A Redo (Sterling Shore 6)

“Erica,” I groan, shocked that my ex-wife would show up at all. We haven’t seen or spoken to each other in months outside of the divorce proceedings. Not since she threw a drink on me at one of Dane Sterling’s functions and loudly told the world that we were over.

“You have a kid?” she asks, her voice vibrating with fury.

Shit. Who the hell told her?

“We have to do this some other time,” I growl, knowing there’s a small little blonde who has turned to look over the back of the sofa to enjoy the wrong show.

At least she’s not bored anymore.

“No, Wren. We can do this now.”

“Erica, last I checked, we’ve signed papers saying I no longer have to tell you shi… Anything,” I say, amending the word I almost used in front of Angel.

“She’s here? Isn’t she? I want to meet her—the woman you had a kid with, when you wouldn’t even consider such a thing with your wife.”

I groan while running a hand through my hair. Erica doesn’t have details, and I don’t want to explain it. She has to go before Allie gets here. Knowing damn well the psycho on my porch will light into the woman who already hates me, I try to think of something to cede.

Unfortunately, there’s no time to come up with a compromise, because a blue Focus pulls up into my driveway, parking right beside Erica’s BMW.

When Allie steps out, her shoulder-length, blonde hair catches in the wind, making it whip around softly. She’s in her nursing scrubs as she makes her way down my sidewalk, her eyes narrowing as she silently takes in the scene.

Why can’t I catch a fucking break?

It’s been a few months since I learned about my child, and Allie still hasn’t warmed up to me. Not that I can blame her.

“Is that her?” Erica growls.

“Erica, I’m only saying this once more; get the hell out of here or I’m calling the cops,” I threaten in a key that is barely above a whisper.

“Call them. I deserve answers, Wren. You owe me that.”

I don’t owe her a motherfucking thing, but I’m desperate to make her leave. “Fine. You want to know, then keep your mouth shut and I’ll tell you everything after they leave. Go wait in your car.”

She glares at me, but she doesn’t argue. Her eyes burn against Allie the whole time she walks back to her car, but Allie barely offers her a passing glance, because her glare is centered on me. She reaches me just as Erica slams the door to her car, sulking in the driver’s seat as she impatiently waits.

“Lover scorned?” Allie drawls, sounding deceptively calm.

“Ex-wife. She just showed up a second ago. I didn’t invite her or let her in, so no rules have been broken. Our daughter has still not been introduced to any women, other than my friends.”

Not that I’m dating anyone. Christ, I feel like I’m sixteen again with all this angst locked inside me.

She doesn’t speak for a minute, but she finally glances over her shoulder to see Erica still glowering this way.

“Is she waiting on me to leave?”

“The only way I could get her out of here without causing a scene was to promise to talk to her after you left. The last thing I need is another mark against me, especially since you and I need to discuss something.”

“What can we possibly have to discuss?” she asks idly, looking bored and disinterested.

Why do I even try? Oh yeah. Because I’m the dick that knocked her up almost seven years ago, and didn’t even give her my real name.

“Angel. I want to start spending more time with her. I’m never going to get to know her on this schedule.”

“I’d have introduced the two of you sooner, had I known your real name.”

Saw that one coming.

“I realize that. But I can’t redeem myself with an hour every few days. I need more time than that. You’re working at the hospital, logging several extra hours a week—”

“To provide for my child,” she interrupts.

“But you could be working less. Angel could be staying with me while you work, and I could be providing you with child support so you don’t have to work over. I think I’ve proven I’m trustworthy, and the money is for Angel. Not for you. I understand you don’t want a dime from me, but this is owed to her.”

She glances over her shoulder again, then she moves to step inside the house. I step back, giving her plenty of space so I don’t get frostbite in the case she accidentally touches me.

“Not a porch conversation,” she murmurs while walking in, moving toward the sweet girl on the sofa who is generously feigning interest in the television and pretending as though she isn’t listening to every word we’re saying.