“There’s no chance you could be that little girl’s father, is there?” he asks.
“Kenda would’ve told me if she was pregnant.”
He regards me for a beat. “You’re saying thereisa chance? You and Kenda had sex two or so years ago?”
I shove my fingers through my wet hair, pushing the longer strands off my forehead. “Yes. We bumped into each other in New York City. I was there to meet up with my agent and editor. Kenda and I got together afterward for drinks, and well…” I leave the rest hanging. He’ll fill in the blanks. “We used protection, if that’s what you’re wondering.” But even that’s not infallible.
“You never heard from her after that?”
I shake my head, though that’s not entirely true. She texted me a month or two later, but I was pissed at her and ignored her text.
Fuuuuck.
No, it can’t be that.If she was pregnant, she wouldn’t have sent me the single text and kept quiet when I didn’t reply. She would have tried again. Plus, if it was true, she knew where I lived. She would have told me the news to my face.
Kellan looks over his shoulder, toward the living room. “Guess we’d better find out what this woman wants.”
I glance down at my phone. “I should call Noah. We don’t know where the toddler came from—and if someone is searching for her. Or if Kendaisdead.”
“Let’s talk to her first and then decide on the police front. That little girl is scared as it is, without us making things worse by bringing the cops in just yet.”
I release a hard breath that does nothing to settle the tangle of emotions. “Okay.” He’s right. Whoever that little girl is, she’s terrified. But she seems to trust the woman. Stockholm Syndrome, perhaps?
“Stay here,” I say to Kellan. “I’ll grab you a towel.”Stay here and make sure the woman isn’t up to no good.
I return to the foyer in dry clothes and toss him a towel and spare T-shirt. I towel-dry my hair while he quickly changes into the top.
The woman and toddler are sitting in the middle of the large sectional couch when we walk into the living room. The woman is reading to the girl, the light from the huge picturesque windows falling softly on them.
The woman points to a picture in the children’s book. “Do you think the tiger eats butterflies for lunch?” Her voice is soft, sweet, but there’salso a touch of hardness beneath the surface. As if she wouldn’t hesitate to reveal her claws should someone threaten the girl.
The little girl rapidly shakes her head, a smile breaking out on her small mouth. It vanishes as soon as she spots Kellan and me. Her bottom lip pushes out, and she shrinks back against the woman.
I flick on the gas fireplace. What the hell was the woman thinking? She could have at least put a jacket on the toddler before they sat outside to wait for me.
I sit on the end of the sectional.
Kellan takes the armchair, his posture deceptively laid-back. “Do you two have names?”
“I’m Athena, and this is Peony.” The woman nods at the girl.
The girl—Peony—looks up again from the book and her smile returns once more for Athena’s benefit.
She has Kenda’s mouth.
I push the thought away. Until I know if she is Kenda’s daughter or not, I can’t think of Peony in those terms.
Peony.
Kenda’s favorite flower. Or it was when we were a couple. I’d given her a bouquet of them on more than one occasion while we were dating.
“Athena what?” The casualness in Kellan’s voice is fake, but Athena won’t know that. “Do you have a last name?”
“Williams.” She unzips the large bag by her side, searches through it, and pulls out an envelope. “This is for you, Garrett.”
I reach across the coffee table and take it from her. My name is written on the front in Kenda’s loopy handwriting.
“Kenda told me if anything should happen to her, I was to give that to you.”
