Page 51 of Breathless

Chapter Ten

Wyatt

He heard the flapping of a tire as he pulled up in front of the townhouse he shared with Noah and groaned.

Getting out, he found the rear tire on the driver’s side flatter than a pancake. Yeah, that made sense. “At least it didn’t happen on the freeway.”

Knowing Fiona, she probably didn’t even have a spare. He smiled a little when he thought about her reaction to that assumption. “Don’t be sexist, firecracker,” he muttered.

Opening the trunk with her key fob, he tossed aside a bag printed with bright cartoon animals and pulled up the carpet. “That’ll work.” There was a mini spare, and it looked to be fully inflated. Putting in on could wait until after the meeting, but at least he knew it was there.

As he dropped the carpet back in place, he jarred the bag and a slip of paper fell out. He reached to shove it back inside and froze when he realized it what he was looking at. A copy of a sonogram.

“What the hell?”

Fiona’s name was at the top.

And the date said it was taken two weeks ago.

She’d said she hadn’t gone through with the surrogacy. That she couldn’t. Had she lied again?

Then he noticed the small line of print at the bottom.

12WKS DUE: 30DEC2019

His hand started to shake. He didn’t even have to do the math—he knew, to the day, when Fiona had left for California.

She’d been pregnant already.

With his baby.

A primal scream roared up from the depths of his being, and only the knowledge that half his family was no doubt waiting for him inside the townhouse kept him from letting it loose. Instead, he slammed the trunk and walked around, swearing viciously at the flat tire as he kicked the living shit out of it.

“Wyatt.”

The soft call barely registered over his blue streak.

“Wyatt. Cut that shit out.”

Noah?

He blinked and raised his head to look over at the townhouse.

“Over here.”

His brother stood by the backyard gate—not theirs, but their neighbor’s—wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a sling on his left arm.

Nowhe was talking to him? It was then that Wyatt registered the moisture on his cheeks cooling in the summer breeze. No fucking way. He did not cry. None of this was happening.

He rounded the back of the car and stood at the curb. “Did you mean to talk to me?”

“Shut up and get in here before they see us. Or did you want everyone to witness your tantrum?”

No, he did not. He followed Noah back into the neighbor’s yard—he thought her last name was Laurence, but she’d introduced herself once, when they first moved in next door, and they’d hardly spoken since. He waited until Noah’s back was turned to swipe his knuckles over his cheeks and fold the image to shove it in his pocket. Sweat, he told himself. Manly, pissed off, broken-hearted sweat.

Mrs. Laurence was sitting on the porch near her house, drinking lemonade and reading a book while her small, ancient looking Lhasa Apso slept at her feet.

“Wyatt, how good to see you,” she said politely.

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