Page 39 of Irresistibly Risky

“Shhh,” she admonishes, standing against the table next to me, her body so close I can smell her shampoo. Her skin. “I’m trying to listen to your heart.”

“Is it beating out your name?”

She rolls her eyes, but I catch her lips twitching. She slides the thing all around my chest and then moves it to my back. “Deep breaths.”

I start sucking in deep breaths as she listens to my lungs, and when she’s done with my back, she's in front of me again, putting the stethoscope right below my collarbone. After she’s done with that, I snatch the diaphragm up and bring it to my lips.

“Move in with me,” I whisper into it, so I don’t blow out her ears. She pauses, staring into my eyes, and I see Coach in hers even more now when we’re this close. “How’s my son this morning?”

She smiles, despite herself. “Good. He ate two scrambled eggs and some strawberries and then watched a signing video with me before I had to leave.”

I frown. “Signing? Is he hearing impaired?”

She removes the stethoscope from her ears and drapes it around her neck. “Yes. It’s a minor deficit, something they’re watching closely, but they told me it could get worse, or that he could require hearing aids when he’s older, or that his speech might be delayed or altered. Considering he said ‘mama’ on Friday, I’m not so sure about all that. Anyway, signing helps him communicate things he can’t yet say, like milk or cereal or more or all done. It helps to alleviate some frustrations and tantrums children might have from not being able to express what they want, and since he does have this impairment, I figured it was good for him all around.”

I have so many things to learn about him. So many things I don’t yet know. “I’ve already missed so much, and he’s only ten months old. What’s the sign for Daddy?”

With her eyes on me, she spreads the fingers on her hand wide and then brings her thumb to her forehead and bounces it twice.

I mimic the motion. “Can I do that with him? Please?” I tack on.

She audibly gulps, biting into her lip, but nods.

I capture some of her hair and tuck it behind her ears. “You have very green eyes, Wynter Hathaway. They’re beautiful on you, but also familiar. Like I’ve seen very similar ones before.”

She freezes, her eyes rounding and her lips parting as she sucks in a breath. Her gaze flickers between my eyes, trying to read what she suspects I’m intimating.

“Did he tell you?” she finally asks when she’s weeded out the answer.

“No. He defended you rather aggressively when a player made an inappropriate comment about how hot you are. My center asked what that was all about, and in doing so, asked if you were with him. My first reaction was to kill my coach, but then I made what I thought was an off-hand comment about how he’s old enough to be your father. And it hit me.”

She looks away, her arms crossing over her body. “Gary Hathaway is my father.”

“But not biologically. Right?”

“I don’t want to talk about Joe.”

I cup her jaw and turn it back until she’s looking at me. “Does he know about Mason?”

She licks her lips and shakes her head in my hand. “No. At least I don’t think so.”

“I’m getting the impression that’s how you’d like to keep it?” I check.

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want to tell me why?”

“No. Not right now.”

“Did he hurt you, Wynter?” My tone comes out harder, more demanding than I intend, but the idea of him being abusive, whether physically, verbally, or emotionally, makes me want to do everything I can to protect both her and my son from him—by any means necessary.

“Not in the way you think,” she says quickly, clearly reading me. “All you need to know is that I don’t consider him my father, and I don’t want anything to do with him.”

“You hate football players.” It’s all coming together now.

“I hate football players,” she parrots.

I absorb that for a moment, knowing she doesn’t fully trust me yet with herself, but also knowing we’ll get there, and then nod. “Okay. When do I have surgery?”

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