4. Do the Math

It isn't supposed to be like this. Not in front of Brad. Maybe not ever.

All this time, whenever I imagined this moment of someday running into my baby's father, I knew what my Montana man would look like, how he'd smell, what he'd say. Of course, he'd be so thrilled to see me again, sweeping me off my feet, because that's my fantasy.

This reality is nothing like that.

My breathing starts up again, after I practically choked seeing him round the corner next to my brother. On an inhale, I distinctly discern the warm, spicy notes of his aftershave. The only thing better would be this man's scent around me after sex.

I remember everything about our one night together so vividly.

But not once did I imagine a situation like this? I'll need a forklift to pry his jaw off the floor, and he's certainly not running to embrace me. Can I blame him, though? I left him without a goodbye, and now I stand here with a baby.

Our one-night fling wasn't supposed to be anything more. Then Remy came along, changing my entire life.

No more imagining this moment. It's here. I hold Remy close, locking eyes with the man who gave me multiple orgasms and his seed.

"There's my nephew, Remington." Brad takes the baby off my hands, completely unaware of this awkward moment. "Tucker, this is my sister. Whitney, meet the Vipers' new center."

Tucker…

He's a hockey player?

My shock aside, I'm sure Brad gave him the usual speech just now to steer clear of me, as he does every player in his business. Even in high school, he warned off the star quarterback from flirting with me, threatening to ruin his career before it'd even started if he dared look my way again.

I know Brad's heart, and he's only trying to protect me. We grew up with a famous basketball star father during the highs of his status, but also the lows, when he lost it all to addiction.

There's two ways to play this in front of my brother, gush like I've known Tucker my whole life, or pretend the opposite. I break out a smile, splitting my face, and overact the part. "Hi, Tucker. Nice to meet you."

I give him the eye, hoping he reads my warning in them to play along.

I'm not asking for the world here, just a little acting to give me time to think. Am I ready for Brad to learn his nephew's baby daddy is a hockey player sperm donor?

His eyes shift back and forth between Remy and Brad, then back to me, with one big question. He's probably wondering if Remy is his.

When I found out I was pregnant, I wanted to find him and tell him he has a son. But how? I knew nothing about the man other than how talented he was with his tongue.

Turns out, my son helps the situation, my darling boy, almost spitting up on Brad's shirt. The man's quick to react, though, holding him out an arm's length away, the dribble landing partly on Remy's shirt and the rest on the reception desk.

"Oh, jeez. We can't have that, can we? We're going to lunch with important clients." Brad says.

I spring into action, dropping the Dior bag on the reception counter and popping out the wipes with the speed of a gazelle.

"His shirt is ruined," I mention, cleaning up.

Brad grabs the diaper bag, where I always keep a spare change of clothes. "No worries, I'll change him. Hey, Tucker, see you soon," he calls out and disappears through the bathroom door with my baby.

Tucker steps closer, gaping at me, and I can see everything clicking in his head. He finally says, in almost a whisper, "How old is he?"

I glance at Brad's receptionist, who takes too keen of an interest in this situation. I raise my voice back to Tucker, overacting again and doing a poor job of it. An actress I'll never be. "What's that? You want to know where to catch a Lyft from here? Oh, okay. I'll walk you down to the lobby and show you."

I tug at his sleeve, pulling him into the elevator, and he easily follows. My thumb stabs the down arrow ten times, and I stand across from him as the doors close.

Only then, do my eyes crawl up his body from the floor and his shiny brown leather shoes, to his navy dress pants, to his white button down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing off fabulous, tan forearms, and a few buttons undone with a silver chain around his neck. The slight five o'clock shadow only enhances his yumminess.

Why'd he have to look so hot and smell this good?I squeeze my thighs together, as if every detail of our night together comes crashing back to me.

"Hi Tucker." Looking at him now, in the light of day instead of the neon lights of a Montana bar, the name suits him. In a hot guy next door sort of way.

"Hello, Trouble." In saying that, I know he hasn't forgotten Montana either. He slumps against the wall, like the shock finally hits him. He repeats his question. "How old is he?"

"He just turned a year."

"Tack on 9 months—" He sucks in a breath. "I can do the math." Suddenly, as if everything snaps into place for him, his eyebrows shoot up. He runs a finger between his neck and the shirt, tugging, sweating, clearing his throat. "So he's mine?"

"I-I don't know." Why did I say that? Hurt flashes through his gaze on me and his jaw clenches. There was no other man, but I need time to think. This is all happening way too fast.