Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Lila

Is he mine?

The question doesn't resonate. I still can't process how this is possible. How can the guy who placed my heart through a shredder without a second thought be standing in my kitchen … shirtless?

My stomach dips as realization hits. No, no, no. Drake can't be the boyfriend Miranda bragged about. He just can't.

I think I'm going to be sick. I spent most of the night covering Jake's ears, hoping like hell he didn't hear them going at it all night.

"Lila," that voice that's gotten more profound over the years jars me to the present—to him. Our gazes clash, and I ward off every ounce of attraction that wants to burst through. He's actually here. "Your son, Lila. Is Jake mine?"

Gripping the spatula tightly, I scramble back to a standing position. Drake doesn't know about Jake. Of course, he doesn't. How could he? When everything went down, I left town and never returned. There wasn't any reason to.

"No," I say when I finally find my voice.

Drake stands immobile as he processes the information. He's so still, I can't tell if he's relieved or… No! Don't be stupid. He wouldn't be disappointed. The Drake I knew has spent these years banging his way through Philadelphia. He didn't act like a guy who was looking to settle. In fact, I shouldn't have been surprised he is here with Miranda. They're a perfect match. They both use people.

And to think I had felt sorry for his ass. He deserves every bit of what she'll drag him through. They both do.

"No?" Drake's eyes search mine, deep and intense. They're the shade of the evening sky right before it turns black, full of stars you can't see yet but know are there—just like the questions he's not asking—the ones I don't want to answer.

I turn away and walk toward the countertop, where the bowl of pancake batter waits. A laugh bubbles up, unbidden and tinged with hysteria. This isn't happening. Drake can't be here in my kitchen, looking like every dream I have ever given up on.

"Are you serious?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

He reaches out, his hand hovering over mine, but doesn't touch. I wish he would. Or maybe I don't. It's hard to tell with how my skin prickles with awareness, every cell remembering his touch from a lifetime ago.

God, why is he here?

"It's just that he's about the age when I left."

"He's seven. A year off."

There's a pause, heavy and loaded. Then Drake straightens, his arms crossing over his chest, the muscles flexing—a professional athlete in his prime. And yet, there's something vulnerable in how he watches me as if it pains him to see me. He runs his hand along his jaw, resting on his whiskers.

"Is he Roy's?" His voice has a hard edge that I don't understand.

"No. Of course not."

"Sorry," he finally says, though it sounds like it costs him. "Just … no one ever told me you had a child."

His apology wraps around me, soft and unexpected. My fingers curl into my palm, holding back words that want to spill out. Words about nights spent wrapped in each other's arms, about promises whispered against my skin.

"Jake's not…" I trail off, unable to finish that line with him looking at me like that. I don't owe Drake Gunner any explanation about Jake's or my life.

Drake slowly nods as if he's trying to convince himself. I watch the play of emotions over his face, the same face I'd traced with the tips of my fingers, committing every line to memory.

He's matured. That strong jawline is more pronounced and peppered with a five o'clock shadow. He puts the "s" in sexy because, holy cow, his abs are defined. Hard and lean and every bit delicious. Tattoos sleeve the arm the dog had attacked, and my insides fucking melt. Guess he found his sexy way of hiding the scars like he'd always talk about. It takes all my strength not to reach out and touch what used to be mine.

I divert my gaze to the counter. This image seared into my brain is the last thing I need.

"Do you want coffee?" I ask as a distraction.

"I need about a gazillion gallons of water to rehydrate before tonight's game."

"Some things haven't changed," I quip, unable to hold back.

His eyes meet mine as a swarm of memories floods my brain. Sneaking his ass past his mother and into his bedroom when he had too much to drink. Stopping him from fighting whatever guy pissed him off. Helping him digest our team losing the regional championship. We shared so much. Too much. Raw and pure and perfect in our imperfection.

Drake was born with a wild streak, but his behavior worsened after his father's tragic death. When his sister and mother suffered the same fate, it was a downward spiral for him during his senior year. But even at his worst, I could see through his antics. I saw it for what it was—a silent cry for help. Something about him drew me in, a certain charisma that I couldn't resist. I didn't pity him, but I always understood why Drake acted out. I had hoped he would have calmed down by now, though.

"Yeah, last night wasn't…" He lets his voice fall off, thank God. Last night's moans are hard enough to erase; I don't need a recap. I already want to bleach my brain. Or maybe that flashy thing from Men in Black to wipe my memory. I fumed while lying in bed, praying Jake wasn't hearing their sexcapade. Miranda knows not to bring guys back. She clearly didn't care.

"No explanations needed," I say a little too harshly, grabbing a glass from the cabinet when my roommate's stirring floats down the hallway. My hands tremble slightly as I hand him the glass, and water splashes over the side. I take a step back from both the counter and Drake.

"Need a towel?" he offers, and I almost smile. Almost.

"Got it," I say, reaching for a paper towel instead.

"Drake," Miranda calls, her footsteps getting louder. "Who are you talking to?"

"Nobody," he answers, but his eyes don't leave mine. They hold a message, one I'm afraid to read.

"Nobody" feels like a secret, like a shared past clawing its way into the present. And standing here, with the splash of wetness on my hand and the ache in my chest, I wonder if old feelings aren't the only things resurfacing.

I press my back against the cool tiles of the kitchen wall, a barrier I wish could shield me from Drake's piercing gaze. He leans forward, forearms resting on the marble island, his fingers inching toward the edge as if reaching out could bridge the chasm between us. His eyes dip to my chest and snag on the necklace that feels like a weighted anchor around my neck.

There's a question in his gaze, but he doesn't voice it. A mutual understanding flows between us, acknowledging the elephant in the room while choosing to dance around it.

"Jake," he starts, and my heart stutters, "he's got your smile, Lila."

My hands go clammy, gripping the edge of the countertop for balance. "Lots of kids have smiles, Drake."

It's weak, even to my own ears, but I can't afford to falter. He doesn't need to know the entire truth. Not that Jake's adoption is a secret, but it'd be a lengthy conversation. One that would ultimately lead to the past. That door needs to remain shut.

Miranda comes into the kitchen and halts. Eyes wide, freezing in place like a deer caught in headlights, she stares at Drake and me.

"Drake? You two know each other?" Her words falter, her tone a curious mix of shock and intrigue.

A glance passes between Drake and me, our shared history heavy in the air. His jaw tightens, a subtle nod to me, his eyes pleading for discretion.

"Old friends," I manage to say, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me. The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but it's necessary. "We actually went to high school together."

"What?" Miranda's voice is nothing short of incredulous. "Why didn't you mention anything?"

Yeah, why didn't I? Maybe it's because Miranda and I aren't exactly the share-everything type of roommates. Or perhaps it's because my past with Drake is a Pandora's box, better left buried deep.

"I didn't know Drake was playing here, and you never mentioned his name." That's sort of the truth. I didn't know his previous team traded him until my customer told me yesterday.

Miranda seems to sense the tension. Her brows furrow as she looks between us. "Well … that's a surprise," she finally says, her tone loaded with curiosity she doesn't try to hide.

Miranda cocks her head, dark locks tumbling over her shoulder as she eyes us both, searching for something amiss. I lean against the kitchen island, the cool marble grounding me while my insides churn with unrest.

"Small world, huh?" Drake's chuckle is forced, his attempt at nonchalance almost convincing. He runs a hand over his face, a telltale sign of his discomfort that only I would catch.

"Very small," I echo, folding my arms across my chest, the cotton fabric of my sleep shirt soft under my fingers.

"Mama Lila, when are you going to make the pancakes?" Jake's voice pierces the tension, a familiar comfort. I glance towards him, his small frame leaning against the doorframe, a stuffed dinosaur clutched in his hand.

"I'm on it." I heat the griddle and grab the batter.

"Mama Lila?" Drake repeats, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes fixed on Jake. The question is there, unspoken but clear as day. Why does he call me by name?

"It's a weird dynamic," Miranda pipes up and grabs Drake's arm—his tattooed, sexy arm—and steers him toward the kitchen table. She gives me a piercing look before smiling back at Drake. "If you don't want pancakes, I can make something else."

I want to scoff. Miranda can't make a cup of coffee, let alone anything that requires actual cooking. Instead, I focus on flipping pancakes, on the sizzle and pop of batter hitting the hot griddle.

"No, pancakes are fine," Drake responds, his gaze still locked onto mine. I feel it like a physical touch, a caress across my skin that sends shivers down my spine. "That is if it's not an imposition."

I laugh lightly and point towards Jake, who's currently fascinated by a new toy commercial. "I don't know. Jake's the pancake monster here, not me."

Drake cracks a smile and laughs; his infectious laughter has always brightened up any room he's in. "Some things never change."

"Mama Lila," Jake calls from the living room, pulling my attention back to him. "Can I have extra syrup?"

"Of course," I respond with a soft smile, my heart swelling at the innocence in his voice. His childlike joy over such simple things is contagious.

Miranda makes a noncommittal sound from behind her cup of coffee. She's watching us closely, but Drake seems oblivious to it all. He's too busy staring at me.

"Drake," Miranda calls out, breaking through their conversation. Annoyance laces her voice, and I can't help but smirk at the situation. "You promised I'd get tickets to the game tonight. I just loved sitting with the WAGs yesterday."

Wife and girlfriend section.

A stabbing pain pierces through my heart. Of course, he would get her tickets in that section. We used to joke about being in the WAG section in high school. He said he would set me up with the other wives and girlfriends. I told him I was a bleacher girl.

And I was.

I enjoyed capturing the experience with the genuine fans of the game, which is why my best friend Darci went with me to watch all of his high school games.

My heart constricts at her memory, but I remain focused on the task rather than indulge in that story.

Drake's eyes flicker over to Miranda before returning to mine, something akin to irritation flashing across them. "Sure, if that's what you want." He tilts his head. "Would you and Jake like to go?"

"I can't," I say as Jake squeals. I hold back a grunt of irritation. "Sorry, buddy. But we have your friend's party later." Thank goodness.

"Maybe another time, then," Drake says, much to Miranda's annoyance. He smiles, trying to look nonchalant, but he can't hide an undercurrent of disappointment lacing his words. It's a direct hit to my already fragile walls. I do miss watching him play, but there's no way my heart could withstand that.

I throw all my focus into the pancakes, the comforting rhythm of cooking a welcome distraction from the mounting tension in the room. This will be one hell of a long season if they plan on staying together. I better learn to deal with it, considering I have nowhere else to go.