Page 8 of Salty Pickle

She stands, planting her hands on my desk. “But it isyour baby. You can have your DNA test to prove it, but you’ll regret all your life missing his birth if he is yours.”

My throat tightens, picturing a little boy running around Central Park, climbing the Alice in Wonderland statue, tossing a ball around. “It’s a boy?”

“I think so. I did the string test.”

What? “The string test?”

“Yes, you put a weight on a string and see if it goes back and forth or in circles.”

Motherfucking unbelievable. “Did you even see a doctor?”

“Of course. There are programs for mothers. I applied for WIC.”

“You qualified for WIC?”

“I live in a yurt and sell goat cheese. Yeah, I qualify.”

Jesus. What have I gotten myself into?

“Do you even have enough money to get by?”

She hesitates. “I will. Eventually. When I can teach yoga again.”

“What will you do with the baby during yoga?”

“He can come, too.”

“And the goat?”

“She stays at the yurt. There’s plenty to forage.”

“You really live in one?”

She smooths her skirt. Damn, that’s a big belly. “Most of the year. It gets too cold in the winter.”

I ignore the fact that my dick seems to be interested in her roundness. Surely this is not a fetish I didn’t know about. God help me. “Where do you go in winter?”

She seems uncertain, pressing the goat’s head to her thigh. The hay is all gone. “I used to stay with April and Summer…” She trails off as if this is the first time she’s realized she won’t have a safe home for herself and the baby once the cold hits.

“Okay, okay. Let me think.” I run my hand over my face. The only sure thing here is that I did indeed sleep with her eight months ago. “When are you due?”

“September 20. First babies can be late, though.”

It’s late August. We have less than a month to figure this out. “Where is your family? Your parents?”

She frowns. “My grandmother died when I was fourteen. My parents are not an option.”

“What happened with them?”

She drops back into the chair. “They’re part of what’s wrong with society.”

I feel another one of her rants coming on. They probably use pesticides. Or refuse to recycle. She’s not going to like me any better. I like my steaks rare and my Ferrari full of gas. This is a hell of a mess.

But it’s only a month. Uncle Sherman would kick my ass if he found out I booted a pregnant woman. My dad, too. And my mom would come in behind.

“I’ll have Devin find a place for you. We’ll get you an obstetrician here. When the baby’s born, we’ll do the test. Does that work?”

“What about Matilda?”

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