Page 29 of Secret Baby for the Bad Boy

“I can’t drive,” I whisper, my whole body shaking as we make our way back down to the entrance of the hotel. Lark is already talking with the front desk on his phone, hurrying us out as quickly as possible.

“I can.” Lark’s still so calm.

“I need to get home.” My voice cracks, brittle as thin ice.

Lark's hands land on my shoulders, offering me comfort and bringing me into the moment. “I'll drive, we’ll get there, and we’ll do whatever it takes to make sure your son is safe,” he says. There’s no room for argument, but the thing that sticks in my mind is hearing him say whatever it takes. Those words remind me of the promises I’ve made to myself over the years, promises I’ve stuck to.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my heart in my throat.

We're silent as we rush to the car. He tosses the bags in and gets into the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life.

Lark maneuvers through the traffic with a focus that's both terrifying and reassuring. I'm grateful for the silence between us; it gives me a chance to gather the shreds of my composure.

The hospital lights are too bright, the corridors too long. We reach the ER, and there he is—my little man, arm in a sling, but his eyes are bright when they find mine. “Mommy!”

I hurry to his side, pulling him into my arms, careful not to jostle his sling. “Win,” I whisper, holding him close. His small arm – the uninjured one - clings to my neck.

“I’m so sorry,” Alisha says, words bursting from her.

“It’s okay,” I say. I know my son is quick, and I know to make sure I include that he has to be watched closely from now on.

“It’s only a sprain, thank goodness.” The doctor pops in, smiling at us as he walks over to my son again. “The radiologist checked for hairline fractures or breaks and didn’t see anything.”

“Thank God,” I whisper, peppering his forehead with kisses, each one filled with fear that much, much worse could have happened. But it didn’t. He’s okay. Win is okay.

“Thanks for being here, Alisha,” I say, grateful that he had someone he knew with him.

“Of course,” she says, her voice filled with guilt. But I’m not upset.

“These things happen,” I say. “And this little man is never still.” I want her to know that everything is fine.

“Let's get you two home,” Lark says, and I hear an odd note in his voice that has my blood running cold in my veins.

“Thank you,” I say, holding my son tight and wondering how I’ll ever let him go now. Relief leaves me lightheaded, or maybe it's the side effect of fear.

“I already grabbed his car seat from my car,” Alisha says, nodding toward the familiar item resting against a nearby chair.

“Let's go then,” Lark says, and I hear something more in his voice—if he hasn’t figured it out, he’s close, for sure. But I don’t have the space for that worry right now. Right now, I need to hold my son, to make sure he’s safe and knows I’m here when he needs me, always.

As we leave the hospital behind, I lean on Lark's strength, feeling oddly secure in his silent presence. We can talk later. Right now, I just need to calm my fears.

*

The door clicks behind us, the familiar sound of home echoing in the huge open space. I carefully place Win on his feet, not letting go until he does. His grip on me tightens, then relaxes as we stand in the living room.

The scent of vanilla lingers in the air, and I inhale, glad to be out of the dry, stale hospital air.

Damon rolls out, checking in on Win, who runs over to give him a one-armed hug and share the news that it’s a sprain and he has to be careful, and the person who took “pictures” – x-rays – of his arm gave him an ice pop.

Damon listens to the animated recount of events, but his gaze shifts to me, then Lark. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Damon says before leaving the room, a calculating look on his face.

“Come sit down, buddy, please,” I say, reaching out to Win. He walks over, his stride long and playful as he swings one arm but keeps the other tucked. When he sits, I fluff the pillows around him.

Lark hovers, his gaze flicking between Win and me, a strange new distance in his eyes.

“Can I get either of you anything?” His voice is low, careful, as if he's walking on broken glass.

“No, we're good, thank you.” I force a smile, but it feels stiff on my lips.

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