Page 67 of One Little Mistake

“Then wait in the car,” Max says, nodding toward his SUV and pressing the unlock button on the key fob again.

“What?” She blinks in confusion. “You’re not even going to invite me in? I came all the way across the city to see you. Max, don’t you have something to tell me?” Her eyes dart back to me.

Max exhales. He knows there’s no avoiding her now. With a curt gesture, he invites her to join us and walks off toward the building without looking back. We follow.

“And which apartment are you staying in?” his mother asks me, her tone deceptively sweet.

“Sixth floor,” I reply, almost not lying.

“I see. I’m Helga,” she says, offering a tight smile.

“Erin,” I respond, feeling awkward as hell.

We enter the building in silence and wait for the elevator. The small space feels cramped for the four of us. The air is tense. Just as the lift starts to move, Tim lets out a soft whimper, and I shift him into my arms to calm him.

“I think he’s too warm,” Max offers. “You’ve bundled him up like we’re headed to the Arctic, and it’s hot in here.”

“He’s just hungry, aren’t you, sweetie?” I coo, kissing Tim’s cheek and rocking him gently.

Helga watches us closely, something calculating behind her narrowed eyes. She opens her mouth to say something again as we step out of the elevator, and she squints even more suspiciously when we all file into the same apartment one after another.

Honestly, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. Max doesn’t give me any cues. Doesn’t ask me to wait at Vivienne’s, or explain anything. Just leads me home, confidently, wordlessly, as if this is all perfectly normal.

Thankfully, I cleared out most of my things from the open spaces earlier. Otherwise, his mother would’ve tripped over baby stuff the second she crossed the threshold. Hopefully, the only clue left behind is the nursery, and maybe a few pieces of clothing still hanging in the closet. I pray she won’t go snooping.

“So… Erin’s not going home?” Helga asks, casually. Too casually.

“Erin’s apartment is under renovation, so she’s staying here until the evening,” Max says smoothly, not even blinking as he offers the explanation. He looks completely unbothered by the whole situation, as if having a woman and a baby in his apartment while his mother watches is a regular Tuesday.

“And her husband doesn’t mind?” Helga presses on, arching a brow.

“I’m not married,” I reply with an awkward smile. I want to retreat to the bedroom with Tim, but then I remember I’m supposed to be a guest here, not a temporary resident. So instead, I follow Max and Helga into the kitchen. I still need to feed Tim, after all.

“Should I order something? Mom, are you hungry?” Max reaches for his phone and glances between us.

“Oh no, don’t worry, although…” Helga trails off as she suddenly stops in the middle of the kitchen. “That bakery—the one on the corner—is it open? I wouldn’t mind their cinnamon rolls with some tea. You’ll go pick some up, won’t you, sweetheart?”

“I doubt they’ve opened yet after the storm,” Max replies hesitantly, but I catch the subtle flicker of worry in his eyes as he glances at me.

“I could’ve sworn I saw someone walking out of there,” she insists, her tone too light to be casual. “Erin, have you tried their pastries?”

“Yes,” I say, a beat too late. “I wouldn’t mind some cinnamon rolls either,” I add with a soft smile, trying to reassure Max that I can handle ten minutes alone with his mother.

Max hesitates, clearly torn. His fingers tighten around his phone.

“Mom, can I talk to you for a second?” he says, giving her a look that makes it impossible to say no.

They step out of the kitchen, and I quickly turn on the kettle, reaching for the box of baby formula. My ears stay tuned to the quiet voices coming from deeper inside the apartment. They’re definitely talking about me. I can only hope Max manages to make it clear to his mother that I’m not after him. The last thing I need is unnecessary drama or accusations.

Mrs. Taylor returns a few minutes later, wearing a tight smile, watching my every move like a hawk.

“You have a beautiful little boy, Erin,” she says after a pause, eyes fixed on Tim, now peacefully resting in my arms. “Ah, I keep dreaming of grandchildren, but it seems I’ll be waiting a while longer,” she sighs, almost dramatically.

I watch her cross the kitchen like she owns the place. She walks straight to the right cabinet and pulls out tea, then a mug. No hesitation. Like she’s done it a thousand times before. She fills the kettle, glances inside the fridge. And something inside me flares. Uncomfortable. Territorial.

Because despite everything, this kitchen feels like mine now. I’ve been cooking here, organizing the shelves, rearranging the spices. Watching someone else take over, even his mother, makes me bristle.

“And what do you do, Erin?” she asks, her gaze flicking back to me.

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