Fiona asks, her brow furrowed with confusion. “Why would she do that?”
“Fifteen minutes of fame. Money.” The bitterness in my voice angers me. I don’t want to sound like that. I don’t want to deal with people who put it there. “Probably both. If I had any doubt that the baby was mine, I’d have stepped up.”
“I know you would have.”
I don’t say anything more and wait for the anger to subside. Emelia had been a quick diversion, and like always, I had made sure it was safe and fun for all involved. But now, because of her need for fame, I’ll always be associated with her. And her son, an innocent little baby, will forever be tainted with the question of who really is his father.
Fiona’s eyes are steely blue. “That was wrong of her,” she says evenly. “And not fair to you.”
“Thanks,” I say in a gruff voice. “I don’t get a lot of sympathy for stuff like that. I know it’s my own fault.”
“What do you mean, stuff like that?”
“Stuff in the tabloids. But we don’t need to talk about that.”
“Not right now, no. But you can tell me things like that,” she offers. “Whenever you want.”
The warmth starts at my chest and spreads lower. I have many friends, even more acquaintances, but not many that I can open my heart to. I’ve kept secrets my whole life, opinions I’ve never shared, and now, with those few words, it’s like Fiona has unlocked something inside me.
“Because you’re my wife,” I say, my voice sounding thick to my own ears.
“Yes, but more than that,” Fiona corrects. “I have to think—I mean, I like to think—that we’re friends as well. I mean, we didn’t start off as husband and wife.”
“You started out not liking me,” I point out, rolling over onto my back. “And I was perfectly nice to you.”
“You weren’tnotnice,” she argues. “You were just—darlin’,” she mimics. “And I…I thought you were cute,” she confesses with an embarrassed laugh.
“Cute. Like a bunny.”
“Hot,” she adds. “Sexy. Beautiful.”
“I’m not the beautiful one, darlin’. You are.” I lay it on thick and Fiona smiles.
“See? That’s what I’m talking about.”
“So you admit you didn’t like me?”
“I didn’tnotnot like you,” she protests. Then she laughs. “This is so not how I thought the morning would go.”
“Sounds like you wouldn’t have thought the night would turn out like that either. I’m surprised you didn’t ditch me right off the bat.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“I bet you didn’t think you’d get foreplay like this either,” I say, joining in with her laughter. “Me throwing up?”
“And then falling asleep?”
“Steve in the elevator?”
“And then you practically beam my head trying to carry me into the room.”
