Page 61 of End Game
“I am going to decimate him.”
Avoiding eye contact and scooting to the furthest edge of the bar, I connect the golden sparkles in the granite with my finger. “What if I told you it wasn’t Callum’s?”
The energy radiating off him changes. Instead of lightening, like I hope, it turns darker. Heavier. More foreboding.
“That would be interesting,” he says calmly. Too, too calmly.
“Yeah.”
“Whose is it, Layla?”
The lines I’m drawing on the counter start to incorporate the chocolate-colored flecks, the butterscotch, and the cream. I loopmore and more of them together knowing damn good and well that within the next few minutes, he’s going to have a coronary.
“Lay?”
“Branch’s.”
I don’t even get both syllables out before his fists slam on the counter. “What the fuck did you say?”
“Finn . . .”
“No,” he rumbles, glaring at me. “You didn’t say my name. Whose baby are you pregnant with, Layla?”
“Branch’s.”
“That motherfucker.”
“Listen,” I say, hearing the plea in my tone, “stop. There’s nothing that being mad is going to fix.”
“Good thing I’m not mad then, isn’t it?” he says, his jaw flexing. “I’m so, so far beyond mad. I’m livid.”
With movements so calculated it sends chills down my spine, I watch him get to his feet. My palm rests flat against the cool stone as I watch my brother watch me.
“Have you told him?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He nods, like his own little lines are connecting. Still, he is not amused. “What did he say?”
I’m not prepared for this question and the extra pause I take is all Finn needs to turn red. He stares me down, pressures me to talk when I don’t know the best thing to say.
“He was surprised,” I shrug as casually as I can. “I don’t need him, Finn. I can raise a baby on my own.”
“First, you’ll never have to raise a baby on your own. You know that. You have me. Mom. Dad. Poppy. Second, if that son of a bitch doesn’t support you, I’ll ensure he never has more kids. I’ll rip his balls right off his body and feed them to him.”
“I don’t want that,” I sigh. “I don’t. I’d rather him just ignore it altogether if he doesn’t want a part of it.”
“You can’t opt out of being a part of your kid’s life!”
“He didn’t ask for this.”
“And you did? And you’re defending him?” he scoffs. “What the hell has gotten into you?”
Considering this question, I don’t know the answer. What I do know is the little ball of peace that’s settled in my soul is welcome to stick around. I also know I mean what I’m saying.
“I’m not defending him, Finn. Not at all. But will you look at me? I’m capable of raising a child on my own if I have to, and I’d rather do that than have someone not want it or make my life hell. It’s done. I’m pregnant. Now I have to make the best of it for my child, not for me, and damn it if that doesn’t sound like the weirdest thing I’ve ever said.”
Sucking in a breath, I pour over the words that just tumbled from my lips.
