Because it wasn’t cri
tical. The sperm was from a donor. She’d just chosen to use a donor whose family history she knew. For safety’s sake. And one who’d offer another kind of insurance as well—a biological family for her child if anything should happen to her.
It was all just science and legalities.
She had clarity on that.
Chapter Twelve
Braden was on his second whiskey, paperwork spread out in front of him on the coffee table in his suite, staring out the window as dusk fell over the city, casting shadows on mountains in the distance, when Mallory called him back.
“Sorry. Tamara stopped over,” she said, dissipating his growing sense that she really was avoiding him.
Nonsense was what that was.
But Tamara... Mention of the other woman made him tense. Mallory and Tamara didn’t go shopping or to the theater like other friends. No, they only got together when one or the other of them was on the brink of an emotional meltdown.
It wasn’t like he found anything wrong with that. In truth, he found it admirable. It just made him uncomfortable to the point of drinking more.
“Is she okay?” he asked because it was his duty to be polite.
“Yeah. I called her.”
Oh.
“You’re struggling?” Already. “Because of the baby?”
“No.”
Oh. Well then... “I was calling to ask your opinion on something,” he said, watching as lights slowly popped on in the distance, thinking it would be one hell of an onerous task to count them all.
And then he wondered what it said about him that he spent so much time paying attention to the lights outside his window.
“Of course.” Mallory’s reply was steady. Easy. Kind. She didn’t sound like she was close to any kind of breakdown at all.
Relieved, he took a sip of whiskey and said, “I think it’s only right that I tell Anna that you’re pregnant, and that I am your sperm donor. I was hoping you might have some suggestion about how I do that.”
“You don’t do it.”
“Of course I have to let her know that—”
“Braden, the whole point here is that you just donated sperm. Period. I’m not having your child. I’m having my child.”
Standing, he left his glass on the table and walked over to the window. “Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“What?” A definite tone of wariness entered her voice.
“I think you should put my name on the birth certificate.”
“Wait. Are you’re trying to tell me that you want to be the baby’s father?”
“No! Of course not!” Dear God, no. But he couldn’t help wondering... Had her voice changed yet again, as though she was open to the possibility? Or had that just been incredulity at his presumptuousness? “I’m not going to renege on my agreement to support you in raising a child on your own,” he quickly assured her. “But I was thinking about what you said, about knowing that I’d take the child if something ever happened to you, so that your child would have biological family other than you.”
“What does that have to do with your name on the birth certificate?”
“I wouldn’t have to prove paternity. The child would come to me immediately.”
He didn’t know if her pause was good or bad and he didn’t like not knowing. He probably should have waited to have the conversation face-to-face so he’d at least have a chance at reading her expression.