Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“It’s tongue in cheek,” David explains, like he was caught stealing from my wallet. “I only call you that in front of my friends.”
We don’t have the same last name, and that wasn’t my choice. That was the Bancroft family choice when I knocked up Rose, the Park Avenue debutante, fresh out of high school.
“I take it your friends don’t know where the Adam comes from then, David Adam Bancroft.” I say his full name a little more sharply than I intended.
And…shit.
That won’t do.
I’ve got to get a grip on my annoyance. This won’t do me any good with my son. I want him to love working with me. I want his life to be so much easier than mine when I was his age—twenty-one. I never want him to worry about where his next meal is coming from.
I try again, not just tempering my reaction but kicking it to the curb. “But hey, nicknames are cool,” I add, then smile at him before I flash a smile I absolutely don’t feel at Layla.
The woman who lied about her name.
If she lied about that, what else would she lie about? That I was her first?
A dark cloud settles over me. My shoulders tense. I clench my fists.
Then, my son’s phone buzzes again. He grabs it, checks the screen. “Cyn’s having a rough night. I’ll be right back.”
“Of course.” I scoot out, let him go, and sit back down across from…the woman I don’t know at all.
She stares at me like I’m a snake.
I feel like one.
I tilt my head, curve my lips, and say, “Hi, Lola. Oh wait. I meant…Layla.” Then I flash her an asshole grin.
She doesn’t bite. She’s cool. Cooler than me even. When she speaks, she’s as poised as she was moments ago. “Hi, Daddy.”
Ouch.
Fine, fine. I didn’t tell her I had a kid. I grit my teeth, annoyed she’s right to fling that omission at me. Time to own it. “Yes, I have a kid,” I say, shoulders square, chin up. I’m proud of my son. I can’t make my relationship with him seem like a shameful secret.
Like Rose’s parents did
Like…I did in Miami.
“I shouldn’t have tried to hide it from you,” I say.
The intensity in her expression tells me she’s adding up details, like the phone call I covered up that morning. “I guess he’s who called you in your room,” she says, nailing me with my outright lie.
“That was David. Not my brother,” I admit.
“Why didn’t you just tell me then?”
Why? Because I didn’t know her, and I wasn’t in the mood. But she lied too, so I toss her fib right back at her. “Why didn’t you tell me your real name?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a son?” she says, pressing again.
“It didn’t come up,” I say, defensive. Because it’s easier to be annoyed than to explain I planned to tell her tomorrow night at Hugo’s. When I planned to tell her, too, that I’ve moved back to Manhattan. But I didn’t want to overwhelm her or scare her off. I don’t want to put my cards on the table—that I was worried I’d send her running. If I let on, she’ll know how much I was looking forward to seeing her tomorrow and asking her out for another date, then another, then another. I focus on Miami instead. “Your name came up though. A lot,” I say.
She folds her arms across her chest. “You’re really annoyed I didn’t tell you my legal name? When I gave you my business name? At a business conference?”
I’m not in the mood for logic right now. Not when my pulse surges annoyingly fast around her. “Were you planning on never seeing me again? Is that why you didn’t tell me your name? Because you didn’t want to see me again?”
“No,” she snaps.
I’ve got a million more questions, but out of the corner of my eye, I spot our server heading straight for us.
Seconds later, she arrives with a sad-looking salad. “Here’s your salad, sir,” she says.
Why am I always a sir? But I can’t very well call the waitress ma’am or I’m the dick.
“Thanks,” I say, reading her name tag. “Taylor.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, then turns on her heels.
Once she’s out of earshot, Layla pounces. “And how can you say I didn’t want to see you again when we’ve been texting non—”
But we’re not alone. David’s back, so there’s no way we’re finishing this conversation now. I let him into the booth as he says, “Cynthia had to park in the far corner in her lot, so I stayed on the phone with her while she walked into her apartment.”
I pat him on the shoulder. “Good man,” I say, then I pick up my fork and stab a piece of wilted lettuce. I take a bite. It sucks.