This Man Confessed(158)

“You’re lying,” he retorts, but there is definitely an element of uncertainty in his tone.

“She is lying,” I interject, uncomfortable with seeing Jesse so close to her, even if he is snarling in her face.

“I’m not. You have the proof there.” She points at the picture in my hand.

“Yes, I do.” I turn it around and push it in her face. “This is a six-week scan picture.”

She frowns “No, it’s a four-month scan picture.”

“This isn’t your baby, Coral.”

“Whose is it then?” she asks slowly. She’s beginning to catch my drift.

“This is my baby.” I look at the tatty piece of paper fondly. “And Jesse’s.”

“What?”

“Well, I say baby. What I actually meant was babies. You see, we’re having twins, and I know you’re trying to pull a fast one because this really is a six-week scan picture. And there are two peanuts here, smaller than your one blob, I know, but I can get a feel for it. I don’t know. Maybe it’s motherly instinct.” I shrug. “Is that all?”

Her mouth is slightly agape and while I’m still reeling on the inside, I’m beyond proud of myself for maintaining my composure. Jesse is right. I can’t go rolling around on the floor, as much as I’d love to rip her hair out.

“Unless you can miraculously produce this missing strip that’ll confirm your dates, I think we’re done?” I give her an expectant look, but she’s saying nothing. I throw her picture into the space between us. “Now fuck off and go find the real father of your spawn.” I don’t remove my eyes from her and I won’t until that door is shut and she’s firmly behind it. “Are you leaving, or do I have to drag you out?” I ask, stepping forward.

She bends and picks her picture up before backing out the door, her eyes flicking nervously from Jesse to his deranged, pregnant wife, and as soon as her body is over the threshold of the penthouse door, I slam it in her face, then turn to look at my ex-whore of a husband. He’s chomping nervously on that bottom lip and maybe I shouldn’t be, but I’m mad with him, too. I steam past him and up the stairs, finding the shower still flowing when I arrive back in the en-suite. Stripping down, I scrub my teeth, then step in and make no rush to get done quickly. I’ve been up for less than half an hour and I already feel like it should be the end of my day.

My eyes are closed as I rinse my hair, but I can feel him behind me. He’s not touching me, but I know he’s there. And he’s all worried. I can sense the anxious vibes shooting into my wet back. The evidence of his uncertainty at Coral’s claim just reinforces my concern. Have I now got to add potential baby mommas to my list of things that could cause us issues? We’ve been back from Paradise for just two days, and I’m mentally exhausted already. A life of peace and comfort, that’s what I want and need, and every time I think we’re close to exactly that, something jumps up and obliterates it.

The familiar feel of the natural sponge connects with my back, as does his palm with my tummy. He’s cautious, and he should be. “Jesse, I’m not in the mood.” I step away from him and finish rinsing my hair. He doesn’t know what to do, so as usual when he finds himself in this situation, he tries to win me back over with his touch. I expect to hear a snort of disbelief or even a scorn for denying him, but I don’t. I do, however, feel his hand slide back around my stomach. “I said I’m not in the mood,” I snap harshly, shrugging him off and grabbing a towel to dry myself.

“You promised you’d never say that,” he murmurs sullenly.

Securing myself in the towel, I glance up and see him standing under the pounding water with his hands hanging limply by his sides. “I’m late.” I leave him, with trepidation written all over his face, to get myself ready for work.

For the whole twenty minutes it takes me to get ready, Jesse sits on the bed, cautiously watching me, cogs spinning, teeth nibbling. I’m just about to exit the bedroom when he blocks the door, all dopey eyed and sad. “Baby, my heart’s splitting. I hate fighting with you.” He makes no attempt to close the distance between us.

“We’re not fighting.” I brush off his solemnity. “You need to get the code on the elevator changed. And find out how she got up here, too.” I walk out, but barely make it to the top of the stairs before the warmth of his palm is around my wrist, stopping me from going anywhere.

“I will, but we need to make friends.”

“I’m dressed. We are not making friends now.”