Page 49 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

“So?” he challenges. Apparently, he’s not done with this conversation.

Lovely.

“So, I’m not allowed to fill out the father’s name on the birth certificate without him signing an AOP.”

“What’s an AOP?”

“It’s basically a form the dad fills out acknowledging he’s the father of the baby. I think it stands for Acknowledgement of Paternity or something? Now, can I have the pen, please?”

I lift my hand, palm-side up, and wait for him to return it, but the bastard ignores me and gets to his feet.

“Where is it?” he demands.

“Where’s what?”

“The form.”

I grab his arm and tug him back down. “You don’t have to––”

“Why not?”

“I-I don’t know. Using your last name is one thing, but…” My voice trails off as my heart rate spikes. I’ve already Googled this. So much so, in fact, I know exactly the kind of repercussions which will ensue if I put his name on the stupid line and he winds upnotbeing the father after a paternity test is performed. I already know the odds of that possibility. And no matter how much wishing or praying I do, those odds aren’t one hundred percent, meaning I should leave the damn line blank.

“But, what?” Milo growls, his eyes flinty and sharp. “Using my last name is one thing, but having my name listed as the father is too much?”

“I don’t know?” I lie. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re rushing into anything.”

He flinches back. “Rushing into what?”

Shit.

“I-I don’t know?” I wave my arms around. “I meant rushing into parenthood, in general.”

“Since I’m her father, shouldn’t my name be on her birth certificate, Mads?” he challenges, though it doesn’t make me feel any less small. Nope. Right now, I feel like a freaking ant. One who is seconds from being squashed under his boot. And the worst part? If I did get smushed, I’d deserve it.

“Well, yes, of course, if it’s what you want, but…I-I don’t know?” I stutter.

“You don’t know what? Whether or not I’m the father?”

“No, I know that part,” I rush out. “I-it’s a big responsibility for you. I don’t want you to feel pressured––”

“Do you not want my name on the birth certificate?”

“It’s not––”

“Then, what is it?”

“I-I don’t know,” I lie again.

Maybe because you might not be the father, and if the truth ever comes out that I’m not one hundred percent positive you’re Penny’s blood, you’ll disown her and hate me even more than you already do.

I think I’m going to be sick.

“You know what? We should go,” I mutter, setting the clipboard on the empty chair next to mine.

He grabs my arm and keeps me in place. “What are you hiding from me?”

“I’m not––”

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