A Daddy for Mother's Day_A Secret Baby Romance Page 4

  “How does this thing work?” I say, twisting the plastic stick.

  “A plus or a minus. Plus yes. Minus, no.”

  I peer in the little window, then look up and meet Lucy’s eyes. “Plus.”

  Lucy slumped onto the bed. “That’s that, then.” She sighed. “Happy Mother’s Day, right?”

  I stood there awkwardly, still holding the stick. Then I carefully dropped it into her wastebasket and rubbed my fingers against my jeans. “That’s…what? What’re you gonna do, Luce?”

  “I’m keeping the baby,” she said, as if surprised I’d even ask. “Of course. Maybe Brady and I can move in together for real. I can get a job…I’ll have to drop out of school, but who cares?”

  She probably wouldn’t. Lucy had never been all that crazy about school, and I thought she’d gone to college just for something to do. And to watch football games.

  Lucy was smiling now, hugging herself, forgotten tears drying on her cheeks. “Our own place, maybe one of those campus apartments for married students…” She laughed with delight. “Married…”

  I went over and hugged her. She was so happy that it was infectious.

  Suddenly I sit up in my chair, thumping my feet angrily onto the floor under my desk. She was happy. And stupid.

  Before she even tells him about the baby, Brady tells her that he’s transferring to another school, where he can have a better chance to play.

  And it’s pretty clear that it’s not an arrangement for a guy with a wife and a kid on the way, and it’s also clear that he wants to break up with her, so Lucy decides to be noble and doesn’t even tell him she’s pregnant.

  “I can’t,” I remember her telling me as we sat on our grandparents’ porch. “If I tell him, he won’t go, and he’ll ruin his chances for a pro career. This is his big break.”

  “But, Lucy, it’s his baby,” I argue helplessly, angrily pushing my toes against the worn, splintery porch floor to make the swing move back and forth. The chains holding it up creak in protest. “You at least need to give him the chance to decide.”

  “No.” Lucy was adamant. She had the steely, stubborn look in her eyes that meant there was no changing her mind. “He wants to break up with me anyway. I can tell.” Her resolve wavered for a moment, but I watched her take a deep breath, her mouth firm. “It’s better for everyone. I’ll tell him someday, when he’s gone pro.”

  What if that day doesn’t come? How will you survive? I thought, but I just couldn’t say anything to her. “So what’re you going to do?”

  Lucy gazed around at the porch, the familiar fields, and the yard. “I’ll live here, I guess. I can help Gigi and Pappy. And Gigi will love having a baby in the house again.”

  I tipped my head back and focused on the beaded board of the porch ceiling, its paint flaking off. I wasn’t so sure that Gigi would be all that thrilled. “I’ll help you, too,” I finally offered, and Lucy gave me a smile and a sideways hug.

  “Everything will be fine,” she reassured me. “And eventually I’ll be a family with Brady and the baby. And you, too, of course,” she added.

  I get up from my desk, unable to sit still, bombarded by memories I don’t want to have. How happy she was when the baby, when tiny little Liam, was born, already the spitting image of his dad.

  True to Lucy’s word, Brady had gone off to another school and then to a pro career without ever having a clue that he was a baby daddy.

  But just two short weeks after Liam was born, I sat next to Lucy in the hospital as she was dying.

  Puerperal infection. That’s what Lucy died of. A stupid infection picked up in the hospital, probably because she’d had to have a C-section.

  She was fine when she and Liam came home, but then she lost her appetite, she always had the chills, and she complained of a headache. When she started running a fever, Gigi forced her to go to the doctor. But it was too late.

  “You’ve got to promise me something, Izzie,” Lucy had said faintly that day in the hospital. She was ghostly pale against her pillow. “If…if I’m not around…”

  “You’re going to be fine!” I insisted, almost angrily, as I clutched her hand, but she shook her head.

  “Whatever happens,” she said, struggling, “you have to promise not to tell Brady about Liam.”

  “Why, Lucy? Why?” I asked, feeling like my heart was already being torn in half. “Liam is his son, and Liam will need him. No matter what.”

  Lucy closed her eyes briefly. “No!” she whispered. “There’s no reason now. Liam’s better off with you and Gigi and Pappy. Promise me that you’ll take care of him, of my beautiful boy, and that you won’t tell Brady. Ever.”

  I was only sixteen. How could I promise to take care of a baby? But Lucy was my sister, the dearest person to me in the whole world, and I’d do anything she asked.

  “I promise,” I said, kissing her. “I’ll always take care of Liam. And I won’t tell Brady.”

  “Thank you, Izzie,” Lucy whispered again. I sat there, holding her hand, until she died a few hours later.

  I dash my hand angrily across my eyes, wiping away tears. That moment eight years ago still as vivid as when it happened.

  God fucking dammit. I promised Lucy. I promised.

  And I’d keep my promise. I have a good job, and I can take good care of Liam.

  And as far as I’m concerned, Brady Thomas is nothing. Zero. Zilch.

  He’s just another muscled, meaty football player. I’ll try to get him to put something in his mouth besides junk food, which is my job, but that’s it.

  He caused my sister’s death, even if he never knew it, and I’d be happy if I never had to see him again.

  Chapter 7

  Brady

  If I’d known San Antonio was full of gorgeous blond nutritionists who get adorably angry when you finger their framed photos, I probably would’ve made less of a stink about the transfer.

  God, she’s stunning.

  It’s rare to see women so naturally beautiful like that. Not a speck of makeup. She looks like she can be a model or even an actress, but instead she’s stuck in some sweaty stadium feeding muffins to sweaty dudes.

  Does she not realize how gorgeous she is?

  She can easily be out in Hollywood enjoying a cushier life. I know several women in LA who make a killing doing yoga and taking selfies all day. And Izzie’s way more gorgeous than those Botox broads with their immovable faces.

  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my fair share of women—every type you can think of. All I have to do is give them the ol’ Brady stare, offer them a ride in one of my nice cars, and just like that—boom. They’re mine.

  It’s almost a little too easy.

  But Izzie…she’s different. For some reason, I can’t even get her out of my head.

  Last night I kept thinking of her face. I lay in bed thinking of her piercing eyes, or the sexy way she chewed on her lip every time she typed.

  And the funny thing is, I’m around a lot of women in this town. And every one I walk past is giving me the eye-fuck, thinking in their minds what it would be like to have sex with the Brady Thomas.

  So why am I hung up on this one chick? What is it about her that makes her so different?

  Maybe it’s because she seems so familiar. Have I seen her before?

  Surely I’d remember a face as beautiful as hers. Smart beauties are a rarity.

  And surely I’d remember someone named Izzie. And yet when I met her for the first time, why did it feel like déjà vu? It was the weirdest feeling.

  Whoever she is, she clearly hates my guts. The way she snatched those frames out of my hands was so cold and rude.

  Fuck, I was just trying to be nice.

  She’s lucky she’s cute enough to get away with such behavior.

  Maybe she’s the uppity conservative type. If she knows about all the trouble I’ve been in back home—which, let’s be honest, is a lot—I can see her not being happy about that.

  I r
emember her asking me a lot about my alcohol consumption. Maybe she thinks I’m just some flashy asshole who parties too much and sleeps with “whores.”

  On the flip side, I also maybe came on a little too strong. I have a bad habit of doing that. And judging by her looks, she probably gets a lot of obnoxious dudes in her face, their tongues all wagging.

  Maybe she was just annoyed.

  Oh look, another asshole who wants to get into my pants when I’m just trying to do my freakin’ job. Whoop-dee-doo.

  But the way she acted around me, it was almost as if she knew me. Is it possible I hooked up with her before and just forgot about it? Let’s see, when was the last time I was in Texas?

  A few years back, I was in Houston partying it up for some club event. I can’t remember what it was for, but I was paid a hefty sum to simply show up and take a bunch of pictures while hocking their products.

  Probably one of the sweetest gigs I’ve ever had.

  After partying and snorting lines for hours, some girls who were dancing on tables, jumped down, and asked if I would autograph their tits. They seemed down for anything, so I invited them back to my hotel suite, and we danced and drank Cristal until the sun came up.

  When I woke up, a girl wearing nothing but a pair of panties was sleeping next to me. I remember rushing her out the door but giving her my number in case I ever dropped by Houston again.

  Of course, I flew out the very next day and never called her. Pretty certain I deleted her number from my phone, too.

  Is it possible that that girl was Izzie? Is she mad that I don’t remember her?

  Did she think we made some lasting, intimate connection? That I was going to ask her to marry me or something?

  She seems way too smart to be that naive.

  But knowing me, when I’m in charm mode, I have a tendency to promise girls the world. I probably gave her my number, told her I’d text her the next day, and filled her with empty promises about moving to New York with me.

  Drunk me says the craziest shit.

  I probably promised her diamonds. Told her I’d pay her student loans. Told her I’d take her on a ride in my private jet.

  If that’s the case, I can totally understand why she’d be pissed at me.

  We had sex, and you promised me the world, now you don’t even remember me.

  It’s like the Miami girl all over again. That chick was a nightmare.

  While partying with some of my boys in Miami, I met this gorgeous girl who I hooked up with at the beginning of my trip. She then kept following me around town, popping up “coincidentally” at all the clubs I was at, giving me the evil eye every time I danced with or spoke to another girl who wasn’t her.

  I eventually had to pull her aside and tell her that I wasn’t looking to be exclusive. I was just having fun in Miami with my friends. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Furious, she called Buzz Sports and told them everything about me, telling them that I was a jerk who used her and that I came “super fast” while having sex.

  A straight-up lie, by the way.

  I took the higher road and ignored the articles, but the rumors persisted, further painting me as some partying meathead.

  And then there’s Boat Girl.

  She was some chick I met on (you guessed it) a boat while vacationing at the Hamptons. She was both gorgeous and smart. But after partying with her, she tried to slip me her freakin’ resume!

  She later told me that she had aspirations to be a sports reporter, and wanted to know if I had any connections to hook her up. I politely showed her the door.

  There were many other women before her, too. God, so many women—Julia, Mallory, Jackie, Marissa, Tasha, Heather, Gina, Nikki, Komiko, Lauren, Maria…

  But not an Izzie.

  So why does she seem like someone I should know? She doesn’t seem anything like the Miami-and-Boat-Girl types. In fact, I doubt she drinks or parties at all.

  She seems really sweet and innocent, like she’s from a small town. San Antonio probably seems huge and “major” to her.

  She’s definitely a girl-next-door type. A girl like her wouldn’t sleep around or call the tabloids behind my back.

  Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever hooked up with a girl like Izzie before.

  When you’re an athlete, you attract a certain kind of woman. The type who’s not looking to settle down or have a relationship.

  They’re the type who want money and access to all the perks that I have. They’re fame leechers, basically.

  Hey, I’m definitely not complaining. Most guys would kill to have women constantly throwing themselves at them. But sometimes it all feels a tad superficial.

  I mean, I probably haven’t hooked up with a girl like Izzie since…high school? It’s definitely been a while since I dated the girl-next-door type who just wanted the simple things in life.

  Or maybe I’m getting Izzie mixed up with someone else?

  You know, this is why I gotta quit drinking so much. Here I am racking my brain, forcing myself to take the Walk of Shame through my mental rolodex of women, and I’m still drawing a blank.

  Maybe this morality clause is for the best (and I can’t believe I’m even admitting to that). If I was sober, there’s no way I would’ve forgotten a girl like Izzie.

  No way I would’ve forgotten a face like that.

  Chapter 8

  Izzie

  I quickly scan the tables loaded with food. I determined the menu myself, giving it a lot of thought—eggs, bacon, pastries, fruit, muffins…three different kinds.

  I adjust the V label on the plate of vegan protein muffins. I actually made them myself for Dirk, the linebacker. He’s the biggest guy on the team at 6’7”, and something in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds.

  I smile to myself. He’s such a huge guy, but he can’t stand the idea of eating anything that comes from an animal.

  “Ready?” Fran appears at my elbow. “Your first time to see the entire team together. It can be kind of a shock.”

  I roll my eyes, grinning. “I’m not sure we can cram all that testosterone into one room,” I say, and she grins back at me. “Do you think there’s enough food?”

  “Trust me, Izzie,” Fran says, already moving away to greet the first players trickling in. “You could have ten times this much food and it would be inhaled in mere moments. I’m sure you warned the caterers about how much to bring.”

  “I made a few things myself,” I admit. “Vegan muffins for Dirk. Protein smoothies. Not too much sugar.”

  “Excellent!” Fran says over her shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll go over big with this bunch.”

  I stand there, feeling pretty awkward as she’s swallowed up by the hulking players, laughing with them and greeting them each by name. I’d met each one of these guys individually, but it was a whole different thing to see them barreling through the door as a crowd.

  No, not a crowd—a stampeding herd. And right at the front…fuck…Brady, making a beeline for me. Why couldn’t he just keep to the herd?

  “Hiya, beautiful,” he says, turning on his charm like flicking a switch.

  “It’s Izzie,” I remind him icily.

  I really don’t need this right now. I’m nervous enough.

  “S’cuse me, Izzie,” Brady says. He reaches around me and grabs a plate. “So, your first team breakfast. What’s the special of the day? Grits? Pork gravy? Cheese Danish?”

  “Well, since I’m trying to feed you guys healthy stuff, it won’t be anything you like,” I say, trying to move away from him.

  Unfortunately, he follows me, and the crush of hungry football players pins us by the buffet table.

  “Aww, come on,” Brady says, giving me puppy dog eyes. “I can eat healthy. Especially if you’re going to tell me how. I mean, you could even go to dinner with me sometime and tell me what to eat.”

  I give him what I hope is a withering look, but he ignores it. He leans over the table and grabs one
of the vegan muffins. “These look pretty good.”

  “Those are for…” I start to say as he pops an entire muffin into his mouth in one bite and reaches for another.

  “For me? Great!” He grabs another and practically swallows it whole. At this rate, they’ll be gone before Dirk even gets close to the table.

  I start to warn him about the dangers of taking food out of Dirk’s mouth, but then I see Dirk himself moving through the crowd, his enormous frame plowing through the other players like a boat through deep water.

  Bet he won’t be too happy if he finds out Brady scarfed down his entire plate of muffins, I think evilly.

  So instead of telling Brady to lay off, I smile sweetly and say, “I’m glad you like those. I made them myself.”

  Brady has piled the V muffins—V is for…shut up, Izzie, don’t even think about that. Dammit, Brady—on his plate.

  “So you can cook too, huh? The prefect woman. Beautiful and talented.” He gives me that winsome little boy smile again making me want to snarl at him.

  “Well, gee, I am a nutritionist,” I say sarcastically. “It’s a job requirement that I should at least know my way around a kitchen. Or are you just one of those Neanderthals who think all women should spend their time baking for men?”

  Too late, I think about the phrase “barefoot and pregnant” and think about poor Lucy.

  Brady looks a little startled. “Uh, no. Just trying to give you a compliment.” He brushes the crumbs off his shirt, eyeing me speculatively. It makes me squirm when he looks like he’s trying to figure out where he knows me from.

  Sometimes I’m surprised he can’t read I’M LUCY’S SISTER written in neon on my forehead. If he even remembers who she was. Hopefully, he’ll never put two and two together.

  He probably thinks I’m just another casual fuck from some random night he can’t quite remember.

  I move away to talk to some of the other players as they fill their plates and find seats at the tables scattered through the room. Everyone seems to be digging happily into the food, and I feel the warm glow of my first success.

  It’s almost claustrophobic—to be surrounded by so much muscle, but I already know that many of them are as sweet as Liam, and it’s the same feeling I get when I cook him something that he likes.