Page 70 of Silver Fox's Secret Baby

“You want to know what’s even better than that?”

“What?”

Gillian stops. Her face is hardened. Determined. “Knowing I won’t ever do to her what our mom did to us. Ever.”

I feel my heart sink. It hadn’t even crossed my mind, the thought of doing what our mom did. But what if that’s somehow ingrained in us? “How can you be sure?”

Her eyes dart to me. “Because I will never care about myself more than Stella. Ever.”

My baby is not yet big enough to move around, but there is a phantom motion in my body, my baby is already so real to me that I can feel them. I already feel what Gillian feels.

“Gilly?”

“What, Harl?”

“Would you come on my podcast?”

Gillian leaps away from me, hands to her face. “Seriously?”

I laugh. I’ve never had my sisters on the show for fear of familiarity bungling the integrity of the interview. I think it’s time I start. “Sure. You can bring Lola too if you want.”

“Harley!” she squeals and throws her arms around me, squeezing me so tight I actually start to worry for my tiny baby. “You have no idea how much that would mean to me!”

I hug her back, and for a moment, the drama melts away. I push my face into my sister’s hair, smell the lavender essential oil she dabs behind her ears, and I feel small again.

Gosh, things felt so much easier when I was small.

Now, I’m a grown woman who was abandoned by her mother, brokenhearted in Australia, and having a baby all by herself.

It’s impossible for the baby to cross my mind without Grant crossing it too. He’s given me this joy. And I wish I could share that joy with him. He’d make an amazing father. I really believe that. I know it can never be. Especially not now.

Even though I set the boundary with him at the studio only a few days ago…I wish he’d cross it just one more time.

I might just give in to him.

22

GRANT

Malcolm Jenkins. In the flesh. He looks likeThe Picture of Dorian Grey.Last I saw him, he made me jealous with his good looks. Now, we’re ten years older. And he looks it.

When he walks into the conference room, I’m stunned to see that my old friend (ex-friend) doesn’t look at all like he once did. Sure, we’ve both gotten older, but I like to think I don’t look a day over thirty-nine, thank you very much.

Not only has he gained a bit of weight around the middle, but his jowls are starting to hang down. I believe he’s gotten Botox from how little his forehead moves. Or maybe he just genuinely has no emotions in that big head of his.

More noticeable than anything is how ill-fitting his suit is.

The old Malcolm Jenkins would never be caught dead in a suit even slightly tight on him. It’s obvious, however, from how he moves his arms and legs, that the suit is from a time long gone.

Which begs the question: does he not have money for a new suit? Could this be why he’s coming for me? That he’s run out of money?

I can’t imagine all of his investments have fallen through or that he could have possibly burned through all the money he’s made over the years. Maybe Aileen could, though.

I stand up from the spot between my lawyers.Keep it cordial, Grant.“Malcolm,” I greet him, taking a step toward him and holding out my hand. “Good to see you.”

I’ve never noticed how insidious he looks when he smiles. He takes my hand. His palm is clammy. “Old friend. You look well.”

Wish I could say the same.

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