Page 3 of One Little Mistake

“So you’re claiming that you have every right to be in this apartment, and I don’t?”

“Exactly.”

“Alright then. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” she asks, confused, blinking rapidly with those ginger lashes.

“To prove I belong in my own damn home. And I’m curious what proof you’ve got to back up your story.”

I head straight for the study, walking fast. The stranger shuffles behind me.

I push the door open—and freeze.

“What the hell is this?”

I stare, stunned, at the baby-blue horror show where my loft-style office used to be.

“Where’s my desk? Where are my collector’s edition books? What happened to the walls? What the hell went down in herewhile I was gone?” I shout, looking around at the crib against the wall, a changing table, and a bunch of baby stuff that’s completely taken over my space.

I glance back at the terrified girl.

For a split second, I actually wonder if I really did walk into the wrong apartment.

But no—this is insane. Absolutely insane.

“And you’re… Erin?” I ask suspiciously.

A few things are starting to click in my head, but none of it makes any damn sense yet.

Pregnant girl. Sailor fiancé. Is this who Simmons was talking about?

“Yes,” she nods. “Can you please explain what’s going on here?”

“I think you’re the one who needs to explain. Why are you living in my apartment, acting like you own the place—and why the hell did you tell my friend Roger that you’re pregnant with my baby?”

CHAPTER 2

Max

The girl is sitting in a chair, eyeing me warily, while I stand across from her, holding out my passport.

“See? I’m Max Taylor. And here—these are the ownership papers for the apartment.”

I flip through a few more pages and shove the documents in front of her face.

Sure, I could’ve kicked her out without all this drama, but first of all—she’s pregnant, and with women like that, you’ve gotta be careful. And second—I’ve got way too many questions for her.

“What does it say? Read it.”

She leans in, squinting at the letters, frowns, then blinks in surprise.

“Harbor Street, number seven, apartment two-seventeen,” she reads aloud in a hoarse voice. “But that’s… that’s impossible.”

She looks up at me with those huge green eyes, clearly waiting for an answer. Funny thing is—I want one from her too.

She gets up and walks over to the dresser, grabs her phone, and starts scrolling.

“See? My boyfriend texted me the address. There’s no mistake.”

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