Cherokee Dad

He tasted the soggy green beans. “No.”

“Not even Bobby?”

“My uncle was busy today.”

“Too busy to talk to you?”

Now it was Michael’s turn to shrug. “I didn’t feel like going into all of it.”

An ache, as solid as the hills, slammed into her heart. He hadn’t felt like talking about her, the woman he’d lived with, the woman who still loved him. “Seems to me that a man whose girlfriend just returned to him with his baby would’ve explained the situation to his family instead of going out for a few beers.”

He raised his brows, two wicked slashes of black over exotic-shaped eyes. “Justin isn’t my son.”

“He’s supposed to be, Michael.”

“But he isn’t.”

She wanted to cry, to sink to the floor and weep. The way she’d cried over the other pony. “You can’t act this way, not if we’re going to tell people that Justin is our baby.”

“Then give me a day or so to get used to it. To cope with the idea.”

“Fine.” She carried the dishes into the kitchen, going back and forth, putting away the leftovers.

“Where is the kid?”

“Asleep. It’s after ten. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“You’re not my girlfriend anymore, Heather. I don’t have to stay home at night.”

Her chest hurt again, with pain and fury, heartbreak and devastation. “Yes, you do. We’re supposed to be reconciling.”

His eyes blazed. “Does that mean I get to sleep with you? Get my hot-and-nasty fill before I kick you out?”

Heather froze. Was that the way he thought of her, of the nights they’d spent in each other’s arms?

She wanted to throw a plate at him, but she’d already cleared the table. “Not on your life, buster. And when the time comes, I’ll be leaving on my own.”

“Of course you will. You already left once. How hard can it be to walk out a second time?”

She banked her fury. She was the one who’d taken off, who’d lied about why she’d gone to California. “I never meant to stay away.”

“But you did. And now you’re back with Reed’s son.”

“Our son, Michael. You have to start thinking of him as our son.”

The edge in his voice softened, but his stance remained defensive. “Was Reed okay about you bringing Justin to me? About me pretending to be his father?”

“Yes. He thinks you’ll make a good dad. That you’ll treat Justin right.” But Reed also thought that Michael loved her, that he’d loved her for years. Of course she doubted that Michael would believe that Reed had interceded for him, giving their relationship his blessing. “He doesn’t hate you the way you hate him.”

“Yes, he does. He’s just telling you what you want to hear. He’s always done that.”

Telling her what she wanted to hear—like Michael loving her. “He’s my brother. It’s his job to protect me.”

“The way he protected you from getting caught up in the mob?”

Weary, Heather closed her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Reed.” To think about him running for the rest of his life, mourning his wife and son.

When she opened her eyes, Michael was staring, watching her eyelids flutter. Self-conscious, she took a deep breath. He used to watch her sleep, and then wake her with a stirring kiss.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’ve been through a rough time.”

“Yes.” And losing him was making everything that much harder.

He reached out as if to smooth a strand of her hair away from her face, but drew back and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I should get to bed.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Me, too.”

A few seconds later, their gazes locked, making the moment even more awkward.

She broke eye contact first, blowing out the candle, sending the flame dancing before it disappeared.

Then she and Michael separated, and like the wounded ex-lovers they’d become, they drifted into different bedrooms.

And closed their doors without making a sound.

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