Page 20 of The Mountain Man's Secret Baby

“You’re leaving this place,” he growled, disgust clouding his harsh features as he looked around my trailer. “Where do you even sleep? There’s only one bedroom and I didn’t see a mattress in there.”

I prickled at his judgment.

“For your information, I have a Murphy bed,” I replied in a haughty tone as two spots of color burned into my cheeks. “I still need to get things done after Blaze goes down for the night, so I gave him the bedroom. Your son needs his peace and quiet.”

Christian just looked confused.

“What’s a Murphy bed?”

The two spots of color burned hotter as I felt myself incinerating with embarrassment.

“It’s a bed that pulls down from the wall,” I said in a stiff voice. “The strap is right there, next to the cabinet, see? It’s very common in trailers because of the limited space available.”

Realization dawned on Christian’s handsome features, and his eyes turned calculating.

“There’s not enough space here for you two,” he said in a casual, yet not casual, tone. “My son needs more, and he needs better. Both of you are moving in with me.”

I gasped, outraged.

“What? No! I’ve worked hard to have a place to call our own. Blaze is happy here, and he’s never wanted for anything! Besides, I have a job, just like any hard-working single mom. Maybe I’m not a vet tech, the way I thought I’d be, but Tiny TotsDaycare was hiring, and they like me. They hired me on the spot after my interview, and they’ve been good to me.”

Christian nodded thoughtfully, rubbing the stubble on his square jaw.

“Let me guess,” he said in a smooth tone. “The daycare let you enroll Blaze as a discounted rate as one of the “perks” of your job. But they pay you pennies, so after deducting the cost of his tuition, you’re barely scraping by. Am I right?” he asks, one black brow raised. “Are you using the neighborhood food pantry as a result? The hell if my son’s going to live like that,” he grinds out, sparks shooting from that fierce blue gaze. “No Degas needs to beg.”

My lower lip trembled, and to my horror, tears pricked my eyes.

“I’ve done fine, thank you very much. Blaze is fine, and we’re very happy here in Fairview. Maybe we don’t have much when it comes to material things, but I assure you, your son is well-loved and well-cared for. We don’t need anything from you.”

Christian seemed to soften just a fraction.

“I know, sweetheart,” he said, those blue eyes traveling up my curvy form to rest on my strained features. “I know you’ve worked hard, and thank you for taking such good care of my son, Emily. I’m just saying ... well, I’m still fucking angry that you never told me about my son,” he grinds out. “It kills me to know that I’ve missed out on the first year of his life.”

My own heart softens then.

“I know, and I’m sorry, Christian,” I said, putting a small hand on his strong forearm. “But youwillbe a part of Blaze’s life going forward, I promise. We just need to figure it out.”

The alpha male shot me a quick, piercing look.

“Well, part of it’s easy,” he drawls. “I have plenty of money, and there’s no need for government assistance, food pantries, or the charity of your employer. I can take care of my son. I’ll set up a college fund, he’ll have his own room, and Blazey will be free to laugh and play like any child if you move into my penthouse.”

I relented because the truth is that life has been a struggle, and I was being crushed under the weight. I don’t mean to throw my employer under the bus, but Christian guessed right: after the cost of Blaze’s tuition is deducted from my paycheck, there’s hardly anything left. I scrimp and save to afford our rent at the trailer park, and I’ve been forced to go to the neighborhood pantry more than a few times to supplement our meals. Fortunately, Blaze doesn’t eat much because he’s still a baby, but I’d been dreading the day when he begins to eat more as he grows.

So I’m relieved to be back in Vegas, sheltered in Christian’s huge apartment. The baby is safe, happy, and well-cared for, and the alpha male even went out of his way to find a full-time nanny for our child.

“That isn’t necessary,” I mumbled when I found out. “I don’t have a job right now, so I have more than enough time to take care of Blaze. We’re very close. Our mother-child bond is strong.”

Christian nodded, his blue eyes gentle for once.

“I know, and I can see that,” he said, nodding at the sleeping child in my arms. “But you’re tired, Emily. I can see it in your face, and your eyes. You’ve been caring for our son on your ownfor more than a year, so let me take some of the burden from you. Blaze is my child too, and you deserve a break.”

I didn’t have the energy to resist. The fact is that Iamexhausted from new motherhood, and I’ve been drained in every way imaginable. I feel as if I’ve aged fifteen years in one year, and that my body isn’t my own. I have giant teats filled with milk; a mommy belly that remains poochy and soft; as well as tender lady parts that sometimes still ache from the aftermath of labor. But who am I kidding? I also ache because I’m around Christian all the time now. His dark, domineering form is in the apartment more often than not because as CEO, he’s decided to work from home. He takes calls from an office at the end of the hall, his baritone commanding and forceful. Then, he comes outside and bounces our baby boy in his lap, laughing along with our child in his deep voice.

The sight makes me melt inside because Christian was meant to be a father. The way he looks at Blaze makes my heart soften, and our child looks just like his daddy too, with the same dark hair and bright blue eyes. Even Blaze’s toothless smile resembles his father, with the same dimple in his right cheek and mirthful belly laughs.

But now, we need to figure this out.Us. The prospect makes my soul quiver because is there even an ‘us’? Is there a path forward for me and Christian that goes beyond impersonal co-parenting? I can accept it if that’s all there is, but inside, Iyearn. I miss his big hands. I miss that huge chest, the perfect pillow when I’m tired or upset. I miss hearing his baritone, at once soothing and calm, but also deep with promise, anger, or lust. Christian Degas is the real deal, and my heart swoops and falls as we walk to the car from my mother’s grave. Does he feel it too?

Swallowing hard, I force myself to speak. I’ve done so many things wrong, and I need to tell him, in plain English, of my regrets.

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