“You’re shitting me?” Chuckling, I hand it back to her.
“Nope. Anna thought it was hilarious. I’m thinking it’s going to be my specialty cake.” Beaming with pride, she tosses the paper on the counter. I shake my head. “Tease away, woman. You’ll always be my sweet-tart, and Anna is always going to be a pixie.” I then nod toward the light green frosted cake printed on the piece of paper called Sweet-tart and Pixie Stick Cake.
“Love you,” she whispers. God, if I could inhale those words, I fucking would. I will never get tired of hearing her say it.
“Love you too. Got to go, babe. Be a good girl and give Dilan a cupcake, yeah? Save some of that cake batter for later.” I wink then let go of her. She simply nods. That nod has me flashing back to last night when her head was bobbing up and down while she had my cock in her mouth. Fuck, I love her.
“See you later,” I say to Beth, who’s feeding Diesel on the couch. I bend and kiss him on the top of the head. He looks up to me, smiling. My heart clenches.
Yeah, I need to find out what the hell my mother has to tell me, so I can make sure my family is safe. Unlike her, I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure my child is safe, happy, and loved.
“Later, man.” I nudge Dilan in the knee when I pass him. He growls and mumbles a slew of swear words, only to be scolded by Beth. I suppose she’s right. Deidre and I should probably watch our mouths around him, too.
I arrive outside of Northern Airlines at JFK Airport thirty minutes after Alexis’ plane landed, thanks to the New York traffic that can suck my ass. And there she is, nice and tan with about five suitcases by her side, looking bored and impatient as usual.
I throw my truck into park and hop out, clambering onto the sidewalk in front of her.
“Alexis,” I say roughly.
“Would it hurt you to call me mother for once?” Her words sound strained. Tough shit.
“Yes, it would hurt me to call you mother,” I bite out. I don’t care if it hurts her or not. “Are these all yours?” I ask before grabbing the cherry red suitcases scattered all around her feet. I could be a bastard and make her do it, but the need to get the hell out of here outweighs anything else. I want this done.
“Yes.” She gasps loudly when I pick them up one by one and toss them in the back of my truck. I ignore her, and with a sweep of my hand, I indicate for her to get in. She gasps again. I continue to ignore her until she finally gives up and opens the door herself, then lazily hoists herself up into my truck.
“Are we going to your place? I’d really like to meet my grandson.” If I weren’t driving my truck out of this overly crowded airport, I might freeze momentarily in my spot. I’m not sure what kind of game she’s playing with me, but fuck all if I’m buying any of it.
“We will not be going to my place and you will never meet my son. I have no idea what kind of game you’re trying to play here, but it’s a little late in my life to be playing games, don’t you think? I mean, you never played with me when I was a child, so why start now, Alexis?” I glance her way. Her lips begin to quiver. She must sense me watching her because she turns her head and stares out the window.
The only sound in the cab of my truck as we drive to the place I set this meeting up at, in case this ploy of her wanting to see me is a trap, is her trying to silently hold back her sobs. A part of me feels like shit for making her cry. Maybe it’s the part of me who always wanted a mother, someone to take care of me when I cried. Hell, I don’t know. All I know is by the time we get across town and I park in the lot adjacent to Calla’s law offices, I’m ready to crawl out of my skin.
“A law office.” She looks perplexed, and I must say I love it.
“Yup. Everything you say will be documented, Alexis. I told you, I’m not playing games. Now, let’s go.” I tug my keys out of the ignition, climb out, and wait for her. Once she’s out, I hit the fob to lock the truck and walk in front of her, giving her no other choice but to follow me.
“You really do hate me, don’t you?” Now she sounds desperate, sorry even. I say nothing when we walk through the corridor of the building, the sound of her heels clicking rapidly as she tries to keep up. “Aidan Hughes for Calla Bexley,” I tell the gray-haired receptionist named Pamela when I approach her desk.
“Go on up, she’s expecting you.”
“Thanks, Pamela.” I wink and shove away from her desk, heading straight for the elevators.
“Aidan. I’m sorry.” I spin around on this viscous bitch, my nostrils flaring.