Page 7 of Three of a Kind

My mouth falls open as I realize that I still have my helmet on, and the visor is down.

There’s no chance she’ll recognize me.

“What happened?” Brooklyn asks, frowning as she approaches.

Her face is red, and she looks so exhausted that it keeps me from snapping something that I can’t take back.

I’m not normally such a raging asshole, but my nerves are shot, and I’m still processing how close that miss was.

If I was five seconds later, this would be a crime scene, and I would be on the way to at least one murder charge for whoever was behind the wheel.

“Sorry. I think I missed something,” Brooklyn says as her eyes widen. “What happened?”

“She toddled out into the road,” I say, clearing my throat as I hand off the kid.

Libby wraps her forearm around the orange and pulls it to her small body as her mom scoops her up.

“Ohmigod,” Brooklyn chokes out. “What have I told you about that? I was trying to clean the cracker crumbs out of your seat. I’m so sorry. Thank you. I don’t even know what to say.” Her long lashes flutter shut as she rests her cheek against her daughter’s head. “She was right behind me. Thank you.” Those beautiful hazel eyes of hers pop open, and she gives me a sincere look of appreciation.

“I imagine kids are like puppies, you’ve got to watch them all the time.” I’m still feeling a little woozy.

Holy fuck.

She has a kid.

A mini-size version of Brooklyn, with big hazel eyes and dark waves.

Seriously, did the kid come from cloning?

They look ridiculously similar.

My instincts actually prefer the thought of that to her having a baby daddy out there somewhere in the world.

My impulses are still fully convinced that this little omega is meant to be mine.

I’m fucking flabbergasted at fate.

Statistically speaking, I probably had a better chance of winning the lottery than I did of finding this woman again.

“I saved it,” the kid says, shaking her orange.

Is that why she bolted from the bar without even stopping to say goodbye?

Did she have to run home to check on her kid? She could have left her number. Unless she didn’t think we’d be interested if we knew she was a mom?

Maybe that’s it.

“You can’t run out into the road like that,” Brooklyn whispers, kissing Libby’s temple.

“My orange,” the kid says, holding it up. “I saved it.”

That child is really hung up on that piece of fruit.

“We can always buy a replacement. I can’t get another one of you.” Brooklyn’s eyes glimmer, like she’s about to burst into tears.

My head tilts as I study her.

I’d imagine she’s beating herself up pretty hard at the moment, and she looks rough. She’s always beautiful—there’s no doubt about that—but she has dark circles under her eyes, and her face is puffy.

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