“I’m not a dick, so no. I created the situation, didn’t I?”
“And what if she had no way of contacting you? And trying to get a phone number would be frankly dangerous?”
“Generalized scenario my ass,” he mutters, shaking his head and grabbing the tongs. “It was your sister’s fucking idea to keep this from you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” he states.
I don’t, and it sounds like a headache that I don’t have time for right now. Patting him on the back, I say, “All right, thanks.”
He mutters to himself, but I ignore him and head back inside to see Carly. Personally, I don’t think I have any sort of ethical responsibility to tell the man I’m not even in a relationship with, despite his super sperm that somehow made it through the condom, but I know the Mo
relli men have ass backward attitudes in some regards. Rafe and I never got into that sort of thing. Our days together weren’t spent getting to know one another, they were just for fun. There was no reason to probe; we were never going to see one another again.
I should probably just tell Carly. She would counter Vince’s Morelli perspective with reason and I wouldn’t have these lingering thoughts. I wouldn’t even consider trying to reach out to Rafe. I’m not sure how I would. I could probably ask Vince’s sister, Cherie—I only met her briefly, but she’s the only Morelli I could contact without it getting back to Rafe. He and Mateo were clearly buddies. If I reached out to Mia, Mateo would know. He keeps his wife locked down like she’s the Hope diamond.
I don’t want regrets, though. I don’t want to feel guilty after the fact.
But why should I? We aren’t together. He melted me into a puddle by holding a baby, but I’m pretty sure he’s not yearning for any of his own—especially not with some girl he barely knows.
Maybe I’m trying to invent a reason to reach out. It’s an embarrassing possibility, even inside my own head, but maybe it’s less my conscience and more the memory of his kisses, the way his big, strong hands moved over my skin—the way he pulled me into his arms and the sparks that shot through my body. It was like I’d never been touched before and my body could hardly stand the sensations.
There’s a weight in my stomach that tells me it’s probably that. My perfect Easter fling was… well, perfect. Even if he wouldn’t care about the little problem he left in my womb, even if I could take care of it without bothering him, there’s a small part of me that would like to see him.
A small, stupid part.
The same small, stupid part that got her hand on the wheel over Easter break and thought a fling with a hot guy would be harmless fun.
Harmless fun, my ass.
I should have listened to Carly. I saw the waves that rocked her boat as she attempted to hold the wheel steady, navigating the rough waters of the Morelli family. She tried to warn me there was no such thing as safe, simple fun with them.
That was part of the fun of it, though. I walk the path of the straight and narrow, never even pausing to smell the flowers. A few days with a dangerous, sexy man seemed exhilarating.
It was.
It just also fucked up my life for a minute.
Well, all I can do now is right the wrong. I’ll ask Carly for some money, tell her I need it for textbooks or something. I can’t undo the damage that’s already been done, but I can fix it and move on with my life. That’s the right thing to do. The only thing to do.
Rafe Morelli may have wrecked my day, but I’m not going to let him wreck my life.
3
Rafe
There’s something deeply entertaining about watching a grown man sweat. Men who have been alive twice as long as you, who have had enough time to learn the ropes—men who, by all rights, should have the wisdom and maturity not to get themselves in a bad situation. Failing that, they should scrape up enough sense not to come to someone like me to help them out with their problems. A scorpion will never help an insect, but if they want to be his next meal, he won’t turn them away.
Some men are fools.
I like those men.
No, that’s wrong. I don’t like them, but I do like putting the screws to them and watching them sweat.
Pour me some cognac and pass the popcorn; my ass is entertained.
The potbellied, double-chinned man who sits in the chair in front of me is sweating. Edmund Carmichael. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t come myself—not now. Not with Ben dead. I used to fuck Cassandra Carmichael, though—not just on a casual basis, she was my girlfriend for a while. Because I’m one hell of an ex, I showed up myself to remind her father of the money he owes me.