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

by Sienna Blake

  I glanced over my shoulder at the adjoining door to Zara and Abbi's room. There was no need to ruin the rest of their long weekend over this. I could go and do my work and they could continue on the road trip. I nodded. That would be the best for everyone. I would just call a cab to go to the nearest airport and catch a flight back to Denver. I'd be back in the office by noon and I'd finish things up so that I could come over and see Abbi and Zara when they returned late that night.

  I would see my father another time. When I was less busy with work. When the merger was completed. When I had my next promotion. When I had my suits with me. When I bought a new suit. When I bought a new Rolex. When I bought a new car. When I bought a nice, big house. When I had enough.

  When I was enough.

  I was at the small, wobbling motel desk and pulling at rickety drawers before I knew it. I slapped a thin notepad onto the scratched surface and popped the lid off a nearly dry blue pen. My words appeared on the page as if written by a hand that wasn't mine:

  Work emergency came up. Catching a flight back to Denver. Have fun and see you when you're back. –M

  I stared at the handwriting that looked so foreign. But it was mine. It was the way it had always been. It was probably the way it would always be.

  I quickly packed up my things as I started to hear movement stirring in the adjoining room. I called a cab and reassured myself it was best to leave without telling Abbi. She'd only insist we all leave together. I couldn't cut Zara’s holiday short. So I was doing this for her. Right?

  The cab honked outside and I opened the door before stopping. On second thought I hurried back, pulled out a credit card and tossed it on the note. Then the motel door was closing and I was sliding into the cab and the road was rolling away beneath me.

  This wasn't like last time, I told myself as the high cactus flashed by, their prickly limbs all seemingly pointing back toward Abbi, back toward Zara. This wasn't like last time.

  This was different.

  By the time I arrived at the small regional airport, I managed to actually believed it.

  Abbi

  On Tuesday morning I came into work with dry, determined eyes and an empty cardboard box tucked underneath my arm. I walked straight to my desk and started carefully and calmly gathering my things. At the noise of my opening and closing drawers, Michael emerged from his office. The smell of his cologne made my blood boil. I struggled to keep control of myself as I placed a framed picture of Zara into the box.

  "Hey, you," Michael said cheerfully as he leaned casually against the door frame of his office. "I tried calling you last night to see when you two were getting back. I thought I might drop by to say hi and see how the rest of the trip went."

  I squeezed my bundle of pens and pencils so tightly that my knuckles shone white. I forced my eyes down at the cardboard box and worked faster.

  "Maybe my international plan ran out or something," Michael continued, pulling his Blackberry out of his back pocket to scroll through his calls. "I guess I'll have to look into that and see—"

  "There's nothing wrong with your phone," I said coldly.

  "What's that?"

  I laid my palms flat against my desk and tried to steady my breathing that was threatening to spiral out of control.

  "I saw all your calls, Michael," I stated through clenched teeth.

  I felt Michael hesitating as his eyes scanned over the box and half my things inside of it on the desk.

  "I guess you got in really late then," he said slowly.

  I didn't tell him that we got in around three in the afternoon after driving straight home. I didn't tell him I sat at the kitchen counter with a bottle of wine and watched my cell phone vibrate across the table every time he called till the sun sank low and the only light came from the microwave clock. I didn't tell him that I sat there, alone and in the dark, the whole night till Zara awoke for breakfast and asked if I was alright. And I didn't tell her what I'd been thinking about all that time: that I was going to make it right. That I was going to make it right once and for all.

  I continued to ignore Michael and resumed packing up my belongings from my desk.

  He moved in closer and tilted the box toward him so he could see what was inside.

  "Abbi?" he asked.

  I reached for the little succulent plant, the last of my things, the last trace of me, but Michael caught me by the wrist.

  "Abbi?" he repeated.

  I turned my head to face him for the first time and he flinched from the burning anger in my eyes.

  "Come into my office," he said.

  "I don't want to come into your office."

  I tried to pull away from him, but he dragged me behind him and quickly shut the door of his office after us. He went to hold my hands in his, but I wrenched my hands away.

  "Don't," I warned, my tone low and threatening, save the tiny quiver, the tiny crack in the dam.

  Michael's eyes searched mine and for a moment I felt a twinge of pity for him; he was a blind man, unable to see what was right there in front of him. He was a blind man and would always be a blind man.

  "Abbi, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice soft, and if I wasn't wrong, slightly scared. "Didn't you get my note?"

  I scoffed. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't get dragged in emotionally. All night I'd steeled myself against a moment exactly like this one. I'd wanted to cut the cord between us with as much sentimentality as snipping a frayed hem. I'd told myself I'd had enough; I had no more to give, no more fight left in the game.

  But I must have been wrong because the mere sight of his eyebrows knitted together in confusion was enough to fuel the dying ember in my heart to a dancing flame. I told myself I wasn't going to get angry, I was just going to get gone. That was all that mattered for me, for Zara. But goddamn if angry wasn’t starting to sound so, so good.

  "Yes, Michael, I got your note," I said, for the moment managing to cling to that last shred of self-control. "I always get your notes."

  I shook my head when Michael continued to stare at me like he just didn't get it: like he just didn't get why I was mad, like he just didn't get why I was leaving, like he just didn't get why this, us, was always doomed to fail. He was a man who laid a single plank of wood out over the edge of the Grand Canyon and didn't understand how it wasn't anywhere near enough for me to cross it to be with him.

  With sadness and anger and frustration mixed like a bitter cocktail, I glared at him. "You really don't get it, do you?"

  Michael's mouth opened. Then closed. The silence becoming deafening.

  I dragged a hand over my face, my red eyes stinging from staying open all night. "A note doesn't mean you can just leave," I said, a wave of tiredness from my sleepless night suddenly hitting me. "You broke my trust again, Michael. Just like before."

  I almost felt sorry for the burgeoning panic in his tone as he pointed toward his desk like it was a perfectly good explanation for him leaving again. "Abbi, Abbi, no, it was work."

  "And it will always be work!" I shouted.

  It was the last straw of my self-control. It snapped with a thundering echo in my chest and my anger poured out of me like molten lead.

  "You just don't see it," I screamed as Michael stared at me like I had gone mad. "You refuse to see it! It will always be work, Michael. When it comes down to me and Zara or work, it will always be work."

  Michael tried to take a step toward me, but I shoved him back and regretted that I'd ever pulled him toward me.

  "Abbi, I didn't want to interrupt the rest of the road trip and—"

  "Shut up!" I wailed, hands balled into painful fists at my side. "Michael, shut up, shut up, shut up!"

  Michael stared at me in horror.

  "You can tell yourself all the lies in the world if you want," I said, my voice shaking. "You can tell yourself it was one last meeting, one last document, one last conference call. You can tell yourself you need just one more promotion, one more award, one more zero at the end of yo
ur paycheque and then you'll stay. Tell yourself that till your voice is hoarse for all I care, but I'm sick and tired of hearing your bullshit. I'm so fucking tired of hearing your lies."

  My cheeks burnt. And I fought with everything I had against the sting of tears in my eyes.

  "You're never going to stay, Michael. And that's the truth," I said, shaking my head. "Because this," I pointed at the marble floor of his executive suite office, "this is what you think you want. This is what you think you need."

  Michael followed my finger to the floor. I watched him stare at the polished and shining marble as if it held a way out of his fight.

  "Abbi, I didn't mean to hurt you."

  I bit my lip and again shook my head as the tears welled in my eyes. The poor, poor blind man.

  "Michael, you didn't hurt me," I said. "You couldn't possibly hurt me anymore. What is one more cut to a lifeless heart?"

  Michael raised his gaze from the floor.

  "But you hurt my daughter," I said, venom in my voice. "You left and left it to me to explain why you were suddenly gone. I was the one who had to look her in the face and tell her that you were gone. I was the one who had to answer her questions: Why? Where? How come he didn't say goodbye? I was the one who had to find answers when there were no answers to find."

  I tried to blink away the image of those wide green eyes staring up at me as I fidgeted with the note Michael left, my fingers getting stained by the cheap blue ink of the motel pen. I did that, I’d thought. I brought Zara that unnecessary pain. I allowed Michael back into our lives. That was my mistake. So as much as I was angry with Michael, I was doubly angry with myself. Michael had no responsibility to Zara.

  I did.

  A tear streaked down my cheek and I didn't move to wipe it away. I felt broken.

  "Abbi," Michael said, moving to step toward me. He saw the flash of daggers in my eyes and stopped to remain where he was. "Abbi, I'm sorry. I'm so sor—"

  "No," I said, another tear falling. "No you're not, Michael. So please, just please don't."

  "But I—"

  "Look, I only came in today to gather my things and give you my notice, effective immediately."

  "Abbi—"

  "I've already emailed HR," I said, retreating into the safety of numbed emotions. "I'm sure they'll have a new personal assistant all set up for you by tomorrow. I assume you can survive till then."

  Michael shook his head, ready to protest. He didn't know he was fighting against gravity itself. And I didn't mean me. I meant him. Michael O'Sullivan was who he was. He was never going to change, no matter how hard he thought he might. I had finally seen that. I wasn't sure he ever would.

  "Abbi, don't do this," Michael was saying. "Let's go get a coffee and talk and—"

  "I don't want to see you again," I interrupted.

  I'd watched Michael negotiating enough times to mimic his own tactics. I was listing my terms and they were unwavering. I was in the position of power and it didn't matter that it was lonely and cold and barren, all that mattered was I was the one atop the hill.

  I could hear Michael's stern business-like voice he used to intimidate his competitors as I said, "You will not see my daughter again."

  "Abbi!" Michael burst out in protest.

  He advanced toward me again, but I held out my open hand.

  "I don't want Zara to know what it feels like to be abandoned," I said. "Especially not by the ones she loves."

  These lasts words of mine seemed to paralyse Michael. I strode toward the door of his office. He did not follow to prevent me from leaving.

  "I wish you the best of luck, Michael," I said with my hand on the door handle. "I really do hope you find what you're looking for one day."

  I looked over my shoulder and the flicker of hope across Michael's distraught face wrenched at my heart. But I wasn't second-guessing anything, not anymore. Having remembered the credit card he left with his note back at the motel outside Albuquerque, I fished it out of my purse and extended it toward him.

  His eyes were a question as he wordlessly took it.

  "No," I said, my voice lifeless. "I didn't use it."

  Michael looked down at the card, small in his open palm. He saw a key to the world lying before him. I saw nothing but a piece of plastic.

  "That was never what I wanted," I said.

  His office door closed behind me with a small click. At my desk, I finished putting my succulent plant into my cardboard box. After readjusting my purse on my shoulder, I hoisted it up and walked toward the elevators.

  I turned the corner and Michael did not come after me.

  I reached the elevators and I did not see him running down the hallway.

  The doors closed and I was alone.

  He was not in the lobby downstairs.

  He was not breathless and panting and pinching a stitch in his side by my car.

  He was not waiting for me at my apartment, barring the door till I gave him another chance.

  As foolish, as stupid, as self-destructive as it would have been, I thought I just might. I just might give him another chance if he simply showed up. I was that in love with him. But Michael did not show up. Michael did not come after me.

  So I unlocked my apartment, closed the blinds in my bedroom, slipped beneath the dark, cool covers and set an alarm for an hour. An hour to cry, an hour to curl up into a ball, an hour to let my heart bleed.

  That would leave me just enough time to dry my eyes before Zara arrived home from school and I had to pretend that everything was okay when it wasn't.

  It wasn't.

  Michael

  The door clicked shut behind Abbi. My first instinct was to run after her.

  I lunged toward the door with every intention of doing just that. I got as far as wrapping my trembling fingers around the door handle. As I stood there, frozen save for the painful racing of my heart, I tried to think of what I would say to her.

  There, alone in my office, I imagined a hundred different scenarios. I would run out into the hallway and shout her name. I would catch up with her and sweep her into my arms. I would block her path to the elevator. I would race down the stairs to stop her before she got into her car. I would sprint to her house so I could be waiting on the stairs leading up to her apartment. But imaginary scene after imaginary scene dead ended, cut off, faded into an unknown black in the same exact way. It all stopped, it all fell apart, when I opened my mouth to say something to her.

  For what was I to say?

  That I was sorry? That I would never do it again? How could I be sorry when it took her tearing open her heart in front of me to see what I'd done was wrong? How could I even begin to promise never to do it again when at every chance I'd had with Abbi, I'd found my way out? Was I to try to explain myself again? It seemed there was nothing I could say that Abbi didn't already know. Like she said, the truth was simple: I chose my work, my career, my reputation, my pursuit of that elusive word, “enough”. Was I to tell her I love her? Was I to gather her hands into mine and clutch them against my chest and whisper again and again till she believed me, “I love you, I love you, I love you, Abbi Miller”?

  My hand fell from the door handle. Suddenly it felt too heavy to hold up. My whole body, in fact, seemed leaden with a weight I could no longer bear. Right there in front of the door I sank down, down, down, like an anchor finally cut loose sinking to the dark, murky ocean floor.

  I did love her. I loved Abbi. But if I were to utter those words aloud to her, I was certain they would ring empty; I was a bell without the clapper. What proof did I have for her that I loved her? What evidence was there that I could present before her?

  If I was trying to prove to my superiors that I was worthy of a promotion, I would know just what to do. I would gather my work records. I would get letters of recommendation to sing my praises. I would outline my strengths and unique abilities in a single-page, double-spaced cover letter. I would go into the office with a tidy, tangible stack of white paper,
proof, proof I was enough.

  But what proof did I have for Abbi that I loved her, that I feared losing her, that I got frightened and panicked and left and don't know how to stop myself from doing that again? I had two notes and two empty motel rooms, one from nine years ago and one from today. That was my record. Those were my letters of recommendation. And it was far from enough.

  As I sat there, unblinkingly staring at the woodgrain of the closed office door, I knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt—it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough.

  My office phone rang, startling me out of the numb stupor I'd fallen into as if claimed by quicksand. I glanced at the phone console over my shoulder in curiosity. My world was crumbling, but there was business as usual, plodding along as it always would. I stared at the phone like a sober, recovering addict with his hands planted against the foggy windows of a bar.

  I knew my salvation didn't lie in whoever was on the line or whatever they had to say or whatever they needed done or by when. I knew, like a drop of whiskey on the tongue of an alcoholic, that placing that phone to my ear would be sealing my fate as surely as signing a deal with the devil himself. I knew if I answered I'd be swept away by a current I couldn't control, a current I couldn't fight against, a current that decided where and when it would spit me out. I knew that getting off the floor and catching the call before the last ring would be falling into a trap. No, not falling into a trap. Walking straight into one, fully knowledgeable about what it was I was doing.

  But I also knew it'd make me numb for a little while longer. I knew I could retreat into conference calls and long, tiresome, redundant email exchanges and meetings and negotiations and document drafts and revisions and signings, and I'd be able to push Abbi and Zara and the pain I'd caused them from my mind. I knew with my work I could strip away my emotions and see the world in logical, rational, unemotional terms—just dollar signs and more dollar signs. Like a double shot of whiskey, I could pour work down my throat till I was drowning in it.