The Playboy's Baby(2)
“Too busy to cut it.” She retucked that strand behind her ear, her fingers shaking.
“It suits you.” He dropped his hand, offering a smile that was more in his eyes than on his mouth. “So, what’re you doing here?”
His question brought her mind back to the reason she came, and Emma swallowed past the nervous lump in her throat. She and Janey left Hastings eight years ago, but once upon a time they lived in this town. Dillon and her baby sister, Janey, were joined at the hip in elementary school. Wherever one went, the other wasn’t far behind. Using all ten fingers and all ten toes, Emma couldn’t count the number of times those two had gotten into trouble together. Partners in crime.
Emma and Dillon grew up hating each other, forever butting heads, usually over Janey’s whereabouts. From one of the wealthiest families in town, she thought him a spoiled rich boy—careless, wild, and arrogant to boot.
Until the night her mother died.
That knowledge lay deep inside her, at war with the doubts that took root in her chest two weeks ago. The day she found the letter written in Janey’s flowery handwriting. It was hidden in the folds of a worn leather diary, tucked between the mattress and box spring. Emma found it by accident. It fell out when she changed the sheets.
Like the beat of a pulse, the knowledge drummed slow and faint but steady nonetheless, refusing to let her ignore its presence. Hope thrummed through her. Until she found that diary, her sister refused to name Annie’s father. She hadn’t listed a name on the birth certificate either. All Emma had to go on was that letter.
The question was would he believe her when she told him Annie was his child? She hoped so. Janey had left custody to her, and since her death, Emma had come to think of Annie like her own daughter. She wanted the child to have what she and Janey missed out on their entire lives—the benefit of two parents. A father who loved her.
She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. Doubt niggled at the back of her mind. What if he denied it? What if he didn’t want Annie? Or worse, what if Dillon wanted sole custody? Annie was all she had left in the world.
No. She had to hope it wouldn’t come to that, for Annie’s sake. She had to hope he wouldn’t take Annie away from her.
She refocused on his face. “We need to talk.”
One dark brow arched in surprise. He stood silent a moment, studying her, like he couldn’t decide what to make of her.
“Come on.” The decision apparently made, he nodded in the direction of the bar. “I’ll get you a drink. Then we can go up to my office.”
“I don’t drink.” She limped along beside him.
“Then you’re in the wrong place.” Dillon glanced over at her, chuckling and shaking his head. An instant later, his gaze dropped to her foot, and he halted halfway to the bar. When he looked at her again, a concerned, half-curious frown creased his brow. “What’s wrong with your foot?”
“It got stepped on. A few times.” A fierce heat climbed into her cheeks.
She’d always been a klutz. On top of it, she always preferred her own company. The sheer number of people packed into this place quickly overwhelmed her, and she’d gotten lost in the crowd, bumped from gyrating body to gyrating body.
She looked down at her foot and waved a hand at him, praying he wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. She felt like enough of a fool. “It’s fine.”
“Let me guess, you were heading for my office.”
The knowing tone of his voice made her look up. “Then I came back when I discovered you weren’t there, yes.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “The crowd on the dance floor can be rather unforgiving. If you stick to the wall, it isn’t so bad.”
“Now someone tells me.” She narrowed her eyes, unable to stop from echoing his smile. “Don’t you dare laugh.”
He clutched a hand to his chest, dark brows drawn together in an expression of mock dismay. “Em, you wound me. What kind of heartless beast do you think I am?”
A laugh escaped and she shook her head. “I don’t think you want me to answer that.”
He chuckled, a deep infectious sound that made her smile again and the moment caught her. She stared at him. Warm and familiar, the play between them reminded her of all those years of growing up with him, of the little imp who used to goad her. Her earlier nervousness flitted away. Whatever else had gone between them, she knew this man.
“Come on.” Before she had a chance to protest, Dillon wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her weight against his side, and helped her the four limping steps it took to reach the bar.