by Nikki Ash
Screw him.
Screw his blasé attitude.
He just waltzes in here with food, under the guise of being a concerned friend of my brother’s, and accuses me of trying to pass off my son as his. Like I’m some Tate Steele groupie, who throws their panties on the field every time he tosses a ball. Or grins. Or waves.
Or just looks at you with that smoldering intensity.
Damn him.
I open my mouth to let everything that’s built up inside me since the moment I peed on the stick—hell, probably since the second I woke up in my brother’s guest bed with only the memories of what happened the night before—when we’re interrupted.
“Uhh, Ash?” my brother hollers from the living room, a hint of nervousness in his voice that catches my attention right away.
I turn and head that way, Tate hot on my heels. “What? What’s wrong?” I ask the second I cross the threshold.
My brother looks horrified, my son starting to squirm in his arms. I can tell by his mannerisms he’s about to let a very unhappy cry fly. I realize instantly what’s wrong when the unforgiving scent hits my nose.
Tate sniffs beside me and gasps in disgust. “Holy shit,” he mumbles, bringing his arm up to cover his nose. “That smell is coming from that tiny human?”
“Dude, I think it’s seeping through the blanket. My arm feels wet.” Alex looks at me with pleading eyes, but I can’t help it, I laugh. “Really? This is funny?” He gapes at me, trying to hide his gags.
I nod, feeling somewhat lighter as I giggle at my brother’s disgust and discomfort. “Sorry,” I reply, trying to push my giggles aside to help. I carefully lift my son from my brother’s arms, noticing the wet, brown mark on the arm of his T-shirt.
Alex seems to notice at the same time. “God, that’s disgusting.”
“Your nephew shit on you,” Tate states matter-of-factly, but there’s no missing the humor dancing in his hazel eyes.
“It happens,” I say with a shrug before turning and heading off to the nursery. Rowan starts to squirm, no doubt not happy to have poop seeping from the top and bottom of his diaper. In Rowan’s two short weeks of life, I’ve been pooped on three times and peed on twice. That thing’s like a jet hose the second it’s exposed to air.
Carefully, I remove the swaddle blanket, setting it aside to wash, and start to work on his onesie. Yeah, there’s greenish-brown sludge everywhere. “You’re not going to like this, Little Man, but a bath it is.” The cord fell off his belly button a few days ago, so bathing is a little easier. He doesn’t mind, as long as his body is submerged in the warm water, but he’s not a fan of soaping up.
I grab wipes and start to clean him as much as possible while removing his clothes. He really starts to get upset the longer it takes, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Worse, my boobs hear his cries and think it’s time for a feeding. I can feel the wetness seeping through my bra, but sadly, it’s going to have to wait. Taking care of Rowan comes first.
I move to the bathroom, grateful when I don’t see my brother or Tate in the living room. I’m assuming they’re in the kitchen, eating the rest of the lunch they brought. I push the door so it’s only cracked open and crouch down by the shower. I grab the infant bathtub and set it down. I’ve become a pro at doing things one-handed. Rowan still voices his displeasure, but it’s not as bad now, as I fill the small tub with warm water. I strip off the clean diaper and carefully lower him into the water.
Squatting beside the tub, I lather up his little body, mindful of his face and eyes. Using a little frog pitcher, I use fresh water from the spout to rinse away the suds. “You definitely smell a lot better now,” I tell him, as the door creaks open behind me.
I assume it’s my brother, so when another voice fills the room. “Much better now.” When he notices my startle, he adds, “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
Ignoring his presence, I finish giving Rowan his bath. When he’s clean and rinsed, I reach for a hooded towel, which, of course, is just out of my reach. Tate moves silently and quickly, pulling the top towel off the stack and handing it to me. I’m already smiling as I spread the terry cloth across my legs, because it has bear ears on the top, making my little guy look like the cutest bear in the world.
The moment his naked body hits the cool air, Rowan lets out a very unhappy holler, drawing his legs up as I lie him down on my lap. I work quickly, drying him off and wrapping him in the towel, completely oblivious to the very wet marks in the centers of my bra. When Rowan is secure, I stand up and turn around, only to be stopped in my tracks by a six foot four inch brick wall.
My gaze locks with his for a second before his drops down. He’s staring intently, and while I assume it’s at Rowan, the moment I follow his scrutiny, I realize it’s not on the baby. Not at all. Tate is openly staring at my chest. Specifically, at the wet circles around my nipples from leaking.
I gasp, my mouth falling open as my shocked eyes meet his. “Uhhh…”
I adjust Rowan, using him as a human shield. “Can we pretend you didn’t see that?” I ask, mortification burning my face.
“Is that…”
“Yeah, milk. Sometimes, when he cries, my breasts think it’s time to eat.”
Tate glances back down to my face, and then over my shoulder. It’s as if he doesn’t quite know where to look. He clears his throat and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
I take the opportunity to slip around his huge body. “I need to get him dry and dressed,” I state, heading straight for the nursery. I don’t pay any attention to Tate, though I know he’s there, lurking in the doorway. I can feel his presence. I’m still not sure why, but I plan to find out.
Just not now. Not with my brother nearby.
When Rowan is dressed in a clean diaper and outfit, I scoop up my son, prepared to feed him. The moment I rest him against my chest, I realize I’m still wearing my wet shirt. I hate the feel of damp material against my skin, and especially against Rowan and his fresh outfit. “I need to change my shirt,” I mumble to no one.
A shadow falls over me, and I look way up to meet Tate’s hazel eyes. They look greener right now in the dim light, and I hate how much I love that particular color and the way my heart skips around in my chest with excitement. “May I?” he asks, breaking through my thoughts and holding out his hands.
“What? Where’s Alex?” I whisper, my voice is barely audible.
Tate clears his throat. “He’s finishing his sandwich,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “I, uh, thought I could help you. So you can change your shirt.” Yeah, he absolutely sounds nervous. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard the great Tate Steele sound unsure of anything.
“Oh…” Now I’m the one nervous. I don’t know why I still feel like everything’s a game to this man.
“Just for a few minutes, right? You can change and then feed him. The way he’s sucking on his hand like that must mean he’s hungry.”
I glance down and notice he’s correct. Rowan is gnawing on his little fist, and it won’t be long before he realizes he’s not getting anything out of it. I could feed him first, but then I’m still sitting with a wet shirt and bra. The most logical option is to hand over Rowan so I can do a quick bra and shirt change.
Hand over my son.
To his biological father.
The one who told me to go away.
When I take in his appearance, his hair is a little wild from running his hands through it. There’s something in his eyes that’s both eager and nervous, but also sincere and hopeful. Why I’d even put myself in a situation requiring me to believe this man is beyond me. He’s proven he’s only out for himself and no one else.
Yet, for some reason, when he whispers, “I promise you can trust me with him,” I find myself carefully handing Rowan over to him so I can change my shirt. Tate’s stiff and tense as I help him adjust his hold. My son looks so tiny in his big arms and against his broad chest, but the sight does something to my heart
. Unexpected tears burn my eyes, but I quickly blink them away. The last thing I need is to get emotionally caught up in this tangled web of uncertainty. It’s all smoke and mirrors. A mirage. The image he just created isn’t real.
I’ll do good to remember that.
Clearing my throat, I state, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to change quickly.” Then I’m gone, seeking the security and isolation of my bedroom.
Trying not to dwell on the picture of father and son, I rip off my top and bra faster than I ever have before, taking a few extra seconds to dry the moisture on my chest. I re-dress in record speed, not even caring which shirt I grab. At this point, I just want to get back to the nursery, back to my son.
That’s when another image of Tate and Rowan pops into my head. The chin dimple. I could see it on both father and son as he held him in his arms. How anyone wouldn’t see the resemblance is beyond me, but so far, no one has seemed to notice. Of course, no one has seen the baby actually in his father’s arms before like I have, which reminds me, I need to get to him before Alex goes in there.
Unfortunately, luck isn’t on my side as I slip across the hall and find my brother leaning against the crib, the smallest smile on his face. He grins widely when I step inside and find Tate sitting in the glider, Rowan contently gazing up at him.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” my brother whispers.
My shocked gaze flies to his. “What do you mean?” I ask, my throat suddenly thick and dry.
He nods to his best friend. “The day he actually holds a baby, for one, but also look slightly comfortable doing it.”
“I’ve held a baby before, asshole,” Tate mumbles, just loud enough so we can hear.
“Yeah? When?” Alex challenges, his grin growing wider by the second.
“Two years ago. I was at a restaurant when a woman who claimed her baby was mine came up and thrust him in my arms,” Tate replies, never taking his eyes off the baby cradled in his arms.
“Not the same thing,” Alex argues. “You held that kid for like four seconds, only long enough for the mom’s friend to snap that picture of you. They already had bidders lined up for that image.” There’s something in my brother’s tone I wasn’t expecting. Sadness.
“Does that happen a lot? Random women claiming you’re their baby’s father?” I find myself asking, even though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
“All the time,” Alex replies for his friend. “What are you up to this year? Two already?”
“Three,” Tate mumbles.
“But that’s only because he sleeps with everything with a vagina. He’s an easy target,” Alex says with a teasing laugh, though neither one of us returns the hilarity. In fact, it’s not that funny at all.
Tate blanches before he looks up and meets my eyes. I wonder if he’s recalling what got us into this predicament too. That one night that changed the course of our lives without us even knowing. “I don’t sleep with all of them. Just the ones I want to,” he says, his gaze locked intently on mine.
I swallow over the golf ball lodged in my throat.
Too bad he sleeps with them and refuses to take responsibility for his actions. Tate Steele might actually be a decent human being deep down, if only he weren’t such a selfish jerk.
Rowan lets out a squeal, letting me know it’s time to eat. Tate looks up, a slice of panic across his face, and asks, “What’d I do?”
I can’t help but smile. “Nothing. He’s ready to eat.”
“Can I help?” he asks, glancing back down at the baby in his arms.
“Not unless you’ve started lactating,” I shoot off at the mouth.
Realization settles in and his eyes dip to my chest. I don’t think my brother caught it because he doesn’t reprimand his friend for gawking at his sister’s chest. Her very large, very hard chest, I might add. In the last week, I’ve developed the boobs of a porn star, and if the way Tate keeps glancing at them is any indication, I’d say he’s noticed too.
“Come on, dude. We’ll go in the living room. No way do I need to see my sister’s boobs,” Alex says, making a quick retreat from the nursery.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Tate mumbles, only loud enough for me to hear.
“I think you’ve done enough,” I whisper, bending down to take my son.
Our eyes meet. His are soft and sincere, apologetic even, as he looks up at me. “We’re going to talk, Ash. Not with Alex around, but you and I have things to discuss.”
I swallow hard. “I’m not sure what about. You’ve said everything you needed to already.”
He’s already shaking his head in disagreement. “That’s part of the problem, Sweetness. I haven’t said anything yet.”
His words leave me mystified as he slowly lifts his arms for me to take the baby. I slide my hands through his arms, brushing my chest against him. In true guy fashion, his eyes dance with mirth and a wicked grin spreads across his too-handsome face. “Oh, stop it. It was an accident,” I chastise, as I grab Rowan and cradle him to my chest.
“Best accident I’ve experienced today,” he replies, grinning widely as he gets up to allow me to sit in the glider.
Tate lingers close by as I get positioned for feeding. I’m ready to lift my shirt when it hits me I still have an audience. Looking up, I give him a questioning look. He takes a step closer and crouches in front of me. Rowan is starting to squirm, getting more unhappy with each passing second, but the moment Tate sets his hand on his forehead, it’s as if a calmness washes over him. Rowan just stops and looks up, his attention given completely to the man right in front of him.
His father.
Then Tate does something I’m not expecting, nor is my emotionally fragile state prepared for. He bends down and kisses Rowan on the forehead. He looks up and meets my eyes, whispering, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Chapter Five
Tate
I’m torn between wanting to stay in that room and knowing I need to give her privacy.
The thought of someone doing what she’s about to do has always made me a little squeamish. Breasts, I like. Breasts with babies attached to them have never been my thing. Yet, the thought of Ashtyn feeding her son…
My son.
There’s no doubt in my mind now. Not after seeing him in person. He looks a lot like Ashtyn, yet there are other similarities to me too. The chin dimple is a big giveaway, though not a unanimous verdict. The shape of his eyes is Ashtyn, but the color? There’s more gold in those hazel eyes than brown or green. And there’s the shape of his face, which is a little more like mine than his mother’s. When I was holding him, scared I was going to break him somehow, he just sat there and stared back at me. He was wide awake, his attention riveted on me the same as mine was on him. That’s when I felt it.
Pride.
It was way different than what I feel on the football field after throwing a perfect spiral into the hands of an awaiting receiver. Better than all those times the coach praised me in the locker room for a job well done. Even greater than every list I’ve topped or award I’ve received, including the Heisman. This comes from somewhere deeper, something with more meaning, and frankly, that shocks the shit out of me.
I’m a basic man. I love football and women.
But the look in that little boy’s eyes made me feel something bigger, something greater than football and women, all rolled into one.
“Hey, everything okay?” Alex asks, propping his feet up on the coffee table, remote in hand.
“Fine,” I tell him, as I sit in the rocker recliner where Alex sat earlier. I sniff and glance around. “It still smells like shit over.”
Alex snorts. “You weren’t the one covered in it. I just threw the shirt away. Thank God I still had my carry-on bag in the rental so I could change my shirt.”
We sit in silence, watching television, though I’m not sure either of us is actually watching the program. My mind keeps racing back to holding Rowan, and then catapulting the other direc
tion and wondering if Ash is okay in the nursery.
“She seems like she’s doing okay,” Alex finally says, like a general observation.
I glance around the small, yet cozy place she’s got here. There’s a basket of baby things in front of the television and a swing on the opposite side of the room. “She looks a little tired, but that’s probably normal, right?” I ask.
Alex shrugs. “Probably. Mom said she napped a lot when they were here last week. I guess the first few nights were rough, but by the end of their trip, they settled into a routine.”
The thought of Ashtyn being here by herself this past week bothers me more than I expected. I’m grateful her parents were here to help after the baby was born, but at the same time, I feel a little shorted in that regard. What if she needs something? Who will she call? Her parents and Alex are hours away, and even though they’d drop everything to help, it could be too late before they arrive.
“I asked again last night if they found out who his father is,” Alex continues, catching my complete attention.
My throat feels dry as I carefully glance his way, schooling my features to not give anything away. “Did they find out anything?”
Alex shakes his head. “Nope. Dad said no one but a few co-workers from the library stopped by, and she never took any calls or texts from anyone other than friends. That’s why I want this job, Tate. I want to be here to help her if she needs it.”
I open my mouth, determined to tell him I’m here, that I’ll help, but I quickly snap it shut. I’m not about to give too much away yet. Not until I’ve talked to Ashtyn. If and when the time comes to have this discussion with Alex, I’ll man up and do it, but for now, I’d rather not wave red in front of the bull’s face. Right now, all I’m guilty of is sleeping with his sister, which yes, is bad enough. When I finally get confirmation that it resulted in a child, then I’ll do what’s right and tell my oldest friend, but not until I speak with Ashtyn.
