Pretending She's Mine

Prologue

There were many ways I had imagined fatherhood. It was a rite of passage. A milestone in a man’s life that cemented the beginning of a new chapter. A way for him to secure his legacy. Pass on the best elements of his gene pool.

Part of me was old-fashioned. I blamed the military training and the years as a Seal for that rigidness in my personality. There were steps a man was supposed to take. Plans he was supposed to make before becoming a father. I was the kind of man who did things the right way.

The irony of what I now faced wasn’t lost on me.

I envisioned becoming a parent with the woman I loved. Mainly, the woman sleeping next to me. A woman I had bought a ring for. Planned a proposal for. Fallen for in a way I didn’t know I was capable of.

But this? Finding out I was a father like this? No. I shook my head. It was all wrong.

I was supposed to sit on the edge of the bed while we waited for the results on a little plastic stick. It was something we were supposed to do together. Plan it. Think about it. Talk about it. Not like this. Never like this.

Where was the gold band on my left hand? When had the vows been made? Where was the house and the savings plan? Those were the values drilled into me. Those were the things a man with honor and character did before he became a father. A man was supposed to provide. He was supposed to protect his family. Yeah, it was old-fashioned as hell, but that’s who I was.

It was on me. I had done this. I had played Russian Roulette like a rookie, thinking it wouldn’t catch up to me. It looked like it finally had.

I thought about what had led to this moment. I thought about the decisions I had made when I was in the darkest place in my life. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t that man any more. I had to pay for my sins. Or at least in this case, own them.

I had drowned out the nightmares with women. Night after night. One woman after the next. Beautiful women. Smart women. Women eager to help a soldier forget his demons for a few hours. They weren’t women I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Or even women I wanted to date. It was mutual. It was plain and simple sex for the sake of fucking. Two people satisfying a need.

A need that couldn’t be quenched any other way. I had tried drinking. I had tried running and lifting weights. They didn’t do what sex did for me. Hell, nothing did what sex did.

It was never about making a baby. My baby.

Maybe if I hadn’t been so adamant that I didn’t need counseling, I would have found another way. Or if I hadn’t told everyone who asked if I was all right to fuck off, things would be different. I came home from that last deployment determined to erase the horror on my own. To move on. To build a new career. It took a few months of wandering in the murky abyss to get my shit together.

I ran my hands through my hair. Journey sighed beside me, nuzzling against my shoulder. The sheet rose and fell with her soft breaths. Her dark blond hair outlined her face. It hit me then that this was the last time for a while she’d sleep peacefully.

I wanted to study her face. Memorize every beautiful line of her body. Every curve. Every sound she made while she slept. Was that possible? Could I commit to memory everything about the woman I loved in such a short time?

But the fear that she would awaken and read the expression on my face, hit me violently and I knew what I had to do. I had to stop stalling.

I eased out of the bed, placing one foot on the floor, followed by another. I stretched my tall frame as she instinctively tucked my pillow against her breast, never opening her eyes. She did the same thing every morning when I climbed out of bed. Although, this morning I knew it was different.

I knew I was getting ready to shatter everything we had into unrecognizable fragments. Fragments so small they’d become dust and ashes. Remnants of the trust she had in me.

I held the phone in my hand, tapping the button to close the screen. I had used two independent DNA testing agencies. The results were the same for both. Both reports had landed in my inbox last night, just as promised. The forty-eight-hour guarantee or my money back was something they touted. Then, I thought it was worth the extra expense. In this moment, I wished I had put it off longer. Sent the analysis off to a thirty-day lab instead. Results I had wanted two days ago, were now upending my life.

The reports were clear. There was no need for a second test, or a third opinion. The girl was mine. I had a daughter. A two-year old who needed me. A little girl whose mother had abandoned her to a set of elderly grandparents ill-equipped to take on a toddler.

They reached out to me after months of trying to raise the girl on their own. They had to be desperate to contact me. I knew it was the last thing they wanted, but reality had set in. They needed help. The kind of help that meant swallowing their pride and doing the one thing their daughter demanded they never do—contact the man listed on the birth certificate. Asher Westbrook.

I dressed quickly and grabbed my gun from the bedside table, tucking it against the small of my back. I closed the door to Journey’s room behind me. I passed her house manager in the hallway.

“Mr. Westbrook.” She nodded, pressing her lips together. Her hair was pulled in a tight bun.

“Claudia.” I hurried past her.

“Is Miss Tessier awake?” she asked. She held a large tablet in her hand, scrolling through the day’s itinerary I was sure.

I stopped at the top of the staircase. “No. She’s not. Let her sleep.” My voice was terse.

“But she has that photoshoot this afternoon.”

“And she won’t be happy if you wake her up early.”

Claudia huffed. “All right. I’ll give her another hour. But that’s it.”

I started down the stairs. I had to be out of the house before Journey started looking for me. I didn’t have time to argue with Claudia about Journey’s schedule. It was something we seldom agreed upon anyway. My role as her bodyguard was always in direct opposition to how Claudia ran the house and the schedule on the property.

I rushed through the kitchen, narrowly bumping into the chef.

“Would y

ou like an omelet this morning, Asher?” Sasha blocked my exit. “I can have it ready for you in fifteen minutes.” She was busy, tying an apron around her waist.

“No. No thank you. Not this morning.”

“Are you going to take the coffee up to Journey?”

I shook my head. I stood in the doorway to the herb garden. On the other side was the garage and my car. It was the last hurdle.

“No,” I answered, closing the door on my way out.

It was better this way.

One day she might understand. One day she might forgive me.

One

Asher

Two Years Later

The coffee was hot. Too damn hot. I abandoned it on my kitchen counter. I pulled up my itinerary, scrolling through today’s meetings.

There wasn’t room to fucking breathe today.

It was my own creation. My own triumph. And days like today, my own prison.

My dark hair was still damp from the shower. I’d already run five miles on the treadmill before sunup.

The first meeting on the schedule was with acquisitions. I was in buying mode. Snatching up as many of the small security companies that I could get my hands on. It was the quickest way to expand without spending a fortune on infrastructure development. I had thirty minutes to read the team’s report on the ten companies we were targeting. I’d choose the top three and hope we landed one.