Wilde by Abby Brooks

Chapter Seven

Leo

Two days. Amy waited two days to get back to me. And I didn’t tell her to get bent when she finally decided I was worthy of a text. Oh no. In fact, I doubled down and insisted we meet today.

Impulsive much?

I could’ve used her silence as a reason to put this whole thing behind me. Which is exactly what will happen when I move to Los Angeles in a couple months, anyway.

Well. Not really. At the very least I’ll be sending a check every month to keep my kid clothed and fed. Shit, man. My kid. I didn’t expect those words to mean so much this early in, but they do. I want to do this right—whatever that means—even if the woman I’m doing it with knows exactly what to do to get under my skin.

Two days to reply to my text?

Wafts of steam float heavy in the air as I step out of the shower.

Heavy like the thought of becoming a father.

With a woman I don’t know.

Right when I was prepared to leave the state.

How’s that for complicated?

I reach for a towel to dry off, then wrap it around my waist before stepping up to the bathroom counter, where I lather my face while the sink fills and condensation drips down the mirror. My thoughts drift as I rake the razor across my skin, stuck at the crossroads between my present and my future. Lunch with the blonde—who’s singlehandedly wrecking my life—and Los Angeles.

What if this kid skips a generation, inherits the family genes, and grows up loving this backward, go nowhere life? Could I grit my teeth and stomach another twenty years of this? If that’s what she wants, the best thing to do would be move the fuck away and send a check. Better to be a shit of a dad than to pass on what Chet did to me.No child should ever feel like they’re the cause of someone else’s bitterness.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath—old wounds and all that.

It’s only lunch. Take things one step at a time.

I breathe in again and pause before exhaling. I need perspective. To see the situation for what it is, not what I want it to be. That’s when it hits me. Amy and I only need to work out how much (or little) our lives are going to overlap.

A father who may not be around but loves you unconditionally has to be better than growing up with an asshole who’s constantly trying to break you down in the hopes of molding you into some twisted copy of himself.

The more I try to convince myself that’s an option, the less sure I am.

I can’t abandon my child.

But I can’t abandon my dream, either.

Fucking hell. What’s a guy to do?

* * *

“Keep it simple,” I mumble as I navigate Jezebel through the lot of a place called Plinky’s.

I park the car and push through the front door, scanning the crowded room for an open table. After spotting a booth in the back with line of sight to the entrance, I slide off my aviators and hang them off the collar of my V-neck as I make my way to the table.

Lowering into the seat, it dawns on me that I only know three things about this woman—her first name, her body count is impossible in this day and age, and now she’s (apparently) pregnant with our kid. That’s everything. I don’t even know enough to guess if she’ll step through the door in the next few minutes, or if I should get comfortable because she’s having a hair emergency. Two minutes before one o’clock a less emotional looking—and highly fuckable—Amy steps through the door.

An on-time kind of girl. There’s one lonely tick in the pro column.

The last time we saw each other could’ve gone better and that’s on me. But what happens today? That’s on her. I was an active participant in the making of this baby and I will step up to bat, but my life is on track and I won’t let it be derailed. Amy will have to get good with that or this just isn’t gonna work. Tension grips the muscles in my neck and shoulders as I slide out of the booth to help her find me through the chaos. I don’t know if I want to kick her or kiss her, but my body sizzles with anticipation as she approaches.

“Guess it’s good to be the boss.” Amy’s gaze meets mine as she slides into the booth. “For you to be able to close your business in the middle of the day like this.” She offers a weak smile like she’s trying to break the iceberg between us.

All right then. Let’s make some peace.

“I suppose it has its perks. Though I was already planning to close early today. A client’s playing tonight in Denver. They invited me to come down and catch the show.”

She stares for a moment before curiosity gets the better of her. “Playing in Denver? Like at a coffee shop or something?”

“Or something. Ever heard of Empower Field?”

One brow arches as she leans across the table and whispers, “Are you saying your client is the Denver Broncos?”

I shake my head. “Think artist, not gladiator.

“Please.” She scoffs. “To play there, they’d have to be some kind of rock band or something.”

“Hip hop, actually. But plenty of rockers are out there wearing my ink too.”

A harried waitress with wisps of dark hair hanging in her face stops at our table and greets us while she finishes filling out the order from her last stop. “Welcome to Plinky’s, the home of your perfect burger. What can I get you started with?” She spits the words out in one continuous, completely disinterested spiel.

I pluck a menu from the wire holder over the napkins. “I think we’re going to need a few more minutes,” I say as I open it and flip through.

Without so much as a grunt of acknowledgement, the woman trudges away and I lower my menu, letting out a long breath. The chitchat was nice, but the reality of this little lunch date is that we’re here to make a plan. The longer we avoid it, the stupider I feel.

“How’s this supposed to work? Us. You. Me. A baby.”

Amy meets my gaze head-on. “I have no earthly idea how this is going to work.”

“I’m gonna call bullshit on that,” I say with a smirk. “Something tells me you know exactly how you want this to go.”

She sits back, shocked. “I really don’t.”

There’s something beautiful in her confusion, though maybe that’s just her. Her unique features might be growing on me.

I put down the menu and cross my arms, staring into those shocking eyes until she drops her gaze. “You’re the type of chick who researches tattoo artists for something so simple you could do it yourself.” I point at the ellipses on her wrist. “You don’t do anything without planning it out first.”

The blush on her cheeks and the glint of recognition in her eyes tells me I’m right, but Amy’s too much of a fighter to admit it right away. “And what, exactly, does any of that have to do with this?”

She reminds me of a Jack Russell terrier, small and completely outgunned, but so filled with confidence and spunk that she’ll stand up to a much bigger dog without flinching. Amy isn’t going to take my shit. She isn’t going to walk away because I’m difficult. This tiny woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders is strong enough to stand up to me. Part of me wants to conquer that strong will. The rest of me respects the hell out of her for it.

“It means that not only do you know how you want this to work between us, but I’m willing to bet that somewhere, you have a list of things you expect from me, as well as bullet points for how this conversation is supposed to go.”

Her eyes bounce across my face. I’m right, I can see it. And she doesn’t know how to handle the fact that I have her figured out.

“So, lay it out for me,” I say. “What’s your plan here?”

After a pause so long I start to wonder if I’m not the smart guy I think I am, Amy tells me she wants me in the baby’s life. Not just financially, but as an active feature in this kid’s days. Birthday parties. School plays. Weekend visits. All the stuff that can’t happen when I live in a different state.

“Just like a father should be,” she says, finally pausing in the deluge of demands to breathe. “But you and I?” She gestures between us. “We’re nothing but a business relationship. We’re not even friends. Just two people negotiating a deal.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to be just like a father should be.” I shoot back her words. “Which means you and I will end up seeing a lot of each other, but it’s not supposed to mean anything?”

Amy nods, her mouth forming a grim line. “Yes. Exactly.”

“Not gonna happen, Skippy.”

“Skippy? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means your bark is so big, you forget how small you are.”

“All right then, Wilde…stupid nicknames it is. Does that mean you’ll be in this child’s life?” Amy grabs my hand and her silky skin brushing mine sends a jolt straight to my dick. I pull away before the urge to drag her into my arms and kiss her until she shuts up gets the better of me.

“I’m moving, remember? To Los Angeles. So, your plan is gonna need a few revisions, but yeah. I’ll be around.”

Because how could I not be? She’s carrying my child.

Once again, I want to draw her. To capture every single detail of the moment. The set of her jaw. The look in her eyes. The complexity of soft femininity juxtaposing an inner strength that sits like steel in her soul. The flash of heat in her gaze and the cold hands of fear gripping her spine.

The waitress returns. “Ready now?”

I shake my head. “How about we just signal you when we’ve decided.”

With a roll of her eyes, she plods away without a word.

I turn to Amy while thumbing after the waitress. “Sorry about Cruella. She was called this morning and informed that like ninety of her puppy adoptions fell through. She’s taking it pretty hard.”

Amy quirks her head in surprise then snorts as she breaks into laughter…which embarrasses her and causes her to laugh harder. It’s the break we needed because man, shit was getting too real.

She blushes and stares past me as she finally quells her giggles. “Listen… I’m in over my head and if I’m coming off as overbearing, I’m sorry. Yes, I’ve made a ton of lists, trying to make sense of all this, but despite me having everything all planned out, I do realize it’s not just my life that’s affected here…”

A tall, preppy looking prick steps inside and scans the room. Blond. Tan. Teeth so white they glow. My eyes go right to him, and Amy turns to see what caught my attention. Her jaw drops as he zeros in on her and strides our way, glaring at me like I’m the interloper in the situation.

Which I don’t care for.

Not even a little.

I look him straight in his prick eyes, crack my neck, and slowly shake my head, but the idiot doesn’t heed the warning and foolishly stomps over anyway.