Page 24 of Upshot

“Do you have the Dallas properties settled yet?”

“I’m not in Dallas. I’m in a little town called Dansboro Crossing. But that’s not important. There’s something I need to tell you. Both of you.”

“Then spit it out,” Dad snaps. This feels like I’m being asked if I have any last words before the firing squad finishes its job.

“Remember a couple of months ago, I went to the real estate conference in Arizona?” I can hear my father sigh like I’m wasting his precious time. “Anyway, I met someone while I was there.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Dad grumbles.

“She’s expecting.” I wait as the phone goes silent. “We’re having a baby.” Nothing. I’m not sure if I should wait them out, say something, or hang up. None of my options seem like a safe one.

“How much does she want?” Dad finally spits out.

“She hasn’t asked for anything.”

“She will. Then we’ll have to pay some exorbitant settlement. Hope she was worth it.” The line goes dead. I let my phone clatter to the floor. I’m thirty-two years old. I now feel like I’m twelve.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. My father has always treated Geneva and me like liabilities that drain his resources. I’m sure he’s already on the phone with our attorneys. Joseph Randolph believes there are always ulterior motives to everyone’s actions. And it always involves money. At least this night can’t get any worse.

The front door crashes open without preamble. I look up to find Brontë standing just inside with her arms crossed in front of her. It just got worse. Does she realize that pose makes her tits look even more inviting? I think I’ll just let that observation go, since she’s trying to burn a hole in my skull with her eyes.

“What the hell, Rand?” she asks.

“I was going to tell you.” I was. I swear. Eventually.

“Instead, I have to hear from the local gossip that the infamous baby daddy decided, on a whim, to buy a house in town. Everyone thinks it's ‘so romantic,’” she says with an impressive eye roll. “I’ve had to act like I know what the hell they’re talking about so I don’t look like more of an idiot than I already am.”

“Brontë—”

“Shut up,” she snaps. I’ve slowly stood back up in case I need to make a hasty exit. Now, I’m just standing numbly against the wall with my half-empty beer in my hand. She looks around the living room and then, with a sigh, shrugs her shoulders. “Well, are you going to give me a tour?”’

“Sure. Of course.” I look around for somewhere to set my beer, but the counters are all ripped out of the kitchen. “Umm, well, this is the kitchen. It looks pretty stark right now, but Peter is drawing up a new plan for it. It’ll have new counters, fixtures, cabinets, and appliances.” She walks around, nodding her head.

“I’m thinking about blowing out this wall,” I continue, patting on one of the non-load-bearing walls that separates the kitchen from the dining room.

“I would. You can take out part of this other one. That would enlarge your workspace, make room for a bar, and still screen the appliances from the living room,” she adds.

“That’s a really good idea. I’ll throw it past Peter. There’s also an old parlor off the entryway I can turn into my office and a butler’s pantry that would make a decent half bath.” I watch her walk to the parlor door and peer inside.

“I just finished sanding the floors. We ripped out all the old carpet.” Her gaze flicks to mine, which makes my mind go blank. Even in a pair of sweatpants, ratty T-shirt, and tennis shoes, she’s stunning. “They’re pecan.”

“So, what is your game with all of this?” she asks.

“My game?” I’m not stupid. I know what she’s asking. I just need time to come up with a plausible answer.

“Don’t be obtuse.” Damn. Okay. That’s twice I’ve been called that now.

“I don’t have a game, Brontë. Like I said, I don’t want a nasty custody battle. I can work anywhere, and it seemed best to be nearby so our kid can have both of us in the same place.”

She stares at me for what feels like hours. Her eyes narrow, then widen, then narrow again. She gazes around the living room once more before speaking.

“Well, that seems very… mature. And selfless.” Her finger traces a piece of the original woodwork around the door. “I always liked this house.” So move in with me. I know it’s too soon, but it’s right there on the tip of my tongue. “Okay, pick me up at nine if you still want to go to the doctor with me.”

“I’ll be there.”

She nods once. Then, just as fast as she blew in, she’s gone. The door closes behind her.

“Well that was great,” I mumble. I finish the warm beer in a couple of swallows and toss the bottle into the trash barrel in the kitchen. I need a shower.

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