Burn Baby Byrne: A Secret Baby Romance (Byrne Brothers Book 2)

by Holly Hart

  “Pull it together, Sofia,” I mutter, wiping a droplet of moisture away from the corner of my eye.

  I pull out my phone. Surely it’s not possible to get morning sickness so early? I cast my mind back to high school, trying to remember if they said anything about it in health class, but I come up blank. Maybe they should spend less time trying to drill algebra into your brain, and more time force feeding information that would actually be useful.

  I punch a query into the search bar on my phone. A list of blue links pops up, and my thumb hovers over the first for what seems like an age before I tap it. I want to know, and I don’t. An epic battle is raging inside me. If I know, then this could be real, and I won’t be able to hide from it any longer.

  Just do it.

  I tap the top link.

  It takes an age to load. I swear I could climb up into the nearest cell tower and pull the data out faster. My eyes devour the information at warp speed.

  “Most women,” the website reads, “experienced the onset of symptoms of morning sickness at around six weeks post-conception…”

  My phone flashes with a notification. It fills the entire screen – so what I don’t need right now. I’m just about to swipe and get rid of it, when I see who it’s from: Kieran. The text message reads: “Date night. Eight o’clock. Be there.”

  My stomach does a backflip; either that or the hundred butterflies inside it all decided to pull a barrel roll at the same time. This is exactly what I wanted: and yet, and yet…

  … Truthfully, I’m terrified. I flick my thumb right, and Kieran’s message disappears. I need to make sure that I’m right; because if I am, then tonight’s date is going to go a whole lot smoother.

  I keep reading. I kind of wish I hadn’t.

  My stomach sinks the second my eyes touch the next line down. It doesn’t just sink, it plummets. “… For some women, morning sickness can be the first sign of pregnancy, occurring as early as 2 to 3 weeks after…”

  My phone screen blurs. I feel like I just hit the bottom of a bungee jump. Everything stops: my lungs; my brain; it all just grinds to a halt at once.

  I stop reading. I can’t do it any longer. I’ve seen all I need to see … and the news is not good. Somehow, I knew it wouldn’t be. Of course, I would be one of the lucky ones, or unlucky ones, whichever way you look at it.

  I know it in my heart – I’m pregnant. I can’t figure out how it happened. I didn’t use a condom that first time with Kieran – or any time, really – but I’m on the pill! What’s the point in popping that plastic packet every day if it’s not going to do a damn thing to help me?

  You’re jumping ahead of yourself, I hear in my head, trying to reassure myself. You don’t really know anything yet.

  I don’t believe it, even in the quiet of my own head. But the thought feels like a lifeline: a ray of hope on which to cling.

  I spy the green and gold shop front of a pharmacy to my right, and practically run into it. The cashier tears her eyes away from her cell phone, and looks up at me, her eyebrows tented with surprise.

  “Can I help you, Miss?”

  “Pregnancy tests?” I choke out. It’s just about all I can say. God, saying it out loud makes it sound real. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I could just take all of this back.

  “Aisle three, by the –.” I take off, ignoring the rest of the girl’s sentence. Just being around people seems too hard to bear in this state. I feel like a zombie. I’ve only got eyes for my destination: everything to my left and right disappears in a blur of nothingness.

  I grab a basket from the end of the aisle. I slow down in front of the tests. The store has three brands. Who needs three? Surely they all do the same thing? I chew my lip with indecision.

  “Screw it,” I groan. I do a clean sweep. A dozen tests fall through the air and land with a clatter of cardboard in my basket. I jog to the checkout counter, even though my feet are heavy as if weighed down by fear-filled, leaden ankle weights. Every step forward carries me towards a truth I’m not ready to hear.

  The cashier looks up at me with a friendly smile. “Get everything you need?” She says.

  I drum my fingers on the counter. “Listen,” I say, my voice sounding testy in my own ears, “I’m in a bit of a hurry…”

  The cashier frowns, but doesn’t reply. I’d feel bad if my stomach wasn’t so twisted up in knots. I swear though, if anything, the girl seems to slow down – scanning each item through the register like a cave woman using technology for the first time.

  “That’ll be twenty-nine bucks and thirty-three cents, please,” she says with a smile.

  I throw a bundle of notes at the girl. “Keep the change,” I croak amidst a stifled sob.

  A bell tinkles on the pharmacy door as I leave. “You have a great day, now,” the cashier calls off to me. Both sounds disappear into nothingness. Anger spikes inside me. I can’t help but think she’s taunting me.

  There’s an Italian restaurant across the road. It’s just opening up for the day. I barge through its swinging wooden doors, and a teenager looks up from sweeping the floor, a look of surprise on his face. I stride through the closed restaurant, heading for the restrooms.

  “Ma’am?” He squeaks, letting his broom fall to the floor with a wooden rattle. “Um, ma’am – you can’t go back there.”

  I ignore him.

  An older man pushes his way out of the kitchen, arms loaded down with a tray of freshly washed glassware. He looks up at me, mild brown eyes widening – first with surprise, then recognition. He looks like he’s about to say something when he catches himself. He presses his white-coated body against the wall to let me past.

  “I’m sorry, Sergio, I tried – but the lady’s cra–.”

  “Gustavo!” The older man wheezes in a tone of warning, silencing the kid in seconds. “Miss Morello can do as she pleases. Take this tray off me, boy – before I do my back in.”

  I wince at the sound of barely-concealed fear in the old chef’s voice. That isn’t the way I want my family to be thought of. We’re supposed to protect these people, not extort them. But with my brother in charge, that’s clearly not what’s happening.

  Later.

  I block out to the sound of their voices. They might as well be the chatter of songbirds for all I care. I push my way into the disabled restroom, locking the door behind me. I let my head fall against the cool wood on the back of the door, leaning against it for a few seconds. I can’t believe this is happening, or what I’m about to do.

  I pull one of the tests from its packaging and toss the cardboard box aside. I hitch up my skirt and pull my tights down – cursing the long, freezing cold Boston winter for making me contort myself like a gymnast in this confined restroom.

  I crouch over the test, and listen to the sound of liquid tinkling in the toilet bowl like it’s determining my future. In a very real way, it is.

  The back of the packet says to wait forty seconds for the results.

  Each and every one of them feels like a lifetime.

  Thirty-nine.

  Thirty-eight.

  I stare at the little chemical indicator on the white stick. Two blue lines: good. One blue line: bad. I feel bad for reducing a human life to that kind of thought, but I never planned for this. I imagine all kinds of other women around the world doing this at the same time as me. I wonder what they are thinking. I wonder how many, like me, fear what they’ll see.

  I look away from the pregnancy test trembling in my fingers. I can’t bear the sight of it.

  Twenty-three.

  Twenty-two.

  My throat twists, like it’s being twisted by a large plumber’s wrench. There are women out there – maybe thousands of them – who can’t even have kids. Those poor girls might be where I am now, but time after time they see two blue lines appear.

  I hope more than anything that I’m one of them.

  Seven.

  Six.

  I blink, and turn back to the test. I’m barely
breathing, stomach clenched with anticipation.

  Two.

  One.

  I let out a choked cry. It’s not a word, just an incoherent sound, like the explosion of air a body releases when it’s been hit in the stomach. I wipe my eyes with the back of my arm, hoping against all hell that I’m mistaken.

  There’s only a single blue line on that stick. I reach down for the discarded box, now desperate to find out that I misread the packet. Maybe one blue line means that there’s no kid – that I’m all good.

  I know it’s a false hope, but it’s all I have.

  “Oh, my God,” I mutter underneath my breath. The tiny writing on the back of the packet says exactly what I feared it would. “Oh, my God,” I say, again and again. I can’t say anything else. I can’t figure out how to say anything else.

  I’m pregnant.

  My life just shifted on its axis. If I was walking on a tightrope before, now I’ve slipped off and I’m clinging on with two fingers for dear life.

  Plus, it’s not just that. It’s not just any baby. It’s Kieran Byrne’s baby. I’m pregnant, and I’m bearing the child of one of my family’s greatest rivals.

  I look down at the plastic bag full of pregnancy tests sitting discarded on the floor in front of me. My gaze is cool, disconnected, and passionless. I feel like all the energy just drained out of me – like someone pulled my cord out of the wall socket. I can’t be bothered to try again. I know that the result will be the same every time. Call it a mother’s intuition.

  I should be raging, and fighting against the unfairness of it all.

  I can’t. I won’t. There’s no point, even if I did.

  I’m adrift, lost in a prison of my own foolishness. I set this trap, and then I walked into it. I know what happens now. There is no way that this disaster ends well. The second Mickey finds out what I’ve done, he’ll explode. I don’t know who will more be at risk: me, Kieran, or my baby…

  I kick the tests aside. The first pricklings of an idea start to brew in my skull. The realization that this baby – that I didn’t want, but who I’ll, now, protect with my life – might be at risk, stirs my fight instinct from its slumber. It awakens slowly: stretching; rearing its head. But it wakes.

  I walk to the sink. I’m still in shock. I pump soap into my hands and stick them under the rush of tap water, letting the bubbles wash past until the water runs cold. By the time I pull my hands out, my fingers are wrinkled and numb. I don’t know how long I stand there, unthinking, listening only to the sound of water splashing against the porcelain.

  Ultimately, it does give me time to think.

  One thing is absolutely, completely clear, now. If I carry on this path – sleepwalking – then I’m heading for disaster. I might as well give up now. I might as well throw myself at my brother’s feet and beg for his forgiveness.

  I grimace.

  “Like hell,” I growl. I’ll never do that so long as I live. I wouldn’t be able to bear the look of smug satisfaction on Mickey’s face. No. I’m going to fight this. I’m going to fight him and anyone else who tries to threaten me or … I guess … my baby.

  But I need time. I can’t tell Kieran the truth. Not yet. For all I know, he could throw me to the wolves. It’s not just my life that’s at risk now. I can’t afford to make any sudden moves. Besides, I need to figure this all out in my own head.

  I dry my hands, and pull out my phone one last time. The pregnancy facts webpage still glows on the screen. I tap on the ‘x’ located at the top right corner to kill the page. I do it with vigor. It’s all I have to express my anger.

  “Kieran,” I type. “Need a rain check for tonight. I’ll see you at the hotel tomorrow.”

  That’s all I send. I don’t trust myself to write anything more.

  14

  Kieran

  Sofia is uncharacteristically late.

  I glance at the platinum blonde, way-too-high heel wearing wedding planner to my right. I shrug, giving her a smile that would ordinarily bowl over any woman I shine it towards. This one’s no different.

  “Women, right?” I grunt; “Can never get ‘em anywhere on time.”

  The wedding planner flashes me a smile back. Her cheeks barely move: pumped up with something, no doubt. I can’t help but cast my eyes over her, but I don’t like what they see. Compared to Sofia’s new, original, just came from the crafters’ hands Ferrari, this girl – China, or India, or another name that fled my mind the second she told me it – is an old, held together with spit jalopy. The fresh lick of paint on her cheeks does nothing to disguise her failing tires.

  “Not all women, honey,” she titters. I swear; if she could, she would blow me a kiss. I’m not sure how professional that is, especially given her line of work.

  Sofia storms through the doors of the Mandarin Oriental. I figured that since we’re never going to have this wedding, anything Declan can do, I can do better: and bigger; and more expensive; naturally. I just want to see the look on my brother’s face when I send him the quote.

  A room at the Ritz-Carlton sets a man back five hundred bucks. The Mandarin? Yeah, that’s gonna be closer to seven hundred.

  Sofia is wearing a scowl that looks like it could kill a small mammal. I lean over and take her hand, but I have to force it. Her body is stiff and unresponsive. Still, she looks as good as ever. Her russet brown hair is silky smooth, and glints with the light. She’s wearing skin-tight floral print leggings. They hug Sofia’s perfect legs. All I want to do is rip them off her body. I don’t care who sees, but I guess Sofia wouldn’t feel the same. Nor right now. Especially not right now.

  “Glad ye could make it,” I say, just to wind Sofia up. Her lips don’t even so much as shiver. I wonder what got stuck up her ass this morning.

  “Oh gosh,” China bleats, “this must be your gorgeous fiancé. You simply must introduce us; I’ve heard so much!”

  I raise a hidden eyebrow in Sofia’s direction. “China,” I smile, “please meet my beautiful soon-to-be wife, Sofia Morello.”

  China glances up at me with vapid confusion on her face. “I’m so sorry. I’m actually Mercedes.”

  I grin, and it seems to smooth things over. “Of course: Sofia, Mercedes; Mercedes, Sofia.”

  China –, I mean, Mercedes, leans in towards Sofia. She pretends to cover her mouth, but speaks in a stage whisper. I don’t know what game she’s playing. Sofia ain’t the kind of girl who responds well to this kind of babble.

  Mercedes shakes her head. “Men!” She whispers. Sofia gives her a pitying half-smile. I don’t know how this wedding planner can’t see the kind of mood my girl is in. Instead of trying to make friends, she should be running.

  “Now,” Mercedes says, gesturing out with both hands, “I’ve just got to see the ring.”

  Sofia and I share a glance. It says one thing: now – that could be a problem. We could, and perhaps should, have anticipated Mercedes’ interest; if not from her, then from someone. But, the simple fact of the matter is there happens to be no ring. There’s nothing to show.

  I slide in. Sofia shoots me a look of thanks. I hide a smile. She’s not going to be nearly so grateful in a couple of seconds. Call it payback for standing me up last night.

  “Oh, ye don’t have to be embarrassed – babe,” I grin, maintaining eye contact. “Why don’t ye tell the nice lady …?”

  Sofia’s eyes narrow as she realizes I’m not going to bail her out. She turns to Mercedes and throws the woman a tight-lipped smile. It’s not hard to tell that Sofia would rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, talking to anyone else.

  “Well,” Sofia grins, “I was shocked of course …”

  “Shocked?”

  “Well I never expected Kieran to spend that much on a ring. What was it, darling –?”

  “About – ,” I scramble. Not quick enough to avoid stumbling headlong into Sofia’s carefully laid trap.

  “Twenty grand,” Sofia says with a wicked glint in her eye. “At least …”
She stares at me pointedly. I start wondering where the hell I’m going to find twenty grand. At least …

  “And you took it off?” Mercedes exclaims.

  “Well,” Sofia smiles. “It wasn’t a thirty grand ring, was it?”

  “Well,” Mercedes says clapping her hands together, “I must say – you’re the first lady I’ve ever met in my line of work who’s happy to slip the rock off her finger.” She shakes her head. “Believe me – with most of my girls, you’d have to lever the ring off of their cold dead fingers with a crowbar!”

  Mercedes looks up at Sofia and giggles. She doesn’t get the expected laugh in response. Sofia talks with cold, dead eyes. “I’m not most girls,” she says flatly.

  I step in. I’ve had my fun, but we have to put on some kind of a front. If we don’t act like a loving couple – at least in public, then this game is over before it even started.

  I needn’t have worried. Mercedes claps her hands together again. The woman does it even more theatrically this time. It feels like her trademark move. Sofia’s coldness was, apparently, lost on her.

  “Well – aren’t you two just the cutest.” She gestures towards a small anteroom off the main lobby. “If you’ll follow me, the Mandarin has been kind enough to set us up a little place to work.”

  “I bet they have,” I grunt. “Making enough from t’is wedding, are they?”

  Mercedes giggles politely, and turns away.

  I hold out my arm for my darling faux-fiancé. “So, cutie pie?” I gurgle, copying Mercedes’s tone as far as I dare, “Coming?”

  If looks could kill, I’d already be dead. Sofia takes a step towards me, and then another. She holds my gaze the whole time, like a king cobra stalking its prey. I extend my arm another inch, and Sofia knocks it aside, elbowing me sharply in the ribs.

  A little hiss of air escapes my mouth. Sofia smiles at me sweetly, and links arms while I’m still recovering. “Of course… Dearest.”

  I stroke my side. I lean in to Sofia’s soft, hot body, and let my lips graze her ear. “I guess I deserved that,” I whisper.