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

by Sienna Blake

  "Ms Miller."

  "And if you give me just a minute or two, I can finish counting out what I have here in this cookie jar. Oh, that's not a coin, that's a packet of sweet and sour sauce."

  I laughed nervously as I tossed the sweet and sour sauce over my shoulder.

  "That was rude," I said, shaking my head and immediately bending over to retrieve the sauce packet. But I wasn't thinking straight. In bending over, I ended up dumping half the coins onto the oriental rug.

  "Shit," I cursed before slapping a hand over my mouth and delivering a muffled apology.

  The principal leaned over her desk as I started scooping the precious coins back into the cookie jar. "Ms Miller, please."

  "No, no." I shook my head defiantly. "I can't let Zara down. I just can't."

  "Ms Miller."

  "Please, I just need a little more time.” My fingers were shaking. “Just give me a week, a week or two, and I'll have the money."

  A hand on mine surprised me. I looked past my fallen hair to see kind eyes behind half-moon glasses.

  "Ms Miller, you misunderstand," she said patiently. "I called you into my office today to inform you that we received full payment for Zara. I need your bank account details to refund the partial payment you sent in last month. That's all."

  I frowned. "What, from some sort of scholarship?"

  Mrs Hamilton shook her head. "An anonymous cheque."

  "There must be some mistake."

  Mrs Hamilton smiled and squeezed my hand. "Trust me," she said. "There was no mistake."

  I fell back on my heels in disbelief. "So I don't have to make any more payments for the rest of the semester?"

  Mrs Hamilton laughed. "Ms Miller, you misunderstand again. Zara's tuition for the rest of her schooling has been paid in advance."

  Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was the frazzled nerves. Maybe it was those experimental drugs in Europe. But I was just not understanding. I was about to protest when my cell phone rang. I was going to send the call to voicemail but decided to answer when I saw it was my landlord.

  "Lisa, hey, I swear the cheque's in the mail and— What? No, no, you can't. I— Goddammit. I'm on my way." I hung up.

  Mrs Hamilton raised her eyebrows. "Trouble?"

  I sighed as I pushed myself up to my feet. "Always."

  I snatched up Zara on the way out of the office and pulled her running along behind me.

  "Mom, is something wrong?" she asked, the contents of her backpack jumbling like the coins in my cookie jar.

  I forced a smile down at her. "Nope," I said. "No, nope. Nothing wrong."

  "Why are we running?"

  I pushed open the door at the end of the hallway leading out into the parking lot and fumbled around in my purse for my keys while struggling to keep hold of the cookie jar.

  "Running's good for you!"

  Smoke was streaming out from beneath the hood of my car, and there was the distinct smell of burnt rubber as I came to screeching halt outside the apartment, a trail of black marks behind me. I hopped out and leaned in through the back window to squeeze Zara's knee.

  "Stay here just a second, okay?"

  Zara frowned up at me with those green eyes. "Mom, I can help," she said.

  Her words felt like a stab to my heart. I shook my head.

  "Nothing to help with, baby," I told her, speaking quickly as my eyes darted to the landlord locking my front door. "Everything's fine."

  I patted Zara's knee once more and then took the stairs two at a time, arriving outside my door completely out of breath.

  "Lisa, I told you yesterday the cheque's in the mail," I gasped, bending over at the waist and pinching my side.

  "Look, Abbi, you've been an okay tenant, but I got an offer I couldn't really refuse, and you have been late more times than not the last few months."

  Getting angry wasn't exactly the most diplomatic of responses, but when the hell have I ever been diplomatic?

  "An offer you couldn't refuse?" I asked, straightening and blocking the sun with my hand. "On this shit hole? You're fucking full of it, Lisa."

  Lisa's eyes narrowed. She pulled an envelope from her back pocket and shoved it against my chest.

  "Your lease is up, and the only condition of the next tenant was that I give you this."

  She stormed past me and down the stairs, calling back, "Call me to arrange a time to get your things from 'this shit hole', Abbi."

  I glared after her, letting the envelope fall to the concrete as I balled my fists, bit my lip, and screamed silently so Zara couldn't hear me. I wanted to kick the door and pound on it with my fists, but I knew she could see me.

  After squeezing my eyes shut, I went to leave and remembered the envelope. What the fuck would the next tenant want to give me?

  I retrieved the envelope. Inside was a key and a card with an address. I stared at it for one long moment. What the hell was this about?

  Back in the car, I drummed the card on the steering wheel.

  "Did we get kicked out?" Zara asked from the back seat.

  I looked at her in the rearview mirror. Drawing up a smile felt like lifting weights far too heavy for me.

  "How about a little drive?" I asked.

  The GPS on my phone took us through Denver and into a quiet suburb with brick homes with actual lawns. I double-checked the address when I came to a stop outside a quaint home with a large wrap-around fence, big oaks in the front lawn, and a peaked roof where a small balcony overlooked the Rockies.

  "What are we doing here?" Zara asked.

  I ducked to see more of the house through the dust-covered windshield.

  "I'm not sure."

  In my lap, I played with the key and bit my lip as I stared at the charming periwinkle door which matched the shutters on the big bay windows.

  "Are we going inside?"

  I shifted around in my seat to look back at Zara. I flashed her the key.

  "Should we try?"

  Zara turned to the house and then nodded. We held hands as we walked along the cobblestone path lined with rose bushes to the porch. We looked at each other as we stopped in front of the door. I offered her the key.

  She pressed it into the lock, and it slid in without resistance. She looked to me for approval and I shrugged. I didn't have the answers anymore. The lock clicked and Zara pushed the door open. She stepped into the house, but I hesitated on the doormat outside.

  Inside seemed like a dream. Soft afternoon sunlight drifted through tall windows over warm wood floors. The furnishing was cosy and intimate. I could easily imagine winter nights curled up in front of the living room fire, rainy mornings coming down the wide staircase to the smell of fresh coffee, lazy afternoons reading at the breakfast nook at the back of the house.

  "Mom," Zara came running back down the stairs with wide eyes, "there's a library in the attic!"

  I managed something close to a smile as I finally stepped inside. Zara came running up to me and grabbed hold of my arm, excitement in her eyes.

  "Is this ours, Mom?" she asked, tugging at my arm. "Is this our new home?"

  I looked around the house. There was only one answer as to where, or rather who, it came from. Michael. I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it sooner. Anger, red and pulsing, started to seep from my heart through my veins, and I struggled to keep control of myself in front of Zara.

  How dare he. How fucking dare he. I told him time and time again this wasn't what I wanted. And yet he'd done it again. He'd given me a beautiful house with a horrible ghost.

  Because how was I supposed to curl up on the couch on cold nights before the fire without seeing him there beside me, untouchable? How was I supposed to come down those lovely stairs, my fingers on the carved railing, knowing that his memory haunted the cold, empty, lifeless kitchen? How, how was I supposed to read in the breakfast nook, bare feet propped up on the big bay window, and look out on the sunny backyard to see Zara playing with Michael's ghost?

  This house was cur
sed, because Michael cursed it. This house was cursed because Michael was not in it.

  "It's not our house," I told Zara with a smile, brushing back her blonde hair. "But we can stay here for a few days, okay?"

  A flicker of disappointment shadowed Zara's face like a summer storm cloud, but she nodded.

  "Okay."

  "Hey, why don't you go explore the backyard, huh?"

  I patted her on the butt as she ran toward the kitchen. When she was out of sight, I stalked to the office on the left, found a piece of paper and a Sharpie and wrote a quick sign. Then I stormed into the living room and grabbed the edge of a cream suede couch. Grunting and heaving, I wedged it through the front door and shouldered it down the path between the roses to the curb.

  I slapped the sign I wrote on it and went inside for the next piece of furniture. The sign read:

  For Sale. Best Offer. Need to sell fast.

  I only needed enough for a plane ticket to Dublin.

  Abbi

  A last-minute ticket from Denver to Dublin ended up costing one suede couch, two antique lamps, a porcelain tea set, one nightstand, and a food processor. Before heading to the airport I swung by Sandra's to drop off Zara for the weekend.

  "You're all set for your big national parks project on Monday?" I asked, kneeling before her at the door.

  She nodded, her eyes on the floor.

  "You're going to do great," I said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I love you."

  Sandra eyed me after Zara slipped underneath her arm into the apartment.

  "This is a bad idea," she said, leaning against the door frame.

  I adjusted my duffel bag on my shoulder and grinned at her. "Since when do I make good choices?"

  Sandra laughed and shook her head. "I still have some of those napkins with the numbers on them," she said giving me a wink. "Maybe even the one for Brad Pitt?"

  I made sure my passport was in my pocket and looked up at her. "Thanks for looking after Zara."

  "Abbi…" Sandra reached out an arm and placed it on mine. "Maybe it's best to just let him go?"

  "Maybe," I said with a sad smile, "but I haven't been able to let him go for nine years. I'm not sure I want to."

  "It could just lead to more pain."

  I laid my hand over hers. "I guess the risk is worth it this time."

  Then it was the long cab ride to the airport, the long lines through security, the long flight, and the long cab ride to Michael's law firm in Dublin. My toe tapped impatiently as red tail lights flashed in the midday rain. When we pulled up outside a brick building with a sleek metal sign announcing PLA Harper, my stomach turned and I suddenly wished traffic had been a little heavier.

  "It's here?" I asked, hesitating with the money.

  The cab driver's open palm insisted. "It's here."

  The interior of the lobby was dark and cold, decorated with slate-grey marble, metal furniture, and an intimidating bronze desk, something from Lex Luthor's lair.

  "I'm here to see Mr O'Sullivan," I said to the secretary at the front desk.

  Her manicured fingers clacked on the keyboard and she shook her head.

  "Mr O'Sullivan is out of the office today."

  I frowned. "Out of the office?"

  "It is Sunday, ma'am."

  "So?"

  Michael wasn't one to take a weekend off. The woman licked her finger to pull a sticky from a pad.

  "A message, perhaps?"

  "No." I snatched the sticky from the desk and crumpled it up. "No, I need to see him today."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "I'm his personal assistant."

  The woman's eyes darkened as she looked at me suspiciously. "Caroline Fitzpatrick is Mr O'Sullivan's personal assistant."

  I bit back a growl of irritation. "I'm his American personal assistant."

  Again the front desk woman frowned. "I was given to believe that Mr O'Sullivan's business with Levi, Levi, & Burke concluded weeks ago," she said. "And if you still had business with him, wouldn't you have his Irish number to—"

  Okay, I didn't have time for this shit.

  "I'm his baby mama," I interrupted, voice echoing loudly in the wide, empty space like a bellow in a cave. "Mr O'Sullivan knocked me up in a motel up in Glendalough and we have a nine year old daughter together and I'm here to tell him that I hate him and I'm angry as fuck at him and I lo—"

  I laid my hands flat on the cold surface of the bronze desk as the woman stared up at me with wide, disturbed eyes. I sucked in a steady breath and smiled.

  "And maybe you should just go ahead and give me an address before I really start to make a scene?"

  Thirty-five minutes later I was stepping out of another cab in front of a small house with a cracked sidewalk and faded paint. The rain had increased and even with running to the covered porch, my hair was soaked as I shouldered my bag and knocked on the front door.

  A moment later the door opened and there stood Michael, staring at me with confused eyes and a mouth parted in surprise.

  "Abbi," he whispered.

  My name on his lips was like a pin prick on a zeppelin: I just fucking exploded.

  "Are you thick?" I growled, pushing past him into the packed foyer. "Are you actually that fucking thick, Michael?"

  Michael hurriedly closed the door after checking outside. If he was worried that I was going to disturb the neighbours, then he was goddamn right to be worried. I was going to disturb the whole city.

  "I mean, how many times do you have to fuck things up before you get it?" I shouted, throwing down my wet bag and stalking into a narrow hallway to pace back and forth. "I thought you were supposed to be smart, and yet you have got to be the stupidest man I've ever met in my entire life!"

  Michael hurried to me and tried to place his hands on my shoulders, but I shrugged him away.

  "Abbi, please, if I could just—"

  "No!"

  I jabbed a finger against his chest. He retreated till his shoulders collided with the wall behind him, jostling some pictures in cheap frames.

  "No, you're going to shut up and listen to me. You're not going to say a goddamn word."

  Michael stayed plastered to the wall as I stomped past him one direction and then the other. My chest was tight and my heart was racing and I was just getting started.

  "You really thought you could just disappear and replace yourself with money?" I said, pacing like a maniac. "Can Zara talk to money at night, Michael, huh? Can she go on hikes with a fucking wad of cash? Can your dau—"

  "Abbi, if—"

  "No!" I shouted, wagging my finger in front of his lips. "I get to do the talking. Can Zara take pictures with Mr Benjamin, Michael? Is that what you wanted for your daughter? For her to fall asleep with cold, hard cash?"

  Michael glanced nervously toward the end of the hallway opposite the front door.

  "Oh, are you considering running again?" I shouted. "Well, I guess you better go ahead and get out your wallet then. What'll it be this time when you leave me? A new car? A shiny piece of shit that means nothing?"

  I paused to suck in a shuddering breath and I stopped opposite Michael. I shook my head and sighed.

  "It's not your money I want, we want. It's not your position. It's not your title. It's not your things. It's you. It's you, you goddamn fucking asshole."

  With a swell of anger, I shoved him in the chest.

  "Why can't you get that through your thick skull? Huh? It's you. It's you. It's always been you. It's only been you."

  I shoved him once more with a growl of frustration before sagging back against the wall. I pushed my soaking wet hair from my face.

  "Goddammit, Michael," I muttered. "You make me so fucking mad."

  I exhaled a shuddering breath.

  "Do you want to hit me again?" Michael asked.

  I looked up and stared at him for a moment. "Maybe," I finally said. "But not right now."

  He nodded. "Well, okay," he said, each word like a tentative step around the rattle o
f a snake on the path. "Do you think I can say what I was going to say now?"

  I snorted. I already knew exactly what he was going to say. "Go ahead."

  Michael thumbed toward the end of the hallway opposite the front door and said, "Um, I was going to invite you to Sunday lunch with my family."

  Shit. That was not what I expected him to say. My throat tightened and my cheeks went warm.

  "What?" I croaked.

  Michael scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck and avoided my eyes.

  "Every Sunday my family meets at Ma's house for lunch," he explained. "To, you know, catch up, chat…eat."

  As he spoke my eyes went back to the front door. My eyes widened in horror as I realised that all the signs were there. I noticed that I'd thrown my duffel over not just a pair of nice dress shoes, but nearly a dozen pairs of shoes, both little and big. On the wall behind Michael were not just pictures of a large family grinning as they all tried to cram into frame, but crayon drawings and macaroni necklaces.

  I looked down the hall, in the direction that he had kept looking.

  "Um, Michael?" I whispered.

  "Yeah."

  I tried to clear my throat, but it was no use. I could barely speak.

  "Um, when does your family get here for lunch?" I asked, voice strained.

  Michael shuffled his socks at the edge of the muddy puddle my rain boots were making on the wood floor. "Well, that's the thing…"

  I then stared in horror as head after head popped into view at the end of the hallway. Little toddlers gripped the corners with sticky fingers and giggled with messy mouths. I recognised Michael's younger brother, Eoin, near the top of the hall opening. He was grinning like a kid at the top of Splash Mountain. He swatted at the bun of a woman who appeared beneath him with a baby in her arms. Like gophers popping up in a field, there appeared a kind-faced man with scruffy hair the colour of Michael's, a dark-haired man with rugged good looks like James Dean, two women beside them, and then an older woman with sharp blue eyes and white hair.

  My eyes darted in panic to Michael, who was fidgeting with a hem on the cuff of his shirt.