Desperate games, p.7
Desperate Games, page 7
part #1 of Mergers & Acquisitions Series
Taken.
Mine.
This woman? She turns me into a fucking caveman.
A growling, possessive, unhinged bastard who wants to lay her out, split her open, and plant something so deep inside her, she’ll never be able to forget me even if she tries.
And believe me—she’s trying.
But I see the way she looked back that last time, just for a second, when she thought I couldn’t see. That hesitation in her step.
That flicker of fear—or maybe hope.
She wanted me too.
She still does. I just know it somehow.
And if she thinks I’m going to just let her walk around like she doesn’t belong to me—like she didn’t start something I damn well intend to finish—then Andrea Ramirez is in for a surprise.
Because I’m done waiting.
Done dreaming.
Done pretending this was just sex.
No. This was always more.
And if she thought that was the end?
She hasn’t seen anything yet.
I mean, I would've stayed and fought for it—fought for her—if she hadn’t slammed the damn door in my face and locked it behind me.
But I needed time to think. To process. To plan.
I have shit to do first, but I have every intention of revisiting our relationship—if it can be called that.
Meantime, I shut my laptop with a sigh, the echo of Callie’s sweet little voice still playing in the back of my mind.
We'd just finished a quick FaceTime call—her grinning up at me with chocolate on her cheeks and her hair in lopsided pigtails.
Mom had been behind her, smiling too tightly.
“Remy,” she’d said, once Callie ran off, “I found a beautiful retirement community. In Palm Beach. They’ve got a garden, art classes, and a shuttle to the grocery store. I’m thinking it’s time.”
I knew what she was really saying.
Time to stop sharing custody.
Time to take full responsibility.
Time to be a full-time father figure to a three-year-old who didn’t ask for any of this, but deserves the world anyway.
“I’ll be back this weekend,” I told her, jaw set. “It’s time. I’m ready.”
Mom nodded, eyes glinting a little. “I know you are, son. You’re going to be such a good father!”
I nod at her before signing off.
She’s right. I am ready.
I have to be.
For Callie. For myself. For the future.
I’ve seen enough men in this line of work pretend they can juggle it all—missions, women, ghosts—and it always ends the same.
I’m not going to be that guy. I’ve made my choice.
Family first.
No distractions.
No Andrea.
Not until we can talk. Really talk. About where we stand with each other. Where this thing is going.
Because yeah, I can handle it if a woman leaves me, but Callie deserves better.
I lean back in the too-small chair I’m sitting in, muscles tight, heart tighter.
Maybe this is a good thing.
Maybe the universe saved me from something messy.
From caring too much.
From becoming the kind of man who chases after a woman who already made her decision.
Maybe I just have to forget she exists.
Forget the curve of her waist.
The fire in her voice.
The way she moaned my name like it meant something.
Like I meant something.
Just forget.
I glance down at my hands.
They're still calloused from field work, still steady on a weapon or a trigger or a steering wheel at ninety miles an hour.
But if I close my eyes, I swear I can still feel the way she fit under them.
Forget her?
Yeah, right.
It might be easier to forget my own fucking name.
Chapter Twelve-Remy
Mom left the moment my plane landed.
Now I’m at Carter & Cove Home Emporium, a few miles outside Roseland, New Jersey, where I just closed on the new house.
The place I hope will finally feel like home. At least for her.
I crouch down beside the miniature velvet throne where Callie’s perched like royalty, one leg thrown over the other, surrounded by pink swatches and glitter-covered samples like she’s making state decisions.
“Do you want sparkles and butterflies, or just butterflies?” I ask, holding up the options.
She tilts her head, curls bouncing, lips pursed in serious thought.
Then, she jabs a tiny finger between the two.
“Both, Dad,” she declares with all the confidence of a queen preparing for battle.
My throat tightens.
“Both it is,” I say, ruffling her soft hair. “You’re the boss.”
And she is.
All thirty-five pounds of her.
This tiny, fierce little girl has me completely wrapped around her finger, and I’m not even mad about it.
But what wrecks me—what really gets me—is what she called me.
Dad.
It’s new. And it hit harder than I expected.
Apparently, the kids in her preschool group talk about their dads. Show-and-tell stories, weekend plans, who teaches them to ride a bike or tie a shoe.
Callie didn’t want to be left out. So my mom—God bless her—gave her permission.
And hearing her say it? For the first time?
I didn’t correct her.
I didn’t flinch.
I just smiled and told her I was proud of her sparkly pink painting, because I couldn’t trust myself to speak.
Now, here I am, comparing butterfly decals and castle-shaped bunk beds like a man who’s already given his whole heart away—and it’s not even a question who owns it anymore.
I didn’t plan for this.
But nothing in my life has ever made me prouder.
We’ve been at this furniture store for over an hour, picking out everything she wants for her new bedroom—her new home. It’s the least I can do after years of splitting weekends and holidays, pretending like I wasn’t aching every time I dropped her off with Mom.
Now? It’s all changing.
She’s mine. Fully. Officially. Permanently.
And if she wants a loft bed shaped like a treehouse and a dresser covered in mermaid stickers?
So be it.
I’ll build the damn thing myself if it makes her happy.
I stand, stretching my back and glancing at my phone. I look around for the sales rep.
Then, I see her.
Or rather, I feel her first—like the air shifts and every part of me goes on high alert.
Andrea Ramirez.
Walking into the store like she owns the place, sunlight catching on the waves of her hair, lips painted in her usual no-nonsense nude, one hand bracing her back—and the other cradling her swollen—fuck me, her pregnant—belly.
I freeze.
The ground tilts.
The breath in my lungs goes sharp, jagged.
Because no fucking way.
She’s glowing. Radiant.
That undeniable pregnancy glow that makes every part of her look softer and more luminous.
Her full breasts strain against her cardigan.
It’s November. Three months since I saw her last.
Her bump is prominent, though.
So, she’s not that newly pregnant—this is months along.
Early second trimester, I’m thinking.
And she’s pregnant with someone’s baby.
Someone who apparently wasn’t important enough to mention when I saw her last.
My vision blurs. I see red.
Three months is long enough for a woman to show, my inner monster reasons, and now my vision totally fucking blacks out for a second.
“Callie,” I say, my voice gravel now. “Come with me for a second, okay? You can keep picking stickers.”
“Okay!” she sings, walking slowly, already absorbed in the book I gave her earlier.
I find a sales rep and ask her to watch my little girl.
Then I walk towards where Andrea is looking at cribs, keeping Callie in my peripheral vision as I do.
I feel like a fucking bomb is ticking down in my chest.
She hasn’t seen me yet.
She’s focused on a little plush ottoman and trying to bend down to inspect the price tag—grunting as she realizes bending is no longer in her range of motion.
I stop right behind her.
“I’ve got that.”
She whips around at the sound of my voice.
Eyes wide.
Mouth parted.
Expression shifting from shock to guilt to oh-shit in less than a second.
“Remy,” she breathes.
“Hey, Andy,” I say, trying to keep my tone calm. Civil. But rage is humming through every muscle like a live wire.
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
I look her over. All of her.
Her bump.
The faint redness in her cheeks.
The subtle sheen of sweat on her upper lip from the effort of walking in heels.
“You’re pregnant,” I say, voice low.
She swallows. “I am.”
And just like that, my whole world changes. Again.
Chapter Thirteen-Remy
“How far?” I ask, gritting out the question like it pains me.
Because it fucking does.
“Remy—”
“How. Far.”
She hesitates.
My jaw tightens. “Tell me.”
“Thirteen weeks,” she whispers, almost like she’s ashamed.
Thirteen weeks.
I do the math in my head, and it checks out. It’s just past three months since I saw her last.
Since I was inside her.
Without a condom.
Because she said I didn’t need them.
“You said you were on birth control—”
“No, I said you didn’t need protection,” she corrects me.
Fuck. She’s right. I’d assumed she meant she was on birth control.
“You did this on purpose? Got pregnant with my baby on purpose, didn’t you?”
“I always wanted a baby, and I’m already thirty-two. Did you know they consider me a geriatric pregnancy?” she whispers, and her look is equal parts frightened and hopeful.
“What?”
“It’s true. Over thirty and your eggs are considered old and high risk,” she shakes her head, wiping at her tears.
I don’t know what she’s fucking talking about.
But my hands curl into fists at my sides when I realize she didn’t want me, not really.
She just wanted my sperm.
I step closer. Rage and pride and guilt at war inside me.
“Goddamn it, Andy, I am so damn mad right now.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“No, you just meant to use me.”
“Remy, what can I do—”
“You’re carrying my child, right?”
She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t have to.
Because I see it all in her face. The guilt. The fear. The flicker of something that might be regret.
And suddenly I’m not in a furniture store anymore—I’m standing in the middle of a slow-motion explosion.
“But you didn’t try to get in touch. You didn’t fucking tell me.”
“I was thinking about it,” she says quietly.
“You were what? Were you gonna send a text? When?” My voice sharpens. “When the baby was born? When I ran into you on the street like this? When they put my name on the fucking birth certificate? Oh wait, you weren’t gonna do that, were you?”
“Remy, be reasonable. You weren’t exactly looking for a happy ever after, were you? Just a happy ending!” she snaps back.
“I’m telling you right now, Andy, no child of mine is gonna be born a bastard!”
She flinches, tears welling, and I immediately feel like a dick—but not enough to stop.
I shake my head. “You had no right to keep this from me, Andy.”
“You don’t have to do anything, Remy. This is my concern, and I’ll take care of them.”
“Them?” I ask, freezing in place, glancing at Callie to make sure she’s okay. She is. Giggling with the saleslady.
“Um, yeah. Twins,” she whispers, smiling through her tears.
“I’m a twin,” I choke, throat constricting.
“You are?”
“I, uh, had a sister. She died,” I tell her, shaking my head.
“I’m sorry, Remy—”
“For lying? For sneaking around? For hiding this from me,” I grit the words between my clenched jaws.
“Honestly, I figured you wouldn’t be interested. I thought you’d walk away,” she says, like that’s an excuse.
“You didn’t give me the chance, did you?”
There’s a pause. Her hand rests protectively on her belly.
“Look, I don’t know what to say,” she whispers. “I just really wanted this. I needed this. Understand?”
“Well, guess what, sweetheart,” I growl, stepping in until there’s barely air between us. “You need this? Well, you’ve got this. That includes me, too. Whether you like it or not.”
She gasps at that, blinking fast.
“You don’t mean that,” she says.
“You think I’d walk away from my kid? From you? I fucked up by letting you push me away, but this? These are our babies, Andrea.”
She flinches when I say her full name.
We’re quiet for a moment.
The tension between us vibrates so loud, it practically drowns out the elevator music in the store.
Then a little voice interrupts.
“Daddy, I want the one with glittery stairs!”
Andrea blinks, turning toward the sound.
Callie.
And that’s when she sees her.
Her expression softens with confusion, and I watch her try to make sense of the tiny tornado barreling toward us.
Callie flings herself at my leg and clings. “I picked everything! And I want the unicorn pillow too!”
Andrea looks between us, lips parting again.
“You have a daughter?” she asks softly.
“Technically, my niece,” I say, brushing Callie’s hair back. “But I’ve raised her since she was born. She lives with me now. Full time.”
Andrea stares at me.
At us.
Then, her eyes flick to her own belly again. And something cracks behind her eyes.
“I didn’t know,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “Seems we’re both full of secrets.”
Chapter Fourteen-Andrea
I must’ve been dreaming.
That’s the only explanation.
Because one minute, I was standing in the middle of Carter & Cove, face to face with the man who wrecked my heart and rewired my body—his green-eyed mini-me clinging to his leg like a scene from a Tim Burton rendition of a Norman Rockwell painting—and the next?
I’m being ushered into his matte camo-painted SUV like I didn’t just blow up both our lives.
“You okay up there?” Remy asks, catching my gaze in the rearview mirror as he buckles Callie into a car seat with the kind of effortless competence that makes my heart ache.
“I, um, yeah,” I manage, easing into the passenger seat with my pulse in my ears and my babies doing somersaults under my ribs.
“She’s pwetty, Dad,” Callie whispers after a minute.
“Yep, Shortcake, she sure is,” Remy whispers, frowning.
My gaze returns to the sweet little girl’s, “You’re pretty, too.”
“Can I hold your hand?” Callie surprises me.
I turn my body slightly, startled.
Her little face is tipped up toward me, hopeful, unsure.
My heart lurches.
“Of course,” I whisper back, reaching across the console.
Her tiny fingers wrap around mine, warm and sticky from who knows what. And I hold on like she might float away otherwise.
This feels right somehow.
But still I want to cry because I didn’t know when I made my idiotic plans to become a mom on my own.
I didn’t know about Callie. I didn’t know that Remy had responsibilities, and that he took them seriously. It’s all my fault because I didn’t ask. Didn’t care. I just saw what I wanted, and I acted.
Selfishly. Like a greedy brat.
Callie lets go of my hand, asks for her book, and Remy moves to get it from a little backpack he has on the floor at her feet.
I move, facing forward in my seat once again, and really, that should have made me feel better.
But I don’t.
I can feel myself spiraling, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Oh my God, I’m a terrible person. I’m gonna be a terrible mother.
“We’re gonna grab dinner,” Remy says, matter-of-fact, pulling me from the brink of self-imposed destruction without even knowing it.
“Dinner?”
“Yeah. We eat first,” he says, with a pointed look at my now growling stomach, “then we’ll talk.”
Just like that, he makes the decisions.
No questions. No demands.
Just taking over.
Like he’d never stopped being the man who touched me like I was precious and growled in my ear like I was his.
I want to protest.
I should protest.
But instead, I let him drive us to some retro burger joint outside Roseland—where he tells me he bought a house. The restaurant is like one of those 1950s themed diners, complete with vinyl lined booths, neon lights, real milkshakes, and waitresses in cherry-red aprons.
Callie orders chicken tenders and a vanilla shake. Remy gets a burger the size of his head. I get one about half that size with sweet potato fries and coleslaw.
Mine also comes with a side of regret and one hell of a pickle.
Remy also orders a side of steamed broccoli.
“It’s good for you,” he mutters and pushes the dish at me.
