Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

Say what now? “Um. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.” I trust her. Why wouldn’t I? It’s not like she couldn’t have her pick of men to knock her up; there wouldn’t have been a need to trap me. Plenty of bigger fish in the sea would have been proud to fuck True Wallace if she was looking to ensnare someone rich.

“Are you sure? Because it seems like the smart thing to do.”

“Are you purposely trying to put doubts in my mind? This isn’t a romantic conversation at all.”

I’m beginning to pout, our evening taking a serious turn when really all I wanted to do was flirt. Maybe get her good and turned on so we can have sex again tonight, her swollen tummy more of a turn-on than I would have imagined.

She’s so damn sexy.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” she’s saying, munching on a sliver of bread (no butter). “I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Uh…it’s not like you wanted to tell me.” Pretty sure she was going to keep it a secret for the rest of our lives, until the day we bumped into each other, she with her child with darker skin, inky black hair, and a dimple—exactly like mine.

Would I notice if I came face to face with my own flesh and blood?

I like to think I would, but…

To appease her, I give her a noncommittal, “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.” But don’t hold your breath if you’re waiting for a DNA test.

She swallows the bread in her mouth. “Have you thought about what you’re going to tell your family?”

My, my, my, she’s a little ray of pitch-black tonight, hitting me with all the hard questions.

“Not really.”

True fiddles with her fork. “I’m far enough along that I’m past the period where I’m in any real danger of losing the baby. We can, um, find out if it’s a girl or a boy real soon.”

“I remember you mentioned that the other night.”

There’s a brief pause. “Of course, we don’t have to find out—we can be surprised when the baby is born.”

Is she out of her mind? Why would we wait to find out?

“What about one of those gender reveal parties? I can get a confetti cannon.”

True blinks.

Laughs. “First of all, that would all be fine and good if we were normal people doing this the normal way and we didn’t still have to shock the shit out of our families by telling them we got ourselves accidentally preggo. We can’t tell them during a gender reveal party—can you imagine what the video would look like? Mass chaos.”

Crying. Lots of crying and yelling.

Ay-yai-yai.

“Fine. No to the confetti cannon.” Party pooper. “What about one of those balloons that explodes with…”

“More confetti? Mateo, that’s the same thing.”

“A giant cake?”

She licks her lips. “I like cake.”

My brows shoot up with optimism. “You’ll think about a cake?”

“Cake for sure if there’s a baby shower.”

I sit back confidently. Cocky. “Oh, there’s going to be a damn baby shower alright—try stopping me.”

That makes her laugh all over again. “You can’t throw your own baby shower—it’s tacky!”

“But I want presents.” I’m whining.

“Trust me, your sisters will throw one if they don’t hate my guts.”

“How can they hate your guts when you’re carrying my child?” I utter the sentence like it’s a no-brainer. My sisters would never be so catty as to not celebrate the impending birth of my kid.

Never.

I wouldn’t allow it, first of all.

Second, they love parties. Parties with cake, parties with food, parties with snacks, any party that’s a party.

I change the subject to lighten the mood. “Do you think it’s a girl or a boy?”

True leans back in her seat, hands on her stomach. She begins rubbing the bump, and I swear to fucking god it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole damn life.

What has gotten into you, bro? You used to think strippers were sexy, and here you are lusting after the pregnant mother of your kid from a one-night stand.

“I wish I knew, but honestly, I can’t tell one way or another. You know, that intuition? Guess I’ve just been waiting for the ultrasound that will tell me. Us.”

“Well, I think it’s a girl.” My tone is cocky and confident.

“You sound so sure.” True giggles as the server brings over the first course, and it occurs to me that all we ever do is eat. I haven’t arranged to do anything fun—like indoor miniature golfing or walking through the aquarium, or cooking classes. Those are all romantic and fun dates, yeah? Why do I keep inviting her to eat?

I’m a boring, unimaginative idiot.

Doh!

“We call this particular brand of confidence showboating—it’s all a façade,” I explain. “But it would be cool if it’s a girl. Then again, how cute would a mini me be?” Or a mini her?