Page 80 of Married to the Frenemy

“Fuck, Beckham.” I reach into his boxer briefs and wrap my hand around his erection. “I need you. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He clutches my hips and lifts me with ease, carrying me toward the couch. Just as he sets me down and crawls between my legs, whoever’s at the door tries again, this time knocking.

At first, we continue to ignore it, too caught up in each other. Until an urgent voice calls out, breaking through my lust-filled fog.

“Haley McBride? Process server. If you’re in there, please answer.”

“Process server?” I ask, the words like a bucket of cold water.

Beckham looks between me and the door, his own unease evident. Then he stands, running a hand over his face.

“I’ll go talk to him.” He presses a soft kiss to my forehead, lingering for several moments as dozens of scenarios fill my mind about why a process server would be standing outside.

And none of them are good.

When he finally pulls away, he adjusts himself, then makes his way into the foyer. I strain to listen as I get dressed, but I can’t make out more than a few non-distinct words.

Seconds later, Beckham reappears, his jaw ticking and nostrils flaring. “He needs to see you.”

On shaky legs, I walk toward the front door, Beckham’s hand never leaving my back. I can physically feel his ire as I open the door and meet the eyes of a lanky man in a dark suit standing on the front porch.

“Haley McBride?”

“Y-yes.”

Without another word, he hands me a large envelope, then retreats to his car, leaving me dumfounded and scared about what this envelope may contain.

Although I already have a premonition about what it is.

After my recent encounter with Oliver, I worried how he might respond to learning he had a child he didn’t know about.

But after the first few days passed, I convinced myself I was just overreacting. After all, he didn’t want Maggie in the first place. I figured he’d already forgotten about her.

Or maybe I hoped he’d already forgotten about her.

Now I fear he was just biding his time, lulling me into a false sense of security before striking hard and fast.

I make my way back into the house, my hands trembling as I pull the tab on the envelope and remove a stack of legal documents. Dread fills me as my eyes scan the pages, my heart twisting in my chest.

“What is it?” Beckham asks, a hint of trepidation in his voice.

“He’s filing for joint custody of Maggie,” I manage to respond, each word a heavy weight on my tongue. . “But the arrangement he’s seeking will give him primary custody. He questions my fitness as a parent.”

“That’s bullshit,” Beckham spits out, the vein in his neck pulsing. “If anything, the fact you’ve provided for Maggie without any help for the past four years shows just what an amazing mother you are. Hell, the bastard threw a wad of cash at you and told you to get rid of her.”

“That may be so, but he contends this isn’t a safe environment to raise a child, citing…” I trail off.

“Citing what?” Beckham demands through a clenched jaw.

I hand him the papers, barely able to breathe through the tightness in my chest. “Your criminal record. As well as your most recent ‘violent outburst’,” I say using air quotes.

His eyes race over the pages, anger and frustration evident with every strained muscle of his body.

“He can’t do this,” he murmurs, his voice trembling with panic and fear. “I just… Fuck!”

He bends over as if in excruciating pain, his breathing ragged. I can see the weight of this crushing him.

“It’ll be okay,” he says softly, composing himself and straightening. “I’ll give Mark Sellers a call this afternoon. Hell, I’ll ambush him in court if that’s what it takes so we can start fighting this.”

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