Page 142 of Daddies on Ice
“The baby, Trisha. I’ve had three days to think about it, and I need you to know something.”
She’s holding her breath, waiting.
“I’m happy about it. About the baby.” The words come out rougher than I intended, thick with emotion I didn’t expect. “I know the timing isn’t ideal, and I know the situation is complicated with Jake and Ash, but…”
I lean forward, needing her to understand.
“It doesn’t matter to me who the biological father is. What matters is that you’re carrying a child, and I want to be part of that child’s life. I want to help raise him or her, to be there for every milestone, every scraped knee, every bedtime story.”
Her lips part in surprise and her tears threaten to spill over.
53
JAKE
Four days. Four fucking days since Tish dropped the pregnancy bomb, and I’ve been acting like a complete coward.
The word “pregnant” hit me like a slapshot to the gut, and instead of manning up I bolted. Not physically, I’m not that much of an asshole, but emotionally?
Yeah, I checked out faster than a puck flying into the net.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror of some dive bar downtown, water dripping from my hands as I grip the porcelain sink.
My green eyes look bloodshot, and there are dark circles underneath that make me look like I’ve been checked into the boards repeatedly. Which, honestly, is how I feel.
“Get your shit together, Sorenson,” I mutter to myself.
The past few nights have been a blur of clubs, loud music, and desperate attempts to feel normal again.
To feel like the old Jake, the playboy who could charm any woman into his bed without a second thought.
But every time some blonde or brunette pressed against me on the dance floor, all I could see was Tish’s face.
Those exotic, almond-shaped dark blue eyes that seem to see straight through my bullshit. The way her long black hair with those maroon highlights catches the light. The curve of her hips, the softness of her skin.
I tried. God, I tried to be the man I used to be. Last night, this gorgeous redhead practically threw herself at me, whispering all the dirty things she wanted to do.
My body should have responded. Hell, three months ago it would have. But nothing. Not even a flicker of interest. Because she wasn’t Tish.
The realization hits me like a freight train, just like it has every night this week. I’m in love with her.
Not just attracted to her, not just enjoying the incredible sex we’ve been having with Carl and Ash.
I’m head over heels, completely gone for Trisha Johnston.
And she’s carrying my baby. Or Carl’s. Or Ash’s.
The thought should terrify me. A few days ago, it did. I’ve spent years avoiding commitment, avoiding anything that looked remotely like settling down.
After what Lillian did to me—fucking my groomsman in the church pews on our wedding day—I swore I’d never let another woman get that close. Never let anyone have that kind of power over me again.
But Tish already does. She’s had it for weeks now, and I’ve been too stubborn and scared to admit it.
I splash more cold water on my face and really look at myself. I am excited, if I dig down and stop letting fear get to me.
The more I think about it, the more I can picture it. Tish with a rounded belly, glowing with pregnancy.
Teaching a little boy or girl how to skate. Watching them take their first steps, say their first words.
