Page 46 of The Re-Proposal

“What?”

“You asked for a way.” He gestures grandly. “Here he is. I got you a kid for Christmas.”

7

TRAILER TREASURES

CLARISSA

I'm so tickedoff at Cody that I might have fried some brain cells, but I’m sure I heard that correctly.

Cody has a child?

It’s a gut punch that almost slams me to my knees.

My eyes jump to the teenager in the wheelchair. He looks way older than ten. Which means Cody met and impregnated someone long before we got together. It has nothing to do with me. So why do I feel so massively devastated?

I want to know everything, even if it hurts.

Who did he fall in love with?

When did it happen?

What was her name?

Is that why he didn’t show up to our wedding? Was he fooling around with her even when we were dating?

Maybe I’m an idiot, but the thought of Cody betraying me with another woman is inconceivable. He was so busy with his start-up, he barely had time for me.

Besides, Cody wasn’t… the easiest for girls to flirt with.

Our relationship went down in a pile of burning flames, yes.

He’s a jerk who didn’t show up to our wedding, yes.

But the one thing I can say for sure is that Cody Bolton never entertained other women. They were interested. And willing. And it was the most annoying thing ever to have a boyfriend who was so handsome that girls routinely gave him their number. But he shut them down with the same heartlessness he displayed while critiquing Erica’s brownies.

Cody slants the mustache guy a tight look, grabs his elbow and drags him across the room. They’re out of earshot, but not so far that I can't hear their mutterings.

"What the hell are you talking about, Vargas?" Cody mumbles. “I don’t have a son.”

“Well, it’s more like a foster son.”

“A what?”

“You told me to find a solution. Here it is," Vargas responds. “Trust me on this.”

“I told you to solve my PR problem, not make it worse,” Cody barks.

Relief hits my blood stream like a flood. So this isn’t Cody’s biological son. It’s some kind of gimmick for his business.

My curiosity burns brighter than the asteroid that hit the dinosaurs. I can smell drama. It’s like a thick steam rising to my nostrils, and I can’t resist shuffling toward the men, straining to hear more.

The whisk of a wheelchair grabs my attention.

"Hey."

My gaze drops to the boy. He’s got dark hair and light brown eyes. At first glance, he seems like a normal teenager—albeit in a wheelchair.

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