Page 52 of One Little Mistake

“Yeah, there’s no way that kid is yours,” she snorts, her eyes glinting with the smug satisfaction of someone who thinks they’ve just solved a great mystery. “You never even wanted your own kids that much before. So I have to wonder—what is it about this Erin that made you agree to take her in with…” She pauses, searching for the right word. “With the extra baggage.”

“That’s none of your damn business,” I snap through gritted teeth, gripping the steering wheel harder.

“It’s just interesting,” she presses on, ignoring the warning in my glare. “Is she in love with you—or your money? What? It’s convenient, isn’t it? Finding some big-hearted fool like you and wrapping him around her little finger. You always were eager to help everyone, handing out loans, never asking for them back, even a year later. You’re too easy to manipulate,” she finishes smugly, and I roll my eyes. I’ve heard this speech way too many times before.

“I’d say you ranked first in taking advantage of me.”

“I’m being serious, Max,” she says sharply. “Think about your future. Why would you settle for a woman with another man’s kid when you could have your own?”

“Erin would make a damn good mother for my kid,” I lie without hesitation, and the way it makes Cynthia even more furious gives me a small flicker of satisfaction.

“At least she sure as hell wouldn’t bail on me in a tough moment just because I couldn’t afford to bankroll all her whims,” I add, hitting right where it hurts the most—at the sore spot of our past relationship.

“You know it wasn’t like that,” she says in a trembling voice, turning toward the window.

I can bet her silence won’t last long.

We pull up to Cynthia’s building around 1 a.m. The roads are already buried under a thick layer of snow. I know going back out there isn’t exactly the best idea, but leaving Erin alone in the apartment on her first night back from the hospital doesn’t sit right with me, either.

What if something happens?

Sure, I could crash at my parents’ place and head back in the morning, but there’s no telling how bad the roads will get overnight. Better to head back now while it’s still manageable—even if barely.

“Well? You getting out or what?” I say, glancing at Cynthia, who’s still glued to the window and not moving.

“Sorry, but I’m not about to play Prince Charming and open your door for you. It’s freezing out there.”

“And you… you’re not staying the night?” she asks timidly, turning to face me—though there’s no trace of shyness or innocence in her eyes. She bites her lower lip and looks at me hopefully, waiting.

“Where exactly?” I arch a brow, studying her face.

Hard to believe I was once head over heels for her—though maybe not that surprising. Cynthia always knew how to present herself, how to be witty, charming.

And how to lie straight to my face without blinking. How to play me like a damn fiddle.

“At your parents’ house, maybe. Driving tonight is suicide. Look at that snowstorm—you can’t see a damn thing,” she presses.

“It didn’t bother you the whole time we were barreling down buried streets,” I say with a smirk, seeing right through her ploy to get me to stay. “But now you’re playing the voice of reason?”

“Don’t twist my words. You know exactly what I meant. Don’t be an idiot, Max. I’ll worry,” she adds, softening her voice.

“I’ll text you,” I say dryly. “Now get out. I still have to drive back.”

“Be careful,” she whispers as she lingers for a moment, her eyes scanning my face before she lets out a heavy sigh. “And do something about that beard—you look like a monk.”

She yanks the door handle and clumsily climbs out, letting a blast of freezing air into the car before slamming it shut.

I watch to make sure Cynthia gets safely inside her building before I slowly pull away from the curb.

Visibility is crap—maybe a meter at best. The wipers can’t keep up with the snow piling onto the windshield. I creep along at a snail’s pace, staring absently at the swirling white flakes. If I weren’t so focused on not crashing, I’d probably be admiring the beauty of it.

Feels like it’s been years since I really saw snow—probably three winters ago, since I usually spend the season out at sea.

My eyes are practically glued shut from exhaustion. It’s two in the morning, and there’s not a soul in sight. At this point, I’m not even sure I’m heading in the right direction. No street signs. No traffic lights. No recognizable turns. Just endless white.

I have no choice but to switch on the GPS and follow the little blinking dot on the screen.

The wind howls around the car, snow swirling violently, and twice I nearly skid out taking a turn. I’m starting to seriously regret my decision. I should’ve stayed at my parents’ place. Or hell, just kicked Cynthia out into the snow and forgotten she ever existed.

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