Page 19 of Who's Your Daddy
“Lo?” That single syllable is more of a growl.
I cringe. “Talk to your husband tonight when T.J. calls. Please. Because Murphy is an adorable six-year-old boy who is most definitely Cal’s son, which makes him your family.”
“Not my family. I’m getting a divorce.”
That might be true, but the slight crack in her voice every time she says the D word leaves me doubting that it’s actually what she wants. The last thing she wants is to speak to Sully. I get that. However, I do not want to be the one to break the news about the trust and its requirements.
“Call your husband.”
Chapter 7
Cal
“Remember, your babies need extra spritzing in the afternoons so they can stand tall and make you proud.”
I adjust my grip on the bottle, ensuring the hold mimics that of the man on the video. Then I point it toward my plant.
When he squeezes, the water comes out in a fine mist. This is a technique that helps keep them damp, not wet. Everyone knows that a plant will die without enough water. But apparently, too much water can kill them too. No plants are dying under my watch, so I’m determined to get this right.
“Why are you standing like that?”
The little voice startles me. I hadn’t realized he walked into my bedroom.
I scream and inadvertently squeeze too hard, sending the bottle flying behind me through the air. I whip around just in time to watch, horrified, as it hits my brother, who is standing in the open doorway, square in the chest.
With a glare, Sully picks up the water bottle and disappears with it, leaving me alone with the pint-sized intruder who scared me in the first place. He tilts his head and studies me like I’m an exhibit at thezoo.
“Ah, I was just watering the plants.” Side-eyeing the computer screen, I slam it shut. I can feel Peter the plant guy’s disapproval. He thinks I’m going to kill this plant. But with one more glance at Murphy, I know that’s not an option. “Are you hungry?”
He shakes his head. “Brian’s making dinner.”
Hands in my pockets, I rock on my feet, willing the nerves skittering through me to settle. This is the first night we’re all in the flat, and more importantly, the first time I’ve spent more than a few minutes with my son.
My son.
It’s such a weird word.
I mouth it, rounding out my lips. Son. Sonnnn.
“Are you meditating?”
I blink at the little lad. “Do you like to meditate?”
Frowning at me like I’m an idiot, he turns and walks out of the room.
Yup. He’s a Murphy. Just like my father and Sully, he’s exasperated by me.
My phone buzzes on top of my dresser, pulling my attention away from his retreating form. I don’t even have to move to snag it. There isn’t much to my room. If I stretched both arms out and did one of those eighties work out routines like the ladies in the tight trousers with high socks do—the one where they rock from side to side—I’d hit the walls without much effort at all. And I don’t even have unreasonably long arms. Sully? That’s a different story. Though everything about my brother is unreasonable.
The beige walls of my room have yellowed. The dark wood trim around the window where my plant is perched is scuffed and faded from the sun. The drab interior paired with a single bed with one pillow makes it feel sort of like a prison cell.
Maybe I’m being dramatic.
Maybe not. There isn’t even a television in the flat, thanks to the language my father included in the trust that prohibits them.
What the hell did he have against televisions?
It should make for an interesting time for Murphy, I guess. And we can watch movies on my phone. Maybe I’ll get him an iPad.
