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Yeah. Okay. “I talked to my agent on the way over here.” Iftalkedwas a synonym for being screamed at and berated.
I’m not going to lie and say I wasn’t already angry before I picked up the phone—I was fuckingpissed. But when Lynn Morgan tells you to calm down, you do. When your mother threatens repercussions if you barge into your potential baby mama's home like a bull in a china shop, you plan to do the opposite.
But when Ryan plants ideas in your ear, they tend to stick.
I knew she was bad news. I told you.
You could pay her off,he’d suggested because somehow, he knew it was true too. Had the same gut instinct, maybe.That’s obviously what she wants.
Make her say it isn’t yours.
On all accounts, I protested. I refused. He sighed like I was being unreasonable.
C’mon Cass. You don’t want a kid. Be serious. You can’t be a father.
“Ithink,” I’d spat into the phone, “I already am.”
Ryan doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand why I’m suddenly so okay with having a kid—probably because he doesn’t understand I was never opposed to it. He doesn’t realize that my aversion to dating—my preference for only the casual kind—had nothing to do with not wanting a family of my own, and everything to do with trusting someone enough to actually start one.
If you asked me a month ago—hell, if you asked me barely two weeks ago—if I trusted the woman peering at me with curious eyes, I would’ve hesitated.
Today, I didn’t.
Today, I can only hope her trust for me goes beyondI guess. “He thinks the whole baby out of wedlock thing could cause a big scandal.”
Sunday snorts. “I think your agent and my mama would get along really well.”
Fuck Ryan. Fuck her mama. Fuck me, because the words about to leave my mouth make me wanna hang my head in shame, and I hope, somehow, Sunday can tell I hate saying them as much as she probably hates hearing them. “I can’t afford a scandal. I already have a reputation for being irresponsible.”Especially with lovers,I decline to add. “It… Fuck, I mean this in the least offensive way possible but it could really fuck up my career.”
According to Ryan, “I already have some brands threatening to pull their sponsorships because of the injury,” something I didn’t know until about an hour ago, something he kept from me because he didn’t wanna stress me out so early in my recovery—allegedly, “and it’s fucked but I need them. Especially now.”
Because someone is relying on me now. Several someones. I’m not saying I could burn through the small fortune in my bank account anytime soon but babies are expensive. Kids are expensive. Teenagers are expensive.Familiesare expensive. I’ve always taken care of mine, and I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon. I have to ensure I never need to.
“So you wanna… hide it?”
“No. Fuck, no.” Is it hot in here? I feel like I’m sweating. “I just think it would make things a little easier if everyone thought the girl I knocked up was my partner, not a one-night-stand.”
Sunday blinks. “Are you asking me out?”
“No.” Why is her little sigh of relief so deeply, disappointingly offensive? “I’m asking you to be my pretend girlfriend.”
Another blink. And another. A nervous chuckle that quickly dies, like it was born in unison with her realizing I’m serious. “Your pretend girlfriend.”
This is karma, I think. Payback for something shitty I did in the last thirty-six years. Or maybe everything shitty I’ve done in the last thirty-six years because this, being a grown ass man asking a grown ass woman to pretend to date me, really does feel like thirty-six years worth of bad, bad karma
I try to read Sunday’s expression, figure out what she’s thinking, but she’s not making it easy for me. Head tipped towards her lap, I can only see the furrow between her brows, and I fight like hell against the urge to reach out, lift her chin, decipher whatever floats in eyes that are always so expressive.
Fisting my hands in my lap, I try to eloquently express one of the main reasons this whole situation appeals to me yet simultaneously makes my head feel like it’s about to explode. I’m guessing she hasn’t seen it but people… they’re not being kind. Maybe it’s the pregnancy, maybe it was Sunday sobbing and apologizing and flinching away from me like she expected the worst, or maybe it was something else entirely, something buried resurfacing. All I know is at some point tonight, I looked at Sunday and my brain saidmine. It thoughtyou are never letting this girl get hurt again.And if this is the only way for me to do that, then so be it. “They’ll go easier on you too, if they think it’s serious.”
“Right.” Sunday swallows. “Because if it’s serious, I’m your pregnant girlfriend. Not the pregnant slut who spread her legs and hit the jackpot.”
I wish I could argue but fuck, she’s pretty spot-on. That’s definitely the general sentiment. I hate it, I hate myself for causing it, and while I hate the idea of fake dating Sunday—fuck, even saying it makes mecringe—and dragging her even further into this bullshit, it’s the only thing I can think to do to fix it.
“This was your agent’s idea?”
Instinctively, my fingers fly to scratch my nape. “Uh-huh.”
Lie. Ryan aggressively disagrees, actually, but this is mortifying enough, and Sunday thinking I didn’t come up with it all on my own makes me feel like I’m saving a little face.
