Page 5 of The Best Bad Decision

Anyway, I’m here and I guess he is, too. We’re both adults. I might have lied a little bit when I said I didn’t want to be here. What I really meant was, I love this place and I haven’t been here for years, but I’d rather not be so far from home on such a long trip right now. And I definitely don’t want to be right here in this elevator with the manwhose cologne I can still smell when I close my eyes. Yeah, that’s what I meant.

He looked pretty done in, straight from a flight. I can relate. It took almost fifteen hours to fly here from London with plenty of turbulence flying over the Andes. I push into my hotel room and throw my key card on the bed, stripping my running belt from my waist and heading straight for the bathroom. Switching on the water, I grab my shower essentials and strip off my clothes as the spray heats and steam fills the room. Time to do what I do best: overanalyse. I step into the spray and let the water beat down on my tired muscles. His shoulders had four stripes; he’s ranked up since that night when I learned he was a first officer. Now he’s a captain, and he—

Wait a hot minute. Did his name badge sayCamden?

Have I really spent the last four years cursing a man whose full name I assumed wasCameron, only to see him again for the first time in years—looking fucking sexy as hell in his work uniform, no less—withCamden Whitehouse, Captainplastered across his chest?

Fucking hell.

Despite his obvious exhaustion, he’s still beautiful. Strong, stubbled jaw, and wide, green eyes I could fall all the way into. Wide, green eyes Ididfall into, once. I think about that night a lot. Those eyes were the first thing that drew me in.

I turn off the spray and step out, wrapping my hair and body in a pair of enormous, fluffy towels, fresh from the heated rail. I buff and preen in front of the full-length mirror, and then slather cocoa butter on my skin from head to toe. It’s the same brand I used the night Cam and I met, and its scent still reminds me of him. I used to wonder how many times we had almost met. How many times we had missed each other,walking almost right by each other in an airport, a hotel lobby, even on the street—separated by just a moment. For a while, I let it drive me crazy.

How could I be so down bad for a guy after one night? Granted, it was a pretty fantastic night, but in the words of Carrie Underwood, I didn’t even know his last name, let alone his phone number.

There I was: grounded, swollen, and utterly miserable. Pregnant and alone in the middle of a summer heatwave, and driven to alcohol-free wine with thoughts of a man whose hands I could still feel ghosting over my skin.

Maybe we’d never even come close. I would resign myself to thinking that maybe our one night in Singapore after a few too many self-titled slings, high on firework smoke andnew year, new meenergy was just a fluke. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

And then I’d look at the fuzzy head of the baby sleeping on my chest.

Maybe it was fate, after all.

I try on two different pairs of leggings before tearing them both off my legs and flinging them in the vague direction of my suitcase in the corner. I try a blue bodysuit, and then a hot pink one, and eventually settle for a white tank top. Plain, neutral. Just the way I need to be. I pair it with my oldest, comfiest jeans, and then, because I’m a glutton for punishment, and because somewhere beneath all the masks, I want him to see me again, I fasten a layered necklace around my throat and slip some bangles around my wrists.

I really didn’t think I’d see him again. For a while, I didn’t even want to. Call it humiliation, call it cowardice, call it what you want: for a while, I hid away. I had the most amazing sex of my life with a man wholooked at me with stars in his eyes, only to sneak out of his hotel room without leaving a trace.

He left a trace, obviously. That trace is now three years old, at home with my mum, expecting a fluffy alpaca souvenir and fifty bajillion kisses upon my return.

For fuck’s sake.

I reach the lobby at three minutes to noon. It’s later than I wanted to be here. I know I shouldn’t care what I look like. Cam won’t care. I highly doubt he’ll even notice whether I’m wearing skinny jeans or boyfriend-cut, a purple shirt or a black one. Besides, he’s seen me naked and from just about every angle. There’s not an inch of my skin he hasn’t touched. As though my body remembers, I shiver involuntarily as I spot him sitting on a padded bench, his eyes fixed on my hips as I approach.

He stands, towering over me. When I look up into that endless green, I fall all the way in, all over again.

“Blue Bird’s?” he asks, referencing the small coffee shop just a few doors down from the hotel. I nod and we make our way out into the bright early-spring afternoon. I flip my sunglasses down over my eyes as we walk, grateful for the dark lenses hiding the emotions I know are written all over my face.

I have to tell him. I made a promise when those two pink lines appeared. I made it again when I first heard her heartbeat. And then a third time, when Katy caught her and placed her on my chest. I swore each time that if I ever saw him again, I’d tell him—I’d do everythingI could to give Maisy the daddy she deserves. I wish I could’ve done it from the start. I wish he could’ve been there to see her earthside, that his could’ve been the first hands to hold her. I wish he could’ve soothed her on those long, sleepless newborn nights. Seen her first birthday, and her second, and her third. I wish so much he’d been there.

I wish I could’ve given him the choice.

Because what if he doesn’t even want this? What if he doesn’t want to be a dad? What if he doesn’t want to know our daughter? I’ll go back home, back to being Maisy’s mama, just the way I’ve always been. Just the two of us, like nothing has changed. But a part of me would always hate him for it.

It’s blissfully cool in the cafe—cool and light, but much less bright than outdoors. We order and receive our drinks, an Americano for him and a cappuccino with cinnamon sprinkles for me, along with two generous slices of coconut cake. He leads me to a small table by the front window, protected from prying eyes by a large indoor plant. We sit on plush, low chairs upholstered in forest green velvet, and he looks at me expectantly. Espresso machines hum and hiss, and cutlery clangs against porcelain crockery. Somewhere beneath it all, an acoustic guitar plays a soothing melody.

It strikes me then how much my daughter looks like him.Our daughter.How she shares some of my expressions, but inherited all of his features. I say nothing, paralysed by all the thoughts in my head. He speaks instead.

“How’ve you been, Amie? How are… are you good? Still flying, I take it.” He fumbles with the words. “Are you seeing anyone?”

I haven’tseenanyone since him. Quite apart from the fact that our night together resulted in me falling pregnant—and then navigatinglife as a single mum, doing nothing but work and raise my daughter—I haven’t even thought about another man since him. I think he’s ruined me.

“No,” I say at last. “I mean—I’m okay. I’m good. I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Me either…” He trails off. “I meant what I said, you know. It’s really, really good to see you.” He lifts his cup to his face and takes a long sip of the steaming drink. I wrap my hands around my own cup, inhaling deeply and allowing the rich aromas of the Colombian coffee and coconut cake to soothe my mind.

I don’t know how to respond. It is good to see him again, but how do I tell him that, when the last time I saw him, I was sneaking out of his hotel room while he slept? How do I tell him it’s good to see him when the sight of those muscular forearms and warm, calloused hands are doing unspeakable things to the state of my underwear?

“I—”It’s good to see you, too.

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