Because it’s obvious he’s hiding something.
I hope I’m wrong.
By the time I get to my car, Marley’s getting cranky, so I scoot into the back seat and feed her. She makes these little growly sounds when she’s at my boob. You’d think I starved her with how she’s going at it.
“There’s plenty of milk, pumpkin. Take your time.”
I curl her dark hair with my finger. She’s so tiny and beautiful. How could Ezra not want her? I keep expecting to run into him, but haven’t yet. I guess that’s a blessing in disguise because I have no idea what I’ll say to that man.
Marley’s eyes close, her face blissed out from a milk coma.
“Okay, little mama. Let’s get going.” I gently place her in her car seat and strap her in.
Really, I should’ve waited to feed her until we got home, but my boobs were starting to hurt, and I didn’t want to leak all over the place again.
When I get home, I regret not waiting because as soon as I pick her up, she pukes all over my shirt.
Ugh. Jesus, take the wheel.
I grab a cloth diaper and clean her face. “Poor girl. I’m so sorry. I should’ve burped you.”
Sometimes I feel like I have everything figured out with Marley and then do something stupid like forget to burp her.
Once I’m confident I’m not going to burst into tears, I load up the stroller and carry everything upstairs. I’m sure I’m a sight, dragging the stroller with one arm while holding Marley with the other. On the bright side, it’s helping me get back in shape.
When we get inside, I clean her up. I’m about to situate her on the couch when someone knocks on the door.
I glance through the peephole. I don’t recognize the older man, but he looks familiar somehow. Tall. Broad. And dressed in a designer suit.
Since he doesn’t look like an ax murderer, I open the door. “Hi. Can I help you?”
He eyes me and the baby like we’re old food in the fridge he forgot to throw out.
I glance down and remember my shirt is wet because Marley hurled on me. Shit. I strategically move her so you can’t see my chest.
“I’m Billy’s father, Warren Babcock.”
Oh my God. And here I am, a mess. “Hi. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Roxy. Are you looking for Billy? Because he’s at practice.” Billy’s not fond of his father, but I can’t be unwelcoming to someone I’ve never met before.
“Actually, I’m looking for you.” That catches me off guard. “It’ll only take a minute.”
He moves toward me, and I back up instinctively, not because I want him to come inside but because I don’t want him to run into us.
Mr. Babcock takes that as an invitation to come in.
Inside my head, all of my alarms are going off. “Um, have a seat, I guess. Do you want something to drink? I have ice water or juice.”
“No. Like I said, I won’t be here long.” He sits in the middle of the sofa, drops his briefcase on my coffee table, and unsnaps it. Reaching in, he pulls out a stack of papers.
I sit on the edge of my recliner. Why in the world does Billy’s dad want to talk to me?
Mr. Babcock tilts his head as his hawklike gaze sears through me. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I have a top-notch agent who’s interested in my son, but he says the optics of Billy dating a single mother looks terrible. Especially when the child isn’t his.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
I clear my throat. “What are you saying? That you want me to break up with him?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And I’ll make it worth your while.”
