I’m supposed to be photographing the event, not Lennon, but it’s not my fault my camera continues to seek her out. She’s magnetic, the way she carries herself through the massive room. I’m not sure if she’s aware of the way I follow her like a lost puppy.
The charity fundraiser is to gather funds from some of New York’s elite to help fuel children’s cancer research. I can’t help but be a skeptic and wonder how much of that money will truly help anyone, but I hope I’m wrong.
Lennon speaks with one of the directors of the organization. The man is clearly enraptured with her. It shouldn’t bother me—I have no reason to care, and he’s old enough to be her grandfather—but sometimes there’s no rational explanation for our feelings.
Ever since she told me about going on the date, I’ve found myself becoming more irrational when it comes to her. I don’t want to admit it, not to her, definitely not to myself, but I’m beginning to feel things for her. Not love. It can’t be that. But I do care.
Forcing myself to turn away from them, I take photos that I can actually use that aren’t focused on Lennon. I’m positive Jaci wouldn’t be pleased if all I had to show for tonight were pictures of the woman she believes me to be dating.
Dinner will be served soon, with some people already finding their seats.
After exploring the room for another five minutes, snapping some photos here and there as I go, I finally let my eyes find Lennon again, and she’s still talking to the man. Annoyed, I allow myself to head in their direction.
She laughs at something he says, making my lip curl with displeasure. I know that old man didn’t say anything nearly so funny to merit this response.
I reach the two of them, trying to contain my glower at the man. I don’t know his name, and after watching him converse with Lennon for what I’ve deemed an inappropriate amount of time, I don’t care to know.
I get into their personal space, forcing their conversation to an end. Shoving my hand at the man, I introduce myself. “Beckham Sullivan.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m—”
“I don’t care.”
Lennon lets out a squeak of surprise, like she can’t believe I’m being so rude. Does she not know me at all?
“Babe,” I say, stepping between her and the man, as I’ve dubbed him. “You need to sit down. You’re pregnant. Food’s being served soon anyway. Take a break.” Turning my back to her before she can respond, I face the man. “That’s right, she’s pregnant. I’m the father, in case that wasn’t clear.”
Grabbing Lennon’s hand, I guide her toward a table.
It’s not surprising at all when she fights me the whole way.
“Beckham.” She says my name through clenched teeth in a hushed tone, probably not wanting to draw attention our way. “What are you doing? I was interviewing—”
“You interviewed him long enough.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you need to sit down.”
I already located our seats previously, so I find them easily enough. With my free hand, I pull out the chair for her to sit down. She doesn’t fight me on it, so that tells me she does need the break. Just as I suspected.
Sitting beside her, I don’t let the glare she sends my way bother me. I got her away from the old guy, and that’s all that matters to me.
Her fingers brush against my shoulder, plucking something off my tux jacket. She holds it up, letting the light catch the orange cat hair.
Fighting a smile, she says, “Cheddar dust.”
“Smart-ass.”
“What’s the real reason you didn’t want me talking to Mr. Martin?”
“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you. He’s old and it was creepy.”
A burst of laughter flies out of her lips. “He’s not that old. He’s in his fifties.”
My hackles raise. “Like I said, he’s old.”
She shakes her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
Only when it comes to her—not that I’ll admit it. “How are your feet?”
We’ve been here awhile already, and I can’t imagine it’s too comfortable as a woman to wear heels in any circumstance, let alone while pregnant.
“My feet are fine.” I don’t believe her. “Find something else to worry about.” She’s my favorite thing to worry about. “Really, I’m fine,” she adds, apparently noticing the doubt I don’t bother to hide from her. Across the room, someone calls for everyone to find their seats for the dinner. “Although,” she goes on, “food does sound great right about now.”
“Do you have what you need? As far as interviews.”
She gives me a horrified look. “No. I have a whole list of people Jaci wants me to speak to, and I’ve barely made a dent in it.”
“Oh, come on,” I plead, looking around to see where the food is. My pet sperm needs to be fed. “We can ditch after the dinner. She’ll never know.” I keep my voice hushed now that we’re not alone at the table.
Lennon’s jaw drops slightly. “Are you crazy? Do you want to get me fired? I’m going to be a single mom. A job is more important now than ever.”
My hackles rise. “You’re not a single mom—I’m a part of this. I’m helping you in any way you need.”
I refuse to be a deadbeat parent. I can’t guarantee I’ll be a good one, since God knows I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing, but I’m going to try, and I’m willing to learn. That has to count for something.
“Technically, I am. We’re not together.”
I shouldn’t need the reminder—I know we’re not a couple—but hearing her say it almost feels like a slap in the face, because somewhere along the way, I started to think of us as a team of sorts. I didn’t mean to—it’s an accidental development—but the reminder that we’re not anything stings.
“It doesn’t bother you if I say I’m a single dad?” I retort, noticing the minuscule tic of her cheek that gives away the fact that she is annoyed by it.
“No.”
“Why do you always lie to me?”
She sighs as the food arrives at our table. “I’m not lying to you, Beckham.”
“You just did it again.”
She smiles at the waiter setting the plate in front of her. “You’re in rare form tonight.”
“I’m always like this.”
“And yet, somehow you’re even worse than usual.”
She reaches down, trying to be inconspicuous about it as she rubs her right ankle.
“Give me the shoes,” I demand.
Her face morphs into horror, eyes bugged out, mouth gaped. “Ew, no.”
“Take them off while we eat. Give your feet a break.”
“I can’t do that,” she hisses in horror.
We’re locked in a battle of wills. “Do your feet stink?”
“I-I don’t think so?”
“Let your feet rest. No one will even notice.” The black tablecloth drapes against the floor. It would be easy enough for her to tuck her feet beneath it, and no one would see that she’d ditched the heels.
“Fine,” she reluctantly agrees. I smirk at the fact that she’s giving in. “Don’t act so smug.” She bends slightly, taking a heel off. “My feet are killing me.”
“I’ll rub them for you later.”
“You will?” I should probably be annoyed that she sounds so surprised that I’d even offer. I know I can be . . . me, but I don’t think I’m a bad guy.
“Sure.”
“Sure?” she repeats, brown eyes narrowed like if she squints hard enough, she could see right through me. “That sounds very reassuring.”
“Lennon.” I say her name slowly, carefully, making sure I have her full attention. “You’re growing my child, you’re working, and you’re wearing heels that are what? Six inches? I have zero problem massaging your feet if it makes you feel better.”
Her lips tremble like she’s either trying not to laugh or cry. I’m not sure which is more horrifying.
“I can’t believe we’re talking about my feet at a table surrounded by other people.”
I look around, and they’re all locked into conversation with each other, not paying attention to us. “I don’t think they care.”
She places her hand absentmindedly on her belly. It’s an unconscious gesture, and even though there’s the tiniest bit of a swell beginning to show in her stomach, it’s still strange to think of her growing even bigger. Being able to feel the baby move. Having the baby here. In only a matter of months, I’ll be holding my kid.
“I need to tell my parents soon,” she mutters, more to herself than me. She bites down on her bottom lip. “God, I’m scared. It’s so silly. I’m an adult.”
“When do you want to tell them?”
I’m following her lead on this. I haven’t peeped a word to my parents, who I know will both be thrilled, because if they know, then my mom will definitely spill the beans to the Wellses.
Fuck, that thought makes me scared, and suddenly I’m a teenage boy intimidated by this wealthy family all over again. I knew I didn’t belong in that world, and when her brother found out about what Lennon and I had done, Hunter wasted no time reminding me of it.
I rub a hand over my jaw, waiting for her response.
“Not yet,” she answers softly, almost pleadingly.
Beneath the table I place my palm on her knee, giving it a squeeze. When she doesn’t shove my hand away, I leave it there. I think I need this physical contact as much as she does. “Whatever they say, whatever they think, I hope you know it doesn’t matter.”
“I know.” It’s a wooden answer, an automatic response.
What did they do to you? I ask with my eyes.
She blinks at me, her answer reflected back at me. It doesn’t matter.
But it does. It does to me.
