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

by Sienna Blake

  "I didn't think about you at all tonight," she said, her words slightly slurred. "Like not even at all."

  I stood and dusted off my pants as she doubled over in laughter.

  "Brad Pitt was there," she giggled. "I got Brad Pitt's number, you know?"

  I held back my own laughter as she kicked off one shoe, slinging it across the living room, and then struggled with the second.

  "Sounds like you had a fun night," I said, slipping my hands into my pockets and smiling at the dishevelled sight of her.

  Her hair was a wild mess, strands stuck to her glistening forehead just the way they'd been after we danced for hours in the mountains. Pink, just like the sunset that night painted her cheeks as naturally as the sky. Her blouse was unbuttoned like she'd gotten hot and yanked at it hastily, impatiently. She reminded me so much of the girl I got swept away by. She wasn't the steady, constant stream she'd wanted me to believe since arriving in Denver. She was still a swirl of deadly rapids, a rush of deep water, a current impossible to fight against.

  And that made me happy to see.

  "I did have fun," Abbi said, despite her focus still clearly being directed at tugging off her second shoe. "Because I met Brad Pitt and I did not think about you at—"

  Abbi lost her balance and toppled over to the floor. She rolled onto her back and laughed as I hurried to her side.

  "Alright," I said, trying not to laugh, which was hard because her own was so infectious. "Let's get you to bed."

  I extended a hand for her, but Abbi, with her hair spread around her and her hands clutching her heaving stomach as she laughed harder and harder, did not seem to acknowledge my offer of help.

  "Sandra says I love you, but she's full of shit," Abbi said, tears streaming from her eyes. "Sandra doesn't know shit!"

  "Come on," I said before leaning down and pulling Abbi over my shoulder.

  I lifted her and carried her toward her bedroom.

  "Wait," she said, elbows digging into my back as she propped herself up. "Is that popcorn? I want popcorn."

  "You want water," I told her. "And sleep."

  "I want popcorn," Abbi grumbled as I nudged open her bedroom door with my toe.

  I eased it closed behind me so only a sliver of yellow light from the hallway cut into the darkness. I let Abbi slip from my shoulder and guided her gently toward the edge of the bed. She plopped down with a huff as I kneeled to undo the tangled knot she'd created in her shoelaces.

  "Just because you help me with my shoe doesn't mean you're not a butthead," she said.

  I glanced up in the darkness to find her eyes, as unsteady as they might be, focused on me.

  "A butthead?" I asked, holding her heel as I slipped off her shoe.

  "A butthead," Abbi repeated before giggling. "Butthead. Butt. Head. That's a funny word, don't you think?"

  After glancing around her room, I found an oversized faded t-shirt draped over the top of her laundry hamper. I grabbed it and offered it to Abbi.

  "You'll be more comfortable if you change," I said.

  With a whine, Abbi flopped backwards and complained, "Can't you do it? I just want to go to sleep."

  I sighed and started with her pants, undoing the button of her jeans.

  "You're a butthead, Mr O'Sullivan," she said, floundering like a dying fish in an effort to help me tug down her pants over her hips; it really made the effort more difficult, but I didn't want to say so.

  I pulled her up to sitting again.

  "Arms up."

  Abbi's arm wobbled in the air and I grabbed the hem of her blouse and pulled it over her head before she fell over again.

  "Can you undo your bra?" I asked her.

  She giggled and said, "You know how to do it, butthead."

  I used the t-shirt to cover her as I unhooked her bra and helped her shimmy out of it. I did my best not to look as I guided her arms through and then helped her head to find the opening. Only when it was on her did I realise it was backwards, but that would just have to do. I folded back the covers and manoeuvred Abbi's rag doll body beneath them. I poured a glass of water in her kitchen and came back to sit on the edge of her bed.

  After she took a wobbling sip where more water ended up on her backwards t-shirt than in her mouth, Abbi laid her head on the pillow and stared up at me. She was wasted, but her eyes still managed to grab hold of mine and refuse to let go.

  "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, my voice little more than a whisper in the dark stillness of her room.

  I asked the question not really expecting her to know what I was talking about—that I had been referring to our daughter. I hadn't even really been expecting a coherent response given how drunk she was. I asked it more because the words swelled so fiercely in my heart that I couldn't have kept them inside of me even if I had wanted to. So it was with more than a little surprise that I heard Abbi whisper back.

  "I tried."

  I frowned down at her. Her hand was resting on the pillow next to her sprawl of wild, golden hair. Her fingers looked so small, so delicate. I didn't remember seeing her like that in the mountains, as something that might break, as something that I might break.

  "You tried?" I repeated.

  I still wasn't sure that Abbi knew what I was talking about, but after licking her lips and exhaling slowly, she said, "I called the number you gave me when I was back in the US."

  I shook my head.

  "You called me?" I said. "No, no, I would have remembered you calling me. You didn't call me."

  She was drunk. That had to be it.

  "You gave me your office number."

  My confidence started to erode; my stone wall was impenetrable, but a tiny crack was forming at the foundation. I searched Abbi's eyes.

  "You didn't ask for me?" I questioned her with growing uncertainty.

  "I did."

  The whole story was there in the sadness of her voice as she said those two simple words. The tiny crack was spreading rapidly, the stone eroding, the whole impenetrable wall threatening to fall at any moment.

  I refused to believe it. I wanted to hold onto my last sense of innocence: that I hadn't known about my daughter, that there was no way I could have known, that it wasn't my fault.

  That wall, that impenetrable wall, was holding back a dam and the guilt in those waters ran deep. I wasn't sure I could survive them crashing over me all at once.

  "I don't understand," I whispered, as if to buy time to suck in one last desperate breath before I drowned in dark, cold, rushing regret.

  Abbi's eyes seemed to clear and focus, as if the alcohol wasn't preventing her from seeing with crystal clarity some distant memory.

  "I called and I asked for you," she said softly, "and your receptionist said it was me and you said, 'Who?' and I hung up after that."

  My hands that had been resting in my lap began to shake. It wasn't the horror of recalling this moment in time nine years ago that I was experiencing; it was the horror of not remembering at all. This incident didn't even register as a blip on my recollection. A woman I dared to love for a few precious days called to tell me I had a child, and I had no memory of it whatsoever.

  I had probably been consumed by some report, busy with some email, focused on some court document, all things that I once put so much value in, all things I once swore were the most important things in life.

  "I don't remember that," I admitted with cheeks hot from my shame. "Abbi, I'm…I'm so sorry."

  Abbi continued to stare up at me.

  "Butthead," she whispered, but there was none of the jovial drunkenness from before.

  I had hurt her. I needed to face that unavoidable fact head-on. I needed to stare its ugly visage in the eye and not flinch away from it. I needed to look in the mirror and say to the man staring back at me, “You. You did this.”

  Abbi's eyelids started to flutter closed as I sat beside her on the edge of the bed. I watched her fall asleep. I watched her face soften, her lips parted in gentle, evening breat
hing. She was the girl from the mountains, with the moonlight tickling her cheeks like dandelions.

  I suddenly felt like I had a second chance with her. I decided to leave her once, but I could decide differently now. I could be better. I could be better for her, for our daughter. I could go back to that motel room in the rain and pull her into my arms instead of pushing her away. I could be better.

  I would be better.

  When I was certain Abbi had fallen asleep, I arranged the blankets carefully around her. I brushed a strand of hair from her face. I leaned forward and pressed an almost fearful kiss to her forehead.

  She was cracked because of me.

  I was either going to mend the wounds or scatter the pieces to the ends of the earth.

  And I wasn't sure I was strong enough to decide which it would be.

  Abbi

  I woke up fearful that I was about to roll over and see what “Brad Pitt” really looked like without my beer goggles. I turned my head and peeked one eye open. I let out a sigh of relief to find myself in my own bed, alone. I closed my eyes and sagged back into the sheets, intending to fall back asleep.

  But something itching at my neck prevented this. Staring down my nose, I pulled at the neckline of my t-shirt and squinted at the tag. My t-shirt was on backwards. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was that I didn't remember putting on my t-shirt.

  Frowning, I sat up with a small groan at the throbbing in my head and looked around my room. There was only one shoe on the floor next to my jeans; God only knew where the other one was. Did I take off my pants? I wondered. I vaguely remembered the cab ride home with Sandra. I had flashes of us rolling down the windows to sing “Don't Stop Believin'” till the driver yelled at us to shut up. I kind of recalled shouting a goodbye to her as lights came on and neighbours peered angrily at me through their parted blinds.

  But after that…

  My confusion only grew as I found a glass of water and two aspirin waiting for me on the bedside table. I took them gratefully even as I tried to remember what the fuck happened at the end of last night. Rubbing at my mascara-smudged eyes, I padded out of my bedroom toward the living room. For some reason I had images of popcorn.

  But as I peeked around the corner, I found the living room spotless, save for a blanket and pillow rumpled on the couch. It all came crashing back down on me when I looked across the living room to see Michael there in my kitchen with Zara.

  I remembered seeing him on the floor when I came home drunk.

  I remembered falling over while trying to get my shoe off.

  I remembered him carrying me to my bed.

  I remembered him undressing me.

  I remembered telling him about calling to tell him about Zara.

  I remembered the kiss he pressed to my forehead when he thought I was asleep.

  Quietly I crossed toward them in the kitchen, my footsteps silent across the plush carpet. With their backs turned toward me, Michael and my daughter spoke in quiet voices, like they were in a library and, unlike myself, wanted to be there. From what I could tell they were making pancakes, and I was surprised at the ease with which they interacted. Zara stood on a stool with my apron nearly brushing against her bare toes as she held a large metal mixing bowl.

  "How much flour?" Michael asked.

  "Two cups," Zara read from a cookbook held open with a wooden spatula.

  "Hmm…" Michael replied. "It looks like we only have 1.75."

  Zara checked his measurements with a studious eye.

  "We'll have to reduce the recipe by 12.5 percent," she finally said. "That's our only option."

  "We've already poured in the sugar."

  Zara looked down at her bowl. "We'll have to start over."

  Michael agreed as he opened the sugar jar for her, saying, "Yes, I think that's for the best."

  I stifled a burst of laughter with a hand over my mouth. I couldn't believe how similar they were. They cooked pancakes like they were conducting a chemistry experiment with uranium. I actually imagined their ideal kitchen would look very much like a lab. I smiled at the idea of them in white lab coats, holding up beakers, writing complicated equations on chalkboards, their green eyes shining with excitement.

  I thought I could stand there watching them for the whole morning. I'd never seen Michael so gentle, so patient, so engaged. And it wasn't just Michael who seemed different.

  As the two started over their double- and seemingly triple-checked measurements for the pancakes, Zara chatted with comfortable ease. Oftentimes it felt like drawing more than single word responses from her after school or in the car was like pulling teeth. I was used to my daughter being a verifiable safe, her lips and thoughts under strict lock and key.

  But as I crossed my arms and leaned against the living room wall in just my baggy old t-shirt, Zara wonderfully went on and on about everything and nothing. She talked about national parks and teachers and her classmates, things I'd never even heard of. Strangest of all, she sounded like a nine-year-old. She giggled and babbled and seemed to have no self-awareness that she was just talking and talking and talking.

  And Michael didn't appear to be just listening; he seemed to be drinking in every word. He nodded often, supplied “emhmms” and “ohs” whenever was needed, and didn't add a single line of commentary of his own. It was like he was bathing in the sun and the best thing to do was just lie there, still and silent under the golden rays.

  "Alright, now we can add the two medium eggs," Zara said. As Michael held up two eggs, she added, "Do you think those are medium?"

  "Hmm…a bit large for medium, don't you think?"

  Zara referred to the cookbook.

  "It says quite clearly medium," she said with her little finger on the page. "Cooking is all chemistry."

  I rolled my eyes and contained a laugh. As they debated the egg situation, I sneaked into the kitchen and grabbed the bag of chocolate chips. Before the pair could notice me, I dumped the half-full bag of chocolate chips into the mixing bowl.

  "Mom!" Zara laughed as I kissed her bed-ruffled hair. "That's way too much chocolate!"

  "No such thing," I said as I grinned over her head at Michael.

  He had a smear of flour on his nose and his silk work shirt was crumpled from sleeping over in it. Our eyes met and we shared a silent smile together. It was tentative and hesitant but hopeful, even as I averted my eyes with a small blush of my cheeks.

  The three of us then shared an intimate breakfast of way-too-chocolatey pancakes that left all three of our lips smeared with brown. But we laughed at one another like miners or pirates from the 1800s who'd lost half their teeth, and we were happy. We didn't even bother moving to the kitchen table, but instead ate the pancakes hot right from the skillet with our fingers. As the next pancakes cooked, we sat in a little row on the island, our bare feet swinging to and fro as we licked our chocolatey fingers clean, the kitchen filled with just the sound of butter popping and our lips smacking.

  It was quiet and simple and sweet, even without the chocolate and sugar and vanilla included. Michael and I snuck little smiles at one another, our eyes drawn together by some unknown force. Each time he smiled. I blushed and looked away.

  We all lost track of time. After filling our stomachs, it was a hectic race to get Zara to school on time. Michael helped pack Zara's lunch. I darted into my bathroom to throw on some clothes and wipe off last night's mascara for the office. I checked my phone for the first time since the night before and saw several missed notifications for a meeting Michael was supposed to report to at 8 a.m.

  I ducked my head out of my bedroom and found Michael helping Zara slip into her backpack.

  "Hey," I said, "we forgot that meeting with Dublin this morning."

  Michael kept his focus on Zara. "I didn't."

  "Huh?"

  Michael glanced back at me over his shoulder. "I didn't forget about it."

  Before I could respond he had already turned away and was guiding Zara toward the
front door.

  "Let's get you to school, eh?" he said to her. I slipped back around the corner in confusion.

  I leaned for a brief moment against the wall, staring at the missed meeting on my cell phone, the missed meeting Michael had intentionally missed. I bit my lip and allowed myself the tiniest of smiles.

  The tiniest of hopes.

  Michael

  Over the next week of work I was having a harder and harder time remembering what about it I had once found so important. Before coming to the United States it wouldn't be uncommon for me to work, shuttered away in my office, completely absorbed in whatever I was doing till Caroline knocked at the door with an espresso and croissant, my only indication the sun had once again risen. It used to be that any moment I spent away from work, whether to shop or visit my family for Sunday lunches or, hell, even to sleep, seemed like time wasted. It used to make me fidgety, anxious, irritable, because I was constantly thinking about what I could be accomplishing in those hours, those minutes, those seconds. I’d found meaning, usefulness, purpose in the work I did.

  Or at least I was a hell of a lot better at telling myself I did.

  But now I stared at legal documents and my eyes glazed over, my mind drifting to Abbi. I would have to read the same line over and over and over again because I couldn't stop thinking about her. The documents I needed to review started to pile up on the side of my desk as the week stretched on. Emails, too, no longer held my interest. I puzzled over the vigour with which I used to wake up and lunge for my Blackberry like I was falling. I normally kept my inbox at zero, but now I found the number of unread messages creeping up into the double and then triple digits, and I just didn't care the way I used to. Meetings I found boring. Phone calls I found exhausting. For the first time ever, it was my work that was lagging during daily status meetings.