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“I see you haven’t moved on very far.” His lips twist into a sneer. “Still dating your brother’s teammates, I see.”
“Still an asshole, I see.”
His eyes narrow, but I remain impassive. He hasn’t seen me in over a year, and this is what he has to say to me after I carried and birthed his child? There’s a laundry list of things he could’ve said.How are you? How’s my child? What’s his name? Do you have a picture of him? Sorry I was such a dick.
I can’t believe I dated this guy. Past me is an idiot.
Finally, he breaks the silence, blowing out a long breath and glancing down at the table. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”
I take a sip of my coffee—and a calming breath. The last thing I need or want is to make a huge scene. He’s not worth it. “Then why did you come here?”
“Fuck if I know. It wasn’t my idea, trust me. I’d rather not relive my past mistakes.”
Wow.
So this is not because he wanted to get in touch with me or Mason, his only child—at least that I know of.
That basically solidifies everything my brothers and I were thinking about his intentions. It’s probably safe to say that the public relations rep for the LA Stars told him to fix his mess.
That’s not my problem though.
I didn’t make his bed. He did that when he told me to take care of my pregnancy, and let me walk away without a second glance.
Fuck this, and fuck him. He doesn’t deserve my time.
I grab my phone, shove it in my purse, and move to stand when Ron’s fingers wrap around my wrist. My eyes move from him to his hand and back.
He releases me and puts his hands in the air like he’s surrendering, but I know better. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say here.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you could ask about your son instead of telling me that you only came here because someone else told you to. And he was never a mistake.”
His eyes widen and he looks around like he doesn’t want us to be overheard—like his dirty laundry didn’t make the news and circulate there for months last season. Not my problem. If he didn’t want people to think he abandoned his son, maybe he should have—oh, I don’t know—not done it.
He hunkers down and leans toward me, whispering, “How do I know he’s even my son?”
“Please.” I roll my eyes and take another drink. “You were the one cheating on me, not the other way around. If you’d like to do a paternity test, fine with me. I have nothing to hide.”
“My agent says we need one.”
We fall into silence again, and it’s not exactly a comfortable one. I’d love to be anywhere else. The dentist would be better than this. The seconds tick away, and so does the muscle on the side of my forehead.
I don’t know why I bothered to show up.
“Well, this visit has been riveting, but I have places to be and I know you do, too.”
As usual, he completely ignores me. “Are things serious with Foster Craig, the man with two first names?”
His question takes me by surprise, and I try to cover my shock by taking another sip of my iced coffee. Not that he deserves any kind of answer, but I’m not sure I have one. Just because this doesn’t feel fake to him, it doesn’t mean he wants to continue to see me beyond the terms of our arrangement.
I know how I feel—how I’ve always felt if I’m being honest with myself—and I have no idea if he feels the same way, if things have gone beyond the physical.
“I don’t think my relationships are any of your business.”
“Just don’t expect him to be faithful, either. That man’s worse than I am.” He crosses his arms over the game day suit I used to admire and shrugs his shoulders.
My blood boils and my grip tightens on the poor cup of coffee. “You know what?” I grab my phone and open it to a picture of Mason, one from last week where he was all smiles, and shove it in his face. “This is who we should be talking about. Not that you asked, but his name is Mason Alexander Remington. He has your eyes, your cheekbones, and your mouth—though hopefully not your attitude. I didn’t put you on his birth certificate, and I don’t want a single thing from you except for you to sign over your parental rights so that you can never try to claim him as your own.”
His mouth opens and closes. He’s clearly floundering, but I don’t care.
