The Rejected Wife: Chapter 16

Fucking hell! She’s gone.

I told her to leave. I told her I need space, when nothing could be farther from the truth.

I stare at the closed doors of the elevator, wondering why it feels like my heart just left with her. My life, my soul… Everything is tied to her. And I cut it off and allowed her to walk away with the best parts of me.

It felt like my life was incomplete without her by my side. In the few hours I’ve known her, she’s already come to mean more to me than anyone else I’ve ever met. It’s why I had to ask her to leave. I had to piss her off enough that she wouldn’t feel compelled to plead with me.

Enough that she wouldn’t return to insist that she help me take care of the baby. For if she did, I wouldn’t be able to say no. And I will not thrust the burden of being responsible of such a young life on her. I need to do this myself.

I need to set her free so she can live her life and not be weighed down by my problems. I made the right decision. I did. So why does it feel like my heart is breaking? Like my soul has been crushed? Like I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.

Another thin cry splices the air. I startle. The kid. Shit. I spin around and head to the carrier. She looks at me, scrunches up her features, then opens her mouth and cries even louder. Fuck. I squat down and rock the carrier from side to side. Will this calm her? I sure hope so.

It doesn’t make any difference. She continues to cry. Her face turns red. Her eyes are squeezed tight. Her entire body seems to shudder with the intensity of her wailing. I look around the living room helplessly, wishing Priscilla were still here.

It’s up to me to solve the problem of how to stop a baby from crying. How difficult could it be, huh?

I scoop the child up in my arms and cuddle her close. She’s so tiny. So fragile. Rising to my feet, I begin to pace. I place the kid against my shoulder and rub her back. ‘There, there, little one. You’re going to be fine.’ I hum to her. Croon under my breath. Say nonsensical words of comfort to her. The vibration of my voice seems to help. She’s still crying, though. I continue to walk back and forth across the living room.

Her crying only seems to grow louder. Shit. “Are you hungry?” I rub my hand in circles over her back. “Do you want something to eat?”

Her wail grows to a crescendo. I take that as a yes. My pulse is racing. Adrenaline fills my bloodstream. And it’s all because she’s crying, and I feel helpless. I need to do something. But what? I head into my kitchen, open the refrigerator, hoping to get her something… But what?

I pivot and make a beeline for the diaper bag. The baby’s tucked tightly against my chest, wailing louder by the second. I dig through the chaos inside the bag—diapers, more diapers, some mystery cream, a squishy toy, wipes. Come on, come on. There. A couple of jars of baby food. I grab one and squint at the label, trying to focus. But the cries keep rising, slicing through my nerves. Damn it. My chest tightens. My pulse kicks into overdrive. I’ve defused IEDs with steadier hands than this.

Thankfully, the baby food is ready to eat, some mashed blend of vegetables with pasta, tuna and cheese. Still holding the kid and the baby food, I race into the kitchen and grab a spoon. Then, heading for the breakfast counter I sit onto a stool. I place the spoon, the jar of baby food and the kid on the counter. Holding the kid close, I manage to open the jar. Then, I scoop out some of the food and offer it to her.

She instantly closes her lips around the spoon. The cries cut off. Thank fuck. I feed her another spoonful. And another. The baby eats, all the while watching me with her big eyes. An image of Priscilla’s big, brown eyes flickers across my memory, but I push it away. Just like I pushed her away. I can’t think about her now. I focus on Serene and the fine, chestnut-colored curls forming a halo around her head.

For the next few seconds, the only sounds in the room are those of the kid slurping up the gooey stuff. She doesn’t look away, as if my face is fascinating to her. Strangely, I can’t drag my eyes away from her, either.

I scoop out the final mouthful from the jar and offer it to her, she bats it away. Some of the goop drips from the spoon and onto the floor.

“You’re done, huh?” I place the spoon in the empty jar.

“Feeling better?” I glance at her.

She yawns.

“Are you sleepy?” I watch her features carefully. From somewhere in the hidden recesses of my mind, I recall that you’re supposed to burp a baby after they’ve been fed. I scoop her up in my arms and rise to my feet.

I hold her against my shoulder with great care. Now what? Guess I should pat her back? I can feel her little heart racing against mine. She places her cheek against my shoulder. Then she burps and spits up over my shirt. O-k-a-y? So that’s what happens when they burp? She snuggles against my chest, and that strange melting sensation against my rib cage intensifies.

She begins to get restless. Huh. I begin to pace. Then, copying what Priscilla did, I start to hum the first Green Day song that pops into my head. That it’s called Basket Case is probably my Freudian comment about myself. Thankfully, it seems to work, for her cries lessen. The tension in her small body begins to ease.

I keep humming, slow and steady, rocking her gently against my chest. Her breathing evens out, soft and rhythmic, and when I glance down, her eyes are closed. Her cheeks are warm with color, a faint crease still etched between her brows. But she’s resting now—finally, asleep.

That catch in my chest turns into a wave of something soft. There’s a cracking sensation around my heart. That would be another of the barriers I built to protect myself, breaking down. Meeting Priscilla and this little one within the space of twenty-four hours has rocked the foundations of my world.

I head into the living room and place the baby in the portable carrier. Then carry it into the bedroom.

I place the carrier on the floor next to the bed and sink down onto the mattress, then reach for my phone and dial Connor.

‘What?’ He answers on the third ring.

When I stay silent, I sense him scowl. ‘Fine, if you don’t want to speak⁠—’

I sense him about to disconnect the call and burst out, ‘A baby.’

There’s silence, then he yawns loud enough for me to hear his jaw crack. ‘No idea what you’re blathering on about, ol’ chap, but it seems like you said⁠—’

‘A kid. An infant.’

‘You drunk ol’ chap?” He chuckles. “Or high on something else?’

‘If only.’ I bark out a laugh that is far from humorous. ‘I’m sitting here looking at a carrier holding a tiny tot. And she’s fast asleep. In my bedroom.’ I rise to my feet and head into the living room, so as not to disturb her.

‘You kidding?’ His words tell me he’s struggling to believe me. But the clarity in his tone indicates he’s finally caught up with the program.

‘Do I sound like I’m kidding?’ I glance out the window. ‘Someone dropped her off with a note.’

‘And it says the child is yours?’ he asks in a disbelieving tone.

‘Exactly,’ I admit slowly.

He chortles.

‘It’s not funny,’ I growl at the phone.

It only makes him laugh louder. There’s a sound of a woman’s voice, which fades in the distance. I assume he’s moving away from whomever he spent the night with. It strikes me, suddenly, that it’s going to be a very long time before I’m going to do that. A child and a dating life don’t go well together. I wouldn’t dream of bringing a woman home, as long as this baby is in my home. The only woman I’d trust with her is… Gone. And I’ll never reach out to her. Unless it turns out that the kid isn’t mine. Which I’m going to have to put a rush job on to find out.

Connor continues to chuckle, and I wait until he seems to find some level of composure. ‘You made my day, arsewipe. Should have wrapped it up tight.’

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, deciding not to defend myself. It’s not like it’s going to make a difference. So, I fume silently. A good move, as it turns out, for my lack of words seems to get through his thick skull.

‘Damn, you weren’t joking about the kid, were you?’ he finally offers.

‘Glad we’re on the same page,’ I say dryly.

‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Get a private investigator to track down whoever might have left her, and order a DNA test—something I hope you’ll help me with?’

I stalk back to the bedroom and peer in the direction of the infant, making sure she’s still asleep.

‘Me?’ he asks cautiously.

‘Yes, you. Is there anyone else on this line?’

‘Hang onto your panties. I just want to make sure you know there’s a hard limit to my involvement.’

‘A hard limit?’ Not content with watching the child from a distance, I decide to head closer. Only to make sure she’s comfortable, and so I can see her face properly, to ensure she doesn’t need anything.

‘Not going to babysit the kid. Don’t have anything against them, but no way, am I going to take on the responsibility of someone else dependent on me so completely,’ Connor warns.

I sit down on the bed next to the carrier, taking in her relaxed features. Her forehead is smooth. She’s sleeping deeply. Some of the tension slides off of my shoulders. I release the breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. Who’d have thought getting a kid to fall asleep would be this stressful?

I rise to my feet and head into the living room again. ‘I’m going to have to hire a babysitter,’ I confess. Just not yet. The thought of having anyone else watch over her makes my stomach shrink. Watching Priscilla with her made me realize how good she was with kids. I push that thought away. I’m going to have to find someone who’s half as good.

‘Never thought I’d hear that word come out of your mouth,’ Connor marvels.

I rub at my temple. ‘You’re giving me a headache with your constant prattling.’

He scoffs. ‘Likely, it’s the thought of dealing with the load of crap that got thrown your way that’s causing it.’

‘Don’t call the kid a load of crap.’ I scowl.

There’s silence, then Connor murmurs, ‘I meant, the paperwork you’ll have to deal with, no matter which way this goes.’

‘Right.’ I hunch my shoulders. It’s not like me to jump to conclusions. I must be more stressed than I realize. ‘The entire situation sucks balls,’ I confess.

‘It does,’ he agrees. ‘Any idea who’d do this to you?’

I roll my shoulders. ‘Don’t have a clue. The kid’s a year old. So, she would have been conceived twenty-one months, ago.”

“Any flashes of memory? Any woman who stands out who you’d have been with then? Any encounters where you weren’t sure about the condom?”

I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “I always carry my own. And I always, always wrapped it up.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t.” Connor’s voice softens.

I blow out a breath. My brother’s only trying to help. “I wasn’t discerning in who I decided to date or have a one-night stand with at that time, but I remember every woman I slept with. And I was always careful to carry my own condoms. I never had sex without protection.

“You were in your fuck ‘em and leave ‘em phase,” he adds.

I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again. He’s not wrong. I did go too far then. But it was the only way I knew how to survive—adrift between the structure of the Marines and the corporate straitjacket of being CEO in the Davenport Group. I see it clearly now: I should’ve channeled all that restless energy into something else. Hitting the gym more often would’ve been better than what I chose.

“Is there any reason you’d be targeted this way, you think?” I hear Connor moving around. “Why would someone drop a child off on your doorstep specifically? Any demands from the mother?”

“None, just a note.” I recite out the contents from memory, the words burned into my brain.

Connor whistles. “She seems to be confident it’s yours.”

“Yeah.” I need something to drink. Hard liquor, preferably, so I can forget about this mess for a while. I head over to the wet bar.

Balancing the phone in the crook between my neck and shoulder, I reach over the bar counter for the bottle of whiskey, then pause. A baby. There’s a baby in the house. A tiny life I’m responsible for. Guess I shouldn’t be drinking. I set the bottle down.

“You sure you can’t think of anyone who could possibly be behind this,” he asks again.

“It’s a little hard to narrow it down when I was sleeping with so many women around the time the kid would have been conceived.”

He blows out a breath. ‘The perils of being a man-ho, huh?’

‘Pot meet kettle,’ I snap.

‘Big difference. I haven’t been saddled with a fruit of my loins yet,’ he points out.

Suddenly, my shoulders feel heavy again. I rotate them to ease the load, not that it helps. ‘You going to spend all your time gloating, or are you going to help me out?’

‘Let me think.’ I can hear the smirk in his voice. ‘I’ll take the gloating, I believe.’

‘Connor,’ I warn.

He huffs out a laugh. ‘Where’s your sense of humor? Or did becoming a guardian already rid you of that?’

‘A guardian?’ I eye the sleeping kid carefully. A guardian?

‘Either the DNA test is positive and she’s yours. Or she isn’t. But considering she landed on your doorstep, and you’re the kind of guy who takes responsibility seriously… You’re going to want to play some kind of role in her life.’ He pauses. ‘Am I right?’