Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

Men—they’re like grown children.

“We’ll figure it out—it doesn’t have to be tonight. Good lord, you just found out I’m pregnant. Pump the brakes on the planning.”

“I’m going to be a father,” he says out loud. “Everything is different now. I won’t be able to stop myself—it’s what I do. It’s what I’ve done since I was un niño. A kid.”

I get what he means. In an instant, both our lives changed forever.

He tips his head back in my lap to look up at me. “Just think about coming with me. I have a nice little house I rent in a gated community. No one will bother us, and you can relax.”

I’m quiet while I consider his words. “I’ll think about it.”

In the meantime, I have doctor’s appointments and phone calls for work, and scheduling for the upcoming school year—students with athletic talent that want to be represented by our agency.

Everything has fallen to the wayside, it seems, except for the baby stuff.

First things first. “We have to tell our families.”

Mateo looks solemn. Nods. “Sí. We have to tell our families.”

Fourteen

Mateo

Me: We need a game plan.

True: For what?

Me: Telling my parents and sisters. It’s not going to be easy—it’s going to be a circus. Shit show. Loco.

True: Don’t remind me. They’re going to HATE me when they find out.

Me: They’re not going to hate you—they’ll be shocked, but I think my mom will be thrilled. Pop will probably be pissed, but he gets mad about everything so that won’t be anything new.

True: That doesn’t make me feel any better.

Me: Want to get together to figure it out? Nice dinner, get dressed up? Tonight?

True: You fed me last night—you want to spend more time with me already?

Me: If you haven’t figured it out yet, I want to spend ALL my time with you—I’m trying to get you to move in with me, remember?

True: Let’s just start with dinner.

True: We can do tomorrow, that works.

“I have something for you.”

We’re at a nice restaurant for our official first date, seated at a quiet corner table, plenty of people gawking at us but giving us our privacy—for the most part.

“Something for me? What?” True lifts her gaze to look at me from across the table, the dim lights making her dark eyes smokier, hair glossier, skin more radiant.

She’s glowing—or maybe it’s just the lighting. Either way, she’s beautiful and pregnant and mine.

Well. Not yet, but she will be.

I hope.

True hesitates. “Mateo…”

She’s caught off guard by my pronouncement and clearly not sure what to say, but it’s not a gift I have for her; it’s a letter. One I wrote and want her to read when she’s alone.

I’m impatient. The damn thing has been burning a hole in my pocket since I wrote it, so I slide it across the table in its white sealed envelope, instructing her to put it inside her purse.

“Read that tonight when you’re in bed and it’s quiet.”

She nods.

Stares at the envelope a little bit longer before finally taking it, folding it in half, and sliding it into her dainty black purse.

Once it’s tucked away, she gives me her full attention, and I give my full attention to her red painted lips. She’s done herself up (like I was hoping she would), already making the night more special than the last time we went out, even more special than the night she came to my house and we had sex again for the first time in three months.

True is wearing an understated black dress showing off her smooth shoulders, a small freckle winking at me from across the table. It’s a tighter fitted dress, displaying the belly that’s beginning to form, not hiding anything from anyone who has the audacity to look her over. Anyone with a fully functioning set of eyes might notice she’s pregnant if they’re looking hard enough.

Her hair is in a loose braid, falling over one shoulder—a bit messier but sexy, perfect for the outfit she has on and making me want to reach across and play with the ends of it. Roll the silky locks between my forefinger and thumb.

I bet she smells fantastic.

She certainly looks fantastic, good enough to eat. Unlike the bread basket that’s been placed in the center of our table. I only have an appetite for True Wallace tonight.

After we order and everyone goes away, when the servers stop fussing and asking us if there’s anything else we need, we’re left alone—or what feels like alone, considering we’re in a room full of people. Other guests, servers, bartenders, bussers, hostesses—all of them walking back and forth, back and forth, bustling in an orchestrated dance I’m doing my best to ignore.

I only have an appetite for True tonight.

“So,” she begins, “I was wondering…if you’ve thought about a paternity test? I’m willing to take one if that’s what you want.”