Page 50 of One Little Mistake

“And why the hell do you care?” I snap back. “Call your damn taxi and get out.”

“No,” she hisses, narrowing her eyes. “If that were your kid, your parents would know. Does your mother even know you brought some random girl and her brat into your home?”

“Listen carefully,” I snap, my anger boiling over as she lectures me like I’m some rebellious teenager. “Who I date, whose kids I raise—that’s none of your damn business. You’d do well to keep your mouth shut, Cynthia, unless you want everyone finding out the real reason for our divorce. I don’t think our families would be thrilled to learn that while I was stuck in bed with a shattered hip, unable to even make it to the damn bathroom on my own, you were screwing your boss on weekend getaways. Imagine that—sweet, perfect, well-mannered Cynthia cheating on her crippled husband with some older guy… who dumped her the second he got bored.”

Cynthia’s breathing hard now, furious. The polished, charming act crumbles right before my eyes, exposing her real self.

“You’re just as much of a fool as you always were, Taylor,” she spits. “Instead of building a proper life with the right kind of woman—starting a family, having your own kid—you’re wasting your time. Some redhead dumps her bastard on you, and you’re eating it up.”

“And who said he’s not my kid?”

I cross my arms over my chest and stare her down, daring her to push further.

Silence falls between us, heavy and tense. From down the hallway, I hear Tim’s faint cries and Erin’s soft, soothing voice singing to him.

Cynthia freezes for a second, scanning my face like she’s trying to read the truth. Her frown deepens.

“No… that’s insane,” she finally mutters, her voice shaky. I catch a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Why would you hide a kid from your parents?”

“I just haven’t had the chance to introduce her yet. And Elena’s been keeping quiet like a damn soldier. Don’t worry, Mom will meet her grandson soon enough. He was just born.Caught me off guard too,” I add, letting the lie slip a little too easily. God, I hope this doesn’t come back to bite me later.

“And now,” I continue, my tone hardening, “since you finally understand you’re not welcome here, maybe help me find you a cab before the city gets completely buried in snow.”

I ignore Cynthia’s dagger glare and dial up the taxi service again, only to get hit with the same bullshit response: “Sorry, due to weather conditions, there are no available cars in your area.”

Are they all conspiring against me tonight?

I don’t let Cynthia step further into the apartment. We’re both stuck in the entryway, tension crackling between us. I’m getting more pissed by the minute when, even after ten more calls, no damn car materializes.

And as much as I’d love to shove her right out the door into the storm—God knows she deserves it—I can’t quite bring myself to do it. But hell if I’m letting her spend the night here.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement. I turn my head and see Erin—wide-eyed and frozen mid-step—trying to slip past us toward the bedroom. She’s hoping to stay invisible, but no chance of that. Not with Cynthia.

Cynthia lets out a loud, mocking huff and starts eyeing Erin from head to toe like she’s inspecting a piece of trash on the sidewalk.

Erin stops dead in her tracks. She looks even paler than usual, her green eyes darting around like she’s searching for an escape route. Her fingers twist nervously at the hem of her silk pajama top.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself, as if she thinks she’s interrupted something very important.

“Sorry,” she clears her throat, confirming my suspicion. She probably decided that Cynthia is my girlfriend and now, because of Erin’s presence, I might have problems.

“This is my ex-wife, Cynthia. And this is Erin,” I say, clearing up her mistaken assumption.

I deliberately leave Erin’s status undefined—Cynthia’s imagination will fill in the blanks just fine. Erin’s eyes widen in surprise, like I just told her I used to be married to a dog. Her lips part in a drawn-out, “Ohhh.”

Cynthia opens her mouth to say something, but I stop her with a wave of my hand. Her lips open and close—clearly she wants to snap back, but doesn’t dare while I’m standing here. She’s still clinging to the image of the perfect, well-mannered woman.

“Would you like some tea?” Erin offers, completely unaware of the level of my disdain for Cynthia.

“Cynthia was just leaving. And you should be resting already. Go on,” I say, nodding toward the bedroom door, and I don’t say another word until it closes behind her.

“Your taste has really gone downhill,” Cynthia sneers.

“My taste has changed,” I shrug. “I prefer modest, self-sufficient women now. Not selfish snakes.”

“You’ll get bored with them fast. And when you do, you’ll remember me—but it’ll be too late,” she says haughtily, way overestimating her importance.

I decide not to dignify that with a response. Another fifteen minutes pass, and even Cynthia starts getting angry. She’s clearly tired of standing by the door, and whatever plan she had for tonight is clearly falling apart. Good. Helping Erin turned out to be a smart move—now my ex gets to see me as a family man instead of some lonely hermit.

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