My Secret Irish Baby: A Second-Chance, Secret Baby Contemporary Romance (Irish Kiss Book 7)

by Sienna Blake

  As I watched her watch me, I looked for Abbi in her, because the presence of myself was overwhelming. I shifted nervously in my chair and resisted the urge to fidget with my Rolex. How had this child broken me down more swiftly and more thoroughly than some of the fiercest litigators in the world?

  "So, you're, um," I cleared my throat and wondered if she noted this sign of weakness, "you're nine?"

  "Yes."

  I nodded.

  "How old are you?" she asked politely.

  "Oh, I'm, I'm thirty-four."

  Zara nodded in much the way I had.

  "You're American," I said.

  "Yes. And you're Irish."

  "Yes," I said, moving my hands to my lap so she couldn't see me wiping the sweat across my pant legs.

  This was my fault, I thought. This stilted, formal conversation was my fault. I hadn't prepared the way I should have. Whenever I had a meeting with someone, I was diligent in doing my research beforehand. I never went in blind to a boardroom or courthouse. Why should a kitchen table in a past lover's apartment be any different? I should have done my research, prepared a plan of attack, and executed a vetted “father-daughter bonding” tactic.

  As it was, I was out of my depth. I cleared my throat and turned my head toward the rest of the apartment.

  "So, um, do you have blocks?"

  Zara's eyes were narrowed at me when I looked back toward her. "Blocks?"

  The obvious disdain in her voice told me blocks was the wrong answer. The sound of the second hand from the clock on the wall seemed to grow louder and slower, much slower. The darkness around us encroached closer and closer as the lamp above us grew hotter and hotter. I wondered if she could see that I was sweating, that I was breaking beneath the pressure of her steady green eyes. I drummed my fingers on the edge of the table and guessed again with my voice nearly croaking like a nervous prepubescent boy.

  "Um, Barbies?"

  * * *

  "No, no, no, you're out of your mind!" I shouted, hands flailing wildly into the air as I paced across the rug in the living room. "Do you know what kind of inflation that will set off? You're out of your mind, kid."

  I snatched the bowl of popcorn from Zara, who sat on the couch with a victorious smile as she laughed and shook her head. I stuffed a handful of popcorn and M&Ms into my mouth in frustration as she replied.

  "Not if the trust in banks is salvaged," she said, pointing a finger at me like she was lecturing undergrads at goddamn Harvard. "That's the job of Federal Reserve, after all."

  I wasn't sure how we started arguing about US monetary policy. But before I knew it, the living room was bathed in warm light from a ring of lamps, the smell of popcorn and candy scented the warm summer air, and the sound of our lively argument was wonderfully bothering all of the neighbours. Her eyes sparkled and my feet wouldn't still because I was having fun.

  "The job of the Federal Reserve?" I said incredulously. "The job of the—crazy ideas like that don't deserve popcorn."

  I swatted at Zara's hand as she reached for the bowl of popcorn. She laughed and the sound took my breath away. It was the first time I'd heard her laugh, and it was like all the bells of Ireland chiming at once. I stammered over my lost words and Zara grinned victoriously.

  "See! I'm right," she said, crossing her arms adorably over her chest like she'd just won a round of negotiations. "Dropping the bank rate is the thing to do, and you know it!"

  "Bullshite!"

  I slapped a hand over my mouth immediately after the word slipped from my lips. I stared at Zara and she stared at me, both of us silent for a moment.

  "I'm sorry," I started to say. "I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean to—"

  "Bullshite."

  My eyes widened in surprise at the foul word—even my accent copied—from the innocent little girl. My eyes went to the apartment door as if I, too, was a kid about to get caught by an adult. Zara kept that uncanny gaze focused on me.

  "Defend your argument," she said, a challenge blazing in her eyes. "Don't apologise for it."

  I looked down at her there on the couch and in that moment, I saw Abbi in her. In her bare feet, in her long blonde hair that she was constantly pushing from her face, in the stubborn set of her pink lips. I saw her mother. And she was beautiful.

  With a chuckle, I stuck my tongue out at her. This caused a frown of confusion to knit together Zara's eyebrows above her intelligent green eyes.

  "That's rather immature, don't you think?" she asked.

  My response to that was to pluck a piece of popcorn from the bowl and toss it at her. It hit her square in the forehead and without a word, she watched it fall from her folded knee to the floor. She looked from the kernel on the carpet to me.

  "Really?"

  I threw another one. It hit her on the nose.

  "Your monetary policy is utter shite," I said.

  I bit back a grin as the polished, mature little girl bristled in frustration. "That's not an argument," she replied through clearly gritted teeth.

  I raised an eyebrow and said, "No?" before flinging another piece of popcorn at her.

  She successfully narrowed her eyes at me in disapproval, but she failed to hide the tiny grin that tugged up the corners of her lips.

  "You're debasing our civilised conversation," she said, but nonetheless giggled when the next piece of popcorn bounced off the top of her head and landed beside her stack of library books on the couch.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," I said, showering her with a handful of popcorn this time before adding another, "No clue."

  "Hey!" Zara protested, shielding herself with her arms over her head. "Stop it!"

  I found myself smiling irresistibly as I continued and said, "Oh, are you going to send the Federal Trade Commission after me?"

  All it took was one more popcorn assault for Zara to jump up onto the couch, dig her little hand into the bowl, and give me a buttery taste of my own medicine. From then on, we were about as civilised as a pair of monkeys hopping on the bed as we covered the floor with popcorn, raced after one another, jumping from cushion to cushion, and making the neighbours pound on the wall and shout for us to “Shut the hell up!”

  We ended up lying on the floor, our feet opposite one another, our heads side by side as we gazed up at the ceiling like a star-covered sky and caught our breaths. I was fairly sure M&Ms were melting into my Gucci pants beneath me, but I couldn't really find it in me to care.

  "How do you know so much about monetary policy?" I asked after a few quiet moments.

  I turned my head to look at Zara. Her gaze was still fixed on the ceiling and despite it being a plane of flat beige, I could nevertheless see a million stars reflected in her eyes.

  "I wanted to know you," she said with a small, timid voice.

  Her head turned to me and we looked into each other's eyes.

  "I looked you up on the internet," she added.

  As I stared at my daughter, at her bright cheeks and dusting of freckles and long eyelashes, I realised that this wasn't how I wanted her to know me. I didn't want her to know me as my position or my salary or my business conquests. I wanted her to know me.

  After a moment of pondering this, I said, "I have lots of brothers."

  Zara seemed surprised by this, not that I had lots of brothers, but that I'd brought them up.

  "Do you want me to tell you about them?" I asked her.

  A small smile played at her tiny lips and she nodded. "Yes," she said. "I'd like that very much."

  Abbi

  That night I left the apartment and hurried down the stairs before I had a chance to change my mind. I ran into Sandra getting out of her car and walking toward me. She glanced at her watch and frowned.

  "Am I late?" she started to say. "I hit a bit of traffic, but—"

  Her words were cut off when I grabbed her by the arm and whirled her around. "Do you have your ID?" I asked.

  Sandra was clearly confused as she glanced over her
shoulder at the apartment where she still assumed she was going to babysit.

  "Well, yeah, but—"

  "Comfortable shoes?"

  Sandra glanced at her sneakers as she stumbled over her words. I guided her toward a cab that pulled into the apartment complex.

  "Abbi, I don't understand where—"

  Sandra stopped short of the cab in surprise. I hurried to open the door and jerked my head toward the back seat.

  "Get in," I said. "We're going out."

  Sandra jabbed her thumb over her shoulder as she raised a critical eyebrow.

  "And what about your very young daughter alone in your apartment?" she asked, refusing to move and expressing this refusal with a determined crossing of her arms over her chest.

  "She's not alone," I replied, not even allowing my eyes to move toward the apartment door on the second floor.

  I was afraid even that would be enough to send me running back toward Zara.

  "No?" Sandra asked, clearly intrigued. "And who exactly is with her?"

  I sucked in a steadying breath, my grip tightening on the top of the cab's door.

  "Michael."

  Sandra visibly took a step back. "Oh heck."

  I grimaced. "Yeah."

  "Well, damn, girl," Sandra said, nearly flinging herself into the back seat of the cab. "We've got to get you to alcohol!"

  I chuckled as I followed in after her, grinning as my friend leaned forward to speak to the driver.

  "Mister, you best step on it!"

  * * *

  I hadn't been out for years and immediately found the bar loud and dirty and, worst of all, sticky.

  "Was it always like this?" I shouted over the noise as Sandra bulldozed a path to the bar for us.

  She laughed as we found two barstools and wiped off the discarded peanut shells.

  "Give it a shot or two and you'll feel differently."

  Sandra ordered us each a shot of whiskey and a Bud Light and by the time we'd finished both of them I'd explained what made me decide to give Michael the chance to meet his daughter. Sandra nodded.

  "I think you're doing the right thing, Abs," she said over the blare of the jukebox. "But that doesn't exactly explain why we're here tonight."

  I glanced around the crowded bar and then leaned in toward my friend. "Just because I'm letting Michael in his daughter's life doesn't mean I'm letting him into my life," I answered, lifting my eyebrows meaningfully at her.

  Sandra's eyes widened with excitement. "Does this mean…?"

  I was silent, but my smile seemed response enough. Sandra clamped a strong hand on my shoulder and leaned in conspiratorially.

  "I want you to be crystal clear about this," she said, jabbing a finger at my chest. "Do you, Abbi Miller, want me, Sandra Phillips, to act as your official wing woman for the purposes of getting you, Abbi Miller, goddamn laid?"

  I laughed.

  "I have to hear it from your lips," Sandra insisted, deadly serious. "The power I wield is immense. I need to know this is what you want, what you really want."

  I nodded empathically. "Work your magic, girl."

  Sandra threw back her head to holler wildly, which startled several people around us, who moved away with their beers clutched protectively to their chests. Sandra waved down the bartender for another round. He went off to pour our drinks and she shouted after him.

  "Make them doubles!"

  Sandra had been telling me about her superhuman abilities as a wing woman since pretty much the first day I'd met her, but I had yet to take her up on her offer until that night. Suffice it to say, she had not at all been overselling her qualifications.

  By the time the bartender announced last call at just past 2 a.m., Sandra and I were staring at dozens of crumpled napkins marked with names and numbers spread across the sticky bar top. I was fairly certain we were seeing double at that point, but even if there were only half that number of prospects, that was still impressive as hell.

  With Sandra by my side, I wasn't a personal assistant, I was managing the top talent of an international legal firm. I wasn't a college dropout, I was an enterprising intellectual who valued the education of real life. I wasn't a tired mom, I was an experienced lover who didn't have time to waste on foreplay.

  I was not just the sexiest woman in Denver, but the smartest, the most talented, the foxiest, the coolest, the richest. Sandra was quite simply a fairy godmother and she didn't need a wand to twist her magic, just a little whiskey and a whole hell of a lot of confidence.

  "Well?" she asked, gesturing her hand over the napkins as we swayed against the bar. "Who's the lucky guy gonna be?"

  I closed one eye to try to get the numbers to stop moving. "Umm…"

  During the night I'd managed to find something wrong with each guy Sandra roped in for me. My excuses ranged from the legitimate (“pretty sure he's twenty-one”) to the petty (“I mean, an orange tie, come on”) to the downright silly (“he's too tall, you know?”).

  "Umm…" I stammered again, trying to place a single face to a single name.

  They'd all just blurred together in our whirlwind night of drinking and dancing and laughing and waiting in line for the girl's bathroom.

  "Umm…"

  Sandra went to put a hand on my shoulder but must have guessed the wrong shoulder, because she missed and had to try again before getting something solid.

  "You know," she said, "as your wing woman, I'll tell you which one to pick."

  "Thank you," I said, slouching onto an open barstool, the peanut shells hard under my ass.

  I watched drunkenly as Sandra proceeded to grab napkin after napkin, ball it up, and throw it into the trash behind the bar. It took me longer than it should have to realise she'd eliminated all my options. As this dawned on me, I turned to face her with confusion.

  "Come on, Abs," Sandra shouted over the music. "You must see it."

  "See what?"

  "Who you really want to be with."

  I shook my head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Sandra levelled her eyes at me as best she could in our drunken state. "You found something wrong with like twenty guys."

  "Those were legitimate reasons!" I protested.

  "Really?" Sandra asked, crossing her arms over her chest; the motion nearly sent her toppling over. "'Looks too much like Chris Hemsworth' is legitimate?"

  I shrugged and tried to casually drink my beer, only to find it empty. "I don't see your point," I said, peeling at the label.

  "My point is you've been comparing every guy you met tonight to him."

  I glared at Sandra. "I'm over him!" I shouted.

  "Yeah, right."

  "I am!"

  "Abbi Miller, you are full of shit!"

  I leaned back and stared at her. "You're full of shit!" I shouted back, laughing.

  She laughed, too. "Well, you're fuller of shit."

  Lots of whiskey plus a tiny bit of laughter always equal unstoppable laughter. It was like rolling a stone down a hill; once it got started there was no stopping it.

  Sandra will swear I was the one who started crying from laughing so hard first, but, as we've established, she is full of shit. As we laughed harder and harder, we leaned against each other, trying to catch our breaths as we gripped our aching sides.

  "Just admit you like him," Sandra said in between hiccups as tears streamed down her red cheeks. "Or more!"

  "I will do nothing of the sort!" I shouted back at her, holding onto her shoulder for support before I fell onto my ass. "Because I don't."

  "Liar!"

  Neither of us could say anything at that point as we fell back into a fit of unstoppable laughter that left us gasping for breath. When I'd managed to suck in just enough air to speak, I said, "I can't like him."

  Sandra sagged against the bar top and pressed her hand against her heaving chest. But just as she opened her mouth to reply Journey's “Don't Stop Believin’” began to blare through the speakers. With squeals of delight, we
both ran to the dance floor. The night blurred into flashing neon lights, as Sandra's hands and mine lifted toward the ceiling, our voices shouting, completely out of tune, the power ballad.

  I wanted to forget. One thing was certain: there was no way I was remembering this night.

  Michael

  It appeared that I'd fallen quite a bit in the world.

  Picking up crushed pieces of popcorn by hand off the carpet on my hands and knees was far from the life of luxury and privilege and wealth I'd come to expect for myself. A mess on the floor hadn’t been a blip on my radar. It was something for the cleaning staff. I had more important things to focus on. Like subtly comparing my Rolex with my colleague’s to judge whether he was making more money than me or debating whether I wanted cream- or eggshell-coloured leather seats in my new black Maserati or watching two girls kiss in my loft while judging, with a bored sigh, which had the nicer tits over a glass of whiskey more expensive than Abbi's monthly rent.

  Grease stained the knees of my designer pants, my fingers were smudged with melted chocolate, and I was sure there were still a few kernels in my hair, but I was more content than I could ever remember being as I collected the fallen popcorn. There was a vacuum in the closet, of course. But Zara was sleeping sweetly in her bedroom and I didn't want to wake her.

  This effort proved to be entirely frivolous, however, because when I'd cleaned half the living room, the soft silence of the apartment exploded as the front door slammed opened. I looked up from my place on the floor to see Abbi leaning heavily against the door frame as she waved wildly to someone outside.

  Abbi cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, "I love you, bitch!"

  As I remained frozen on my hands and knees, a woman in the parking lot replied, "I love you more, bitch!"

  Abbi laughed as she struggled to close the door. I chuckled because it was happy laughter: carefree, unencumbered, drunken, sure, but happy laughter, nonetheless. Abbi fumbled at the lock before giving up with a sigh, tossing away her purse haphazardly, and turning toward the living room. She giggled and pointed a finger at me when she finally noticed me.