Better Daddy, page 2
Eyes closed, I run a hand over my face. I’ve spent enough time berating myself. There’s no point in doing it again. I need to focus all my energy on doing better.
On the other side of the flimsy hollow door, the bell chimes. Then the sound of my favorite voice floats down the hall.
“Where is he?”
“Sloaney,” Cal calls.
“Where is he?”
The angry tone should probably worry me, but any fear is drowned out by the knowledge that Sloane made the forty-minute drive from the city to see me. If Madame E had said Sloane was coming, then maybe I would have stuck around and listened to her. That’s the kind of foresight I’d prefer. Not the nonsense she was spouting about an incubator.
I’m standing, ready to round my desk so I can greet her, when she storms in, blue eyes spitting fire.
She stomps—impressive in five-inch heels—across the room, straight to me. “You,” she accuses, poking me in the chest.
I have no idea what I’ve done this time, but it got her here, so I can’t be too upset about it.
My lips twitch, but I know better than to smile when she’s this angry. “Hi.”
“Come.” She clutches my burgundy tie and yanks me toward the door. The glare on her face says she’s upset, but fuck if I’m not a little turned on. There was a time when she’d drag me out of my office by the tie for sex. It still baffles me, how we got from that to divorce papers, but I’ll do anything to get that kind of passion back.
Sloane has always inspired me to be my best. From the moment I met her, she blew me away. Her brains and her fierce attitude drew me in and quickly led me to obsession. The first time I saw her argue in torts class, I knew I’d met my match. For more than a decade, she challenged me to be better. A better attorney. A better man.
But for the last few years, I’ve been failing her.
“We have to talk.” She drags me down the hall and into the supply cupboard.
As the door shuts behind us, dousing almost all the light, she tosses her purse onto the counter. Even in the darkened space, I can make out every detail of her expression. Probably because I’ve been obsessed with this woman for half my life.
Her dark hair is a bit of a mess, but the contrast between it and her light skin tone and stunning blue eyes literally steals my breath every time I look at her. My beautiful Irish wife captures the attention in every room she enters.
I’m still dumbstruck by the sight of her when she crosses her arms over her chest and huffs a hard breath out of her nose. Bollocks. Whatever I did must really be something.
Her nostrils flare as she inhales and exhales, like she’s trying to calm herself. “Do you remember that night back in September?”
I nod but keep my mouth shut, afraid that if I speak, I’ll wax poetically about it, and that’ll only send her storming out.
“The night I brought T.J. over for his first sleepover in this shithole? When we took the boys to dinner?”
I nod again. Hell yes, I remember that night. Vividly. Although dinner with T.J. and Murphy isn’t the part that’s replayed in my mind constantly since.
“The dinner where you ordered Irish whiskeys and insisted I drink with you?”
I almost stop her, because that’s not precisely how I remember it, but this conversation—and the way the night ended—makes me think that my hope that she dragged me out of my office for sex might not be that far off, and I don’t want to mess that up. I’d bloody kill to be allowed to touch my wife again.
“Where we ended up in bed.”
“Our anniversary,” I remind her.
She scowls and hisses a yes.
She’s giving off a peevish vibe, yet she’s pulled me into the supply cupboard and she’s bringing up the last time we had sex? Color me confused.
She’s no longer speaking. Instead, she’s breathing heavily, bloody staring at me like she’s waiting for me to respond.
So I take a stab in the dark. “Did you bring me in here hoping for a repeat?”
She stomps her foot, and I swear smoke pours out of her ears.
“No,” she snaps. “I brought you into this damn closet to say I’m pregnant.”
The words rattle around my head, loosening cobwebs as thick as the ones in this dark, dusty space.
Utter elation hits me first. This may be the solution I’ve been searching for. If Sloane is pregnant, maybe she’ll want to be a family again. She’ll call off the divorce. We’ll have our second chance.
I still remember the first time we found out we were pregnant. It was seven years ago, and after almost a year of trying, my wife flew out of the master bathroom of our penthouse, a little pink stick in her hand and a smile on her face, shouting the words I’d been waiting to hear.
Everything is different this time around, though, because while Sloane is technically my wife, the ex part is there, floating in the periphery.
Could a baby be the answer? Honestly, another child has been the farthest thing from my mind since she asked me to move out. Then again, the night she stayed over wasn’t in our plan, and look how that turned out. Every day since our anniversary, I’ve been desperate to have her again. And again. I want to keep her forever.
But that’s not in her plans.
Now, though, those plans will have to be altered.
I take her in, scanning her fitted black dress, appreciating the way it clings to her luscious hips. I drink in the long legs that have always been my obsession, stopping only when I get to the sky-high rose gold heels. The ones with red souls. Her obsession.
She must have come from the office. She looks dressed for a day at the fancy firm where she works with the man who tried his best to steal her from me during law school.
Frustration flares like it always does when thoughts of her going to work for the enemy hit me. They dissipate quickly, though, when I notice the tiniest of bumps pressing against her suit jacket. It’s practically imperceptible. In fact, I’m probably imagining it. It’s more likely the leftover C-section bump. That doesn’t detract from the fact that this woman, the woman I still love more than words could express, is growing my child.
I blink at the idea. “Oh shit. You’re the incubator.”
Sloane’s mouth falls open, and she gasps.
My stomach instantly plummets. What a fucking terrible response. Anyone with half a brain would know not to say something that fucking stupid to a woman who’s just announced that she’s with child. Especially when said child is theirs. Apparently my brain shut down at pregnant.
Despite the faux pas, I can’t help but smile. This might be exactly what we need. My wife is carrying my child. A heady sensation rushes over me. There is nothing I want more in this world than my wife and son. To put my family back together. And now, not only do I have the opportunity to pick up the pieces, but our family is growing.
“Incubator?” The word is rightfully shrill. While I’ve been skipping along, mentally healing our wounds, she’s been stuck on that. Can’t exactly blame her. That wasn’t my best moment.
Before I can respond, the door flies open and two people fall into a heap on the ugly gold carpet.
“Cal!” Lo, one of said people, yells at my brother, who is standing in the doorway.
Naturally, Cal would be the idiot who opened the door.
“Sloaney, you’re pregnant?” The sod breaks into a blinding smile. “Wait, if you’re pregnant, that means you have to move in.”
“Oh shit,” Brian says from where he’s still tangled up with Lo on the floor. “He’s right.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sloane hisses, her blue eyes blazing with fury. “Sully, tell them this is ridiculous.”
Despite my best efforts, my lips wobble into a smile. The sensation is unfamiliar, like my facial muscles have forgotten how to do this. But they’re right. This is perfect. “Of course you’re moving in. You’re the incubator.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I wish I could inhale them, take them back, and rearrange them into something far more tactful. I’ve never been known to speak out of turn, but with Sloane, I lose my head.
And technically—according to Madame E, at least—I’m not wrong.
Lo’s eyes are wide. “Shh, Sully. You’ll ruin it.”
“You called her an incubator?” Brian glares at me as he heaves himself to his feet.
“This closet is for private conversations,” Sloane hisses before I can defend myself.
Lo gets to her feet with help from Cal, and when she’s steady, she shakes her head. She and my wife are incredibly close. Until two minutes ago, their friendship was my only hope. If it meant moving in with her best friend, then there was a minuscule chance that Sloane would give in and come to Jersey. Now that she’s pregnant? Fuck, my lips twitch again. My wife is pregnant. This is bloody brilliant.
“I don’t know why you think that. The walls are paper thin and everyone can hear everything.”
Lo’s right. Also, the cupboard is dark and dirty, and I have to duck to pass through the doorway. We should have stayed in my office, but the honest truth is that where Sloane leads, I follow. It’s been that way for about twenty years.
“We’re having a baby!” Cal shouts to the dingy ceiling.
My brother is a handful, always full of life and joy. Most days, it makes me want to clobber him. But at this moment, I’m struggling not to join in on the celebration. Because yes, we’re having a baby.
My wife turns her silent ire on my brother. If he’s not careful, he’ll go up in flames. This kind of fierceness is only one of the hundreds of things I miss about her.
I reach for her. “Sloane.”
She jerks back before I can touch her. “Maybe incubator is better. You should call me that from now on.” She glances past me to her purse. In a quick motion, she clutches it and storms out of the cupboard.
“Sloane,” I call after her.
She doesn’t stop. Of course she doesn’t. My wife has a temper like no other, and I set her off.
Rushing past the idiots I work with, I stalk after her. “Sweetheart, wait.” I catch her arm before she makes it to the front door and force her to look at me. “You are not an incubator. That was bad timing. It wasn’t even my first thought. But Madame Esmeralda was just here telling us we were waiting for the incubator.”
Her brow wrinkles. “Who?”
“The woman upstairs.” I shake my head. Bugger. Suddenly her predictions seem a lot more accurate. When she convinced Cal to get forty plants, a fish, and a cat the size of a small tiger, I thought she was out of her mind or fucking with the tosser. But she told me in a roundabout way that Sloane was pregnant. And if she knew that, then what else might she know?
Sloane lifts her chin in defiance. “The psychic lady told you I was an incubator?”
I nod. It’s eerie, really, but we have more important things to discuss than Madame E.
Like how far along my wife is or when she found out. Though I suppose I know the answer to the first question. In the last half a year or so, we’ve only been together once. That was six weeks ago.
“Did you take a test?” I ask instead.
“No,” she deadpans, hand on her hip. “The first thing I did when I realized my period was late was come over here and announce that I’m pregnant.” She jerks her purse open and digs around in it, then thrusts a photo at me.
My chest pinches at the sight of the black and white image.
“You’ve been to the doctor.” The words slip out in a tone more accusatory than I mean. Fuck, I’m a giant arse.
She steps away, putting space that I don’t want between us, and crosses her arms. “Of course I have. I tested. Then I went to the doctor and confirmed before I dropped this bomb on you.”
I sigh, my whole being sinking. This child doesn’t even have fully formed limbs, yet I’m already missing the important things. God dammit. Just like with T.J., who I only see every other weekend and the occasional weekday now that Sloane and I are separated.
But complaining won’t help at this moment. No, in this moment, my wife and children are all that matter.
“It’s not a bomb, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that,” she growls.
Right. I’m not allowed to do that anymore. She made that clear.
“This isn’t a bomb,” I correct. “It’s incredible.”
She blinks, her blue eyes going a little glassy, and sucks in a breath. “You don’t want more kids.”
That isn’t entirely true, but this is not the time to get into that. “I will always love our family, no matter the size, because it’s ours.”
She scowls. “There is no ours.”
Pain ricochets through me. She’s wrong. This pregnancy is giving us another chance at an ours, and I won’t be the arsehole who messes up this gift.
“That’s not true,” I say, keeping my voice gentle. “There will be an ours again.” Instinctively, I tuck her dark hair behind one ear, and for a moment, she almost leans into it. Smiling, I duck closer. “Because you’re carrying my heir, so now you have to move in with me.”
Her eyes narrow to slits and she steps away. Maybe her reaction should discourage me, but nothing could take away from the hope that’s pumping through my veins. My wife is pregnant. Everything is going to be perfect.
Chapter 3
Sloane
“Because you’re carrying my heir.” The words play on repeat in my head. Of course his main concern is the damn company. I learned a long time ago to expect nothing less. I just forgot for a moment this afternoon.
We’re getting divorced, I remind myself. That night—the night I’ve thought about more than I’ll ever admit—meant nothing to him. It was just sex. Amazing sex, really, but just sex. Because even though my husband and I might not know how to have a civil conversation anymore, our sexual chemistry is as strong as it’s ever been.
I blink at the man who’s owned my body for the last two decades, and it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time. His light brown hair is slicked back perfectly, while when we were younger, it was always just a little messy. And the hints of gray are new. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt beneath a blue Tom Ford suit that emphasizes the wide shoulders and strong chest I used to love resting my head against when we’d stay up late talking and fucking and planning for the future. A dusting of stubble covers his chin, the gray making an appearance there too. And his eyes? They’ve always done me in. A silvery blue that turns glacial when his emotions run high, whether it was because we were fucking or fighting.
His eyes were the same color either way, as was his tone.
I always liked the way he talked to me in the bedroom. Still do, if our night a few weeks ago is anything to go by. I don’t mind his single-minded focus when we’re in a lust-filled haze. How he doesn’t mince words. It’s nice to shut off my mind and allow him to control my pleasure since I spend so much of my life in my damn head, ensuring I keep my weaknesses from showing. From a young age, I was taught never to let an opponent see my vulnerabilities. Being raised by serious, dedicated lawyers—one of whom went on to become one of the first female judges in our district—will do that to a kid.
No, I don’t actually have to appear in front of my mother, but when I started practicing law, she’d sit in when I was in front of her colleagues and later point out all the ways she could tell I was rattled. She’d focus on the instances when I showed weakness, as she put it.
It took time, but eventually, I mastered the mask that my husband has told me a time or two makes me seem like a shrill bitch.
Okay, he’s never actually used those words, but it’s implied.
“Sloane, breathe.” It’s Lo who has me sliding out of ice mode and softening.
I turn away from Sully and nod at my best friend. For as long as I’ve known her, Lo has worn her red hair in a tight braid down her back. Today, though, it hangs loose like a curtain around her freckled face as she studies me like I’m deranged.
“Do you want Cal to go grab coffees for us?” She winces immediately, probably realizing it at the same time I do. I can’t have coffee.
Dammit, if I’d known this morning’s cup would be my last, I would have savored it. You never know when it will be your last sip.
I glance around the disaster of an office the Murphy brothers have moved into and have to hold back a snort. It’s so like Terry to pull something like this. The man always had to have the last word.
And he’s certainly gotten it. This is the last place I’d ever picture any of the posh Murphy men in. Sully and his brother Cal grew up in England with their mother but came here after high school, and for as long as I’ve known them, they’ve had this crisp, put-together air about them.
Their late father was the same way, though he was American.
It’s still hard to believe he’s gone.
Terry and I always got along. I was never bothered by his interest in women less than half his age. It was amusing. Odd, yes, but he wasn’t a sleazy old man by any means. He was funny. Charming.
He was the epitome of a Murphy.
Rather than the slight British accent my husband and his brother have, he had a thick New York accent.
My parents made comments about it here and there, but only to me and each other. They weren’t the type to gossip, and my mother respected Terry as a lawyer. He built a legacy and a very successful firm. A firm that looks absolutely nothing like this dump.
The New York office houses almost one hundred employees, both lawyers and support staff, just like my firm.
Okay, not my firm. I’m just an associate. But Will promised that if I came to work for him, he’d put me on the fast track to partner. It’s a better gig than I had here with the Murphys. I was never a partner. There was a time where I thought it was possible that I’d become a partner here but after T.J. was born I said goodbye to the courtroom and worked in the office handling trusts and estates around T.J. and Sully’s schedules.
