“Trust me, I have no intention of joining the Morelli family.”
His humorless smile is tinged with something like sympathy. “Too late.”
19
Rafe
This is perhaps the last thing I ever thought I would do in my lifetime, but as I sit hunched over my sleek mahogany desk, squinting at the glowing computer screen in front of me, I think about babies. More specifically, I think about the one Laurel is carrying and her insistence that I’m responsible for its creation.
I’ve read nothing that has changed my mind, and I’ve spent more time than I care to admit poring over articles, trying to find an explanation. Not forum posts because people are morons, and I would never trust some dipshit’s word that he used the condom correctly and still got his girlfriend pregnant. Up until and including right now, I would tell any asshole who told me a story like that if there was no user error with the condom, there’s a simple explanation: the kid is not his.
I know Laurel’s baby isn’t mine. I know because it can’t be, because I brought the condom myself, I put the condom on myself, and I know how to use a fucking condom. I’ve used enough of the damn things to know how they work.
I’ve tried to remember the specific instances. Considering maybe my own ego is getting in the way, I wanted to be fair. The problem is, I can’t. There have been too many ripped open foil packets, too many lubed up rubbers—I cannot remember the specifics of each time with Laurel. The only reason a condom sticks out in my memory at this point is if there’s a reason to—some malfunction I need to worry about. If that had happened with Laurel, I would have taken notice.
It’s late, but I’ve been drinking so I don’t care. I drag my phone across the desk and touch it to light up the screen. A couple texts from various women, but nothing from Laurel. I swipe the texts away and open up the chain of messages between me and Laurel. It’s a lopsided exchange. That’s often the case in my text exchanges with women, but ordinarily I’m not the one sending all the unanswered texts. What a fucking racket.
I tap out another one, but it’s all bullshit and I delete it.
I want to know who she fucked, but I don’t trust her to tell me. I could ask Sin to look into it, but since she’s curled up with him in his motherfucking bed right now, that asshole is compromised. I can’t believe he had the balls to snatch her right out from under me like that.
I close the message before I send her something that will piss me off tomorrow, and instead I scroll down to Mateo’s name. That fucker owes me a favor anyway.
“I need information about Laurel Price.”
I’m used to people answering me right away, so it irritates me when he doesn’t. Of course, it’s late so he’s probably curled up in bed with his wife.
What kind of alternate fucking universe have I stepped into that everyone around me is curled up in bed with a beautiful woman, and I’m sitting alone in my study like a fucking asshole?
A few more minutes pass and I decide to call him. Better chance he’ll answer a phone call than a text message.
I can hear in his deep voice that I woke him up when he answers. Knowing I wouldn’t be calling him this late without a damn good reason, his tone is terse. “What’s wrong?”
It’s certainly not the crisis he’s expecting, and I don’t expect to lead with it, but I need to talk to someone and my consigliere is for business—not shit like this. Not unless I know it’s real. “Laurel is pregnant.”
The line falls silent. “Pregnant,” he repeats, after a minute.
That apparently catches his wife’s attention. I hear an alarmed, “Who is that?”
I can’t compete with her for his attention, so instead of addressing me, he answers her. She gasps and says, “Gimme.”
“What?” he murmurs, as she apparently takes the phone from him.
Now Mia’s sweet voice rings out across the other line. “You got someone pregnant? You scoundrel.”
That brings a faint smile to my face. “Hey, at least it wasn’t you.”
“Bite your tongue,” she replies, not nearly as amused as she should be.
“I’m only sorta kidding. You’re better at it.”
“I’m better at getting pregnant? I’m not sure that’s much of an accomplishment. Who’s the lucky lady?”
“Laurel. Carly’s sister, remember her?”
Now she’s surprised. “From Easter? I thought that was just a hook-up?” The words die along with her enthusiasm. “Oh. This isn’t a pleasant surprise?”
I swish the remaining amber liquid in my drink glass. “I don’t even know if it’s mine. She swears it is, but I don’t know.”