Page 76 of Crazy Imperfect Hearts

I shrug, devil be damned. “It makes sense. Think of how easy it would be for me to see the baby. How convenient it would be for you if you had to run out for something. I’d be right here.”

“It wouldn’t be convenient at all,” she says. “My shop is five miles away.”

I decide not to press the point. It may be moot anyway. “No decisions have to be made now. Stay at your place if you want. I just wanted to put the idea out there.”

She says nothing, but I don’t miss how she gives my closet another thorough look. A longing look.

I try not to laugh thinking the woman’s love of clothes might be the one thing that works in my favor.

She goes back into the bedroom and finishes dressing. “Mind if I return your sweatshirt later? I’ll clean it for you. I’m sure my clothes are still wet.”

“Keep it. I have an unlimited supply.”

Her eyes scrunch together. “What would I do with a Montana Winery sweatshirt?”

“I don’t know. Use it on laundry day.”

Her dimples make an appearance, and her laughter hits me in all the right places—or wrong ones.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just something Rose Gianogi said earlier.” She stands, shoes on. “Ready to take me home? It’s dark enough now that you might even be able to drop me off in the alley.”

“Sure.” I throw on a shirt and shoes and grab my wallet and keys. “I’ll bring the car around back.”

“Thanks.” She smiles. “Same time tomorrow night? I think five nights in a row would be ideal.”

The devil on my shoulder almost has me nodding. But the other one, the angel that controls my sense of compassion, has me spouting a lie. “Actually, I’ll be out of town. Last minute trip. Just for two days.”

Two days should get me off the hook, right?

I’m doing the right thing. If she’s not pregnant, I’ll come clean and the whole deal will be off.

She looks sad for a second. But the pathetic part, the part my heart hates right now, is that I know she’s not sad she won’t get to be withme—Lucas the man. She’s sad she won’t get my goddamn sperm.

I spin and leave the room, knowing just how much of a bitch karma can be.

Chapter Twenty-five

Regan

Washed and dried, I fold the Montana Winery sweatshirt and tuck it away in one of my dressers. I stand in the center of my second bedroom-slash-closet and turn slowly. I am going to miss this. I momentarily allow myself to wonder what it would be like to live in Lucas’s building, have a larger apartment, and a closet similar to his.

The thoughts have me immediately feeling guilty. Like I’d be benefiting from the child support. I don’t have an issue with him paying for things baby-related, but his money being used to paymyrent—that seems a step too far even if he did give his blessing.

Besides, would I really want to leave this place? Sure, it’s old. It needs to be painted. The kitchen appliances could use updating. And the bathroom is small. But it’s mine. Or it will be as soon as I pay off the mortgage.

When my parents handed down the business to me, they owned it completely, along with the apartment. Since Ryder didn’t want to run the business, they liquidated half the equity, gave it to him in cash, then signed the shop and its mortgage over to me. They called it our inheritance and told us to expect nothing further when they eventually died, as they planned to spend their retirement savings living out the rest of their days in Florida.

Even though the shops along McQuaid Circle are all connected in one long building, like mine, they are individually owned, not leased from large corporations. A few years back, McQuaid Enterprises, owners of many businesses and properties in Calloway Creek, tried to buy out the businesseson The Circle and then lease them back to the owners. We all banded together to prevent the buyout. Rather successfully, too. As of today, the only part of McQuaid Circle owned by the actual McQuaids is Lloyd’s Steakhouse around the corner.

I run my hand across the decades-old wallpaper in the room, wondering if I should go ahead and strip it now in preparation for painting. I picture the room in shades of pink or blue and try to figure out which one I’d like best.

In trying to imagine a color for the walls, I know what I’m really asking. Would I want a boy or a girl?

I thought I really wanted a boy. The name Mitchell Montana swirls through my head. But if I’m being honest, and I know it’s cliché, at this point, with me being the age I am, I’d be happy with either.

I turn and leave the room, deciding that stripping the wallpaper would be tempting fate. I’m already having to go with one less try than I’d hoped because of Lucas’s last-minute business trip.

---