Tuck walks in his door at ten. The Chinese has been tossed, and I switched my clothes out for joggers and a flannel shirt of his. He flicks on the light to the den and stops when he sees me on the couch.
He looks beautiful, and even though I’ve gotten used to seeing him day after day, he takes my breath. His suit is navy and sleek, his tie a purple paisley. I could eat him up if I wasn’t pissed.
Cherry barks, jumps out of my lap, and dashes to him. He scoops her up in his arms. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” His eyes capture mine.
“The only reason I’m still here is because Jasper texted me and said you guys ended up at the Baller with some of the team—”
“It was spur of the moment. I didn’t know they wanted to go out. They hijacked me to stay longer. I’m sorry I missed dinner. I saw your texts, but . . .”
Yeah, I sent him several.
Where are you?
Dinner is up.
This wonton is so good.
Tuck?
Hey, I’m worried. Where are you? Are you okay? Call me.
“You could have replied. Were you busy?” Shawna pops in my head.
His lips tighten. “I wasn’t with anyone, Francesca. I needed some space.”
Hurt ripples over me, and I look away from him. “Did you eat?” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head. “I kept meaning to but never did. I didn’t feel like it.”
“If you want Chinese, it’s in the trash.”
He puts Cherry down and tosses his keys on the island in the kitchen. The sound clangs in my ears. There’s a thick tension in the room, and it isn’t because he didn’t text me. He brought it in with him. I see the tense line of his shoulders, the slight tremor of his hands.
I soften. He’s been through hell for the past few months, wondering when his last game would be, and now it’s over. He lost his team and feels rudderless. Today must have been awful.
On the other hand, he’s been at ease these past two weeks. He’s smiled more. We’ve giggled at movies. We danced on his rooftop when it snowed. We toured the Met and watched people gaze at art, seeing them experience it. We’ve bought books together at Lottie’s. We’ve gone to Café Lazzo to pick up our food. We went to the bakery, and I gagged on the way home as he chowed down on chickpea cookies. We had game night at Darden’s.
He’s fit in seamlessly with my life.
But . . .
Tonight something is different.
When he walks to the Pollock and stands in front of it, I follow.
“Are you okay?”
He cocks his head. “Pollock was talented, but his personal life was insane. He was an alcoholic, depressed, couldn’t keep relationships. I never asked for it as a gift, didn’t even see it until after the funeral. It’s chaotic. Like me.”
“You’re the good kind of chaos.” I fidget. “I have a client in the morning. Do you want me to stay or go?” I hear the neediness in my tone and cringe.
More tension fills the space between us, heavy with words he isn’t saying.
We rushed headlong into this, not staying one night apart, and now he isn’t replying.
A breath comes from me. I’m such a fool. Maybe this is it. Someone told him.
A cold sweat breaks out, and I clench my fists as I steel myself for rejection.
Of me. Of our child.
He whips off his jacket and lets it fall as he stalks to the kitchen, opens a drawer, and pulls out a brown manila envelope. Coming back into the den, he plops it down on the coffee table.
“What’s that?”
“Look at it. Your name is on the front. It’s meant for you.”
He puts his back to me and looks out his windows at Manhattan.
Fear coils tighter, snaking around my chest. “More investigations?”
He turns to the bar and makes himself a whiskey. His profile gives nothing away. “I didn’t ask for it. I thought the initial report was all. Ben’s guy is a super PI. Used to be a cop. He delivered this the day of the meeting.”
“And you’ve read it?”
He takes a drink. “I promised I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Yet here it is,” I say sharply, jabbing my finger at it.
He turns. “Why don’t you tell me what might be in it.”
“I . . .”
“No, Francesca.” A long emotional exhale escapes his lips. “The thing is maybe I should have tossed this in the trash, but I didn’t. I’ve been mulling it over, trying to figure out what to do. There’s this instinct that knows something is off. Today it dawned on me that I’ve let someone in—I’ve trusted you—but maybe you haven’t been honest. What’s in that envelope? Open it, and tell me. Then we’ll throw it away.”
“Tuck . . .” My words trail off as my fear closes my throat.
“I want what we have,” he says, “but why is this envelope so thick? I can’t stop thinking about it.”
He sits in the chair across from me, facing me with his elbows on his knees.
I pick up the package, slide open the loop, and pull out typed pages and a wad of photographs.
“Photos?” My hackles rise. “That’s an invasion.” I thumb through them with lightning speed—pics of Edward and Harlee, one of Donny as he left the shop, me in Central Park, me with Brogan coming out of Dr. Lovell’s office, me exiting galleries. A tear falls when I see one of me with Tuck as we pick out his Christmas tree. The final one is my last visit to the doctor. Cece laughs as she flashes her new engagement ring from Lewis.
“Here.” I slide them over to him, but he doesn’t pick them up.
“I’m in deep with you, Francesca, and I don’t want to drown—feel me? The morning I walked out of Decadence, I wanted to stay. You scared me even then. You mean so much to me . . .” His voice catches. “Just don’t let me lose that, okay? Tell me there’s nothing important in there.”
My hands clench around the pages as he captures my eyes. I want to tell him how I really feel about him, those three little words I rarely use, but it feels so wrong right now.
Loving Tuck is a shot of sunshine under a magnifying glass, sizzling hot and fiery.
And right now, he’s simmering.
He has every right. His gut instinct is right.
I’m terrible. Awful. I should have told him long ago.
I break his gaze and stare down at the papers. My chest tightens at the first piece of information—I wasn’t expecting it. I lick dry lips. “Cece is a former escort—you know that—but I worked for her agency for two dates before I got on at East Coast.”
His expression doesn’t change, and frustration makes my hands clench.
“Does that bother you?”
“It’s not something I want to think about. Did you have sex with them?”
“It was up to me, and I didn’t. I was jobless; then Donny called me.”
“Fine. Go on.” His words are cold.
“I know what you’re doing,” I say. “You’re putting up walls. You’re looking for a reason to ruin us.”
“Do I have a reason?”
Yes.
A brittle laugh erupts as I turn the pages. “And he got access to my medical records. Every single visit with Dr. Lovell. Illegal as shit.”
“Are you sick?”
“No.” With a long breath, I wipe my face, meet his eyes, and shove out the words. Relief and fear mingle inside of me. I’ve waited too long for this, and now it’s too late. “I’m pregnant. I found out the night we met at Café Lazzo. I was sick on the way home, and then . . . Tuck, I tried to tell you—I really did, twice. But the timing was off, and we were happy, but I wanted to—”
His face whitens as he interrupts me. “Who’s the father?”
I put my hand to my chest and rub. “Yours. Decadence. She’s yours.”
“Impossible,” he breathes.
A watery smile comes from me. “Who says? We were drunk. It happened.”
He rakes both hands through his hair. “I don’t want kids and you . . .”
“I kept the baby because she’s mine.”
“She?”
“Just a hunch. I don’t want to know the sex.” Trying to stay calm, I stuff the rest of the papers back inside the envelope.
His throat bobs. “And you’ve known all the time and didn’t . . .” His voice cracks. “You lied to me. Jesus, this explains so much. Darden . . .”
I keep silent. This may take a minute. Hearing it, refusing to believe it, anger, and then the bargaining and acceptance.
How long will it take him to accept that he’s going to be a father?
“I want a paternity test.”
I shove down the pain that causes to my heart. It makes sense coming from him and how we met. He’s a celebrity, and I’m just me. “Of course.”
“What do you want from me? How much?”
Oh, if I thought his earlier comment caused pain, this one decimates me. Distrust and anger layer his voice.
“All I want is you.” More tears slide down my face.
He gives me an incredulous look, his breathing uneven. “I can’t do . . .” He dips his head and sucks in breaths, then exhales.
“Tuck?” My voice rises as I rush over to him. I touch his arm. “Are you okay?”
He shakes me off, his chest rising rapidly as he speaks. “Francesca. Leave. Please.”
I can’t. I sit on the floor next to his chair and look up at him. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t to trap you. I was scared. I meant to. I tried—”
“How can I trust anything you say?” Fierce eyes blaze. “When you’ve been lying for months! I feel like a fool.”
He stands, seeming to be more in control. He snaps up the envelope, not looking at me—as if he’s already erasing me.
He doesn’t want a family, and I’m foisting one on him. I get how I was in the wrong, but my heart is shattering.
“Do you think this is the first paternity issue I’ve had? It’s not. And they were all false. My lawyers will contact you.”
Dots dance in front of my eyes as a dizzy spell washes over me. I cling to the end of the chair and push up, bit by bit. He doesn’t notice as he pours himself another drink.
“Don’t let us slip away.”
He closes his eyes. “Please, for God’s sake, leave.”
I grab my satchel and go.
