Pretty Little Mistake

Laurel steps out of her room, takes one look at me wrapped in a blanket on the couch with tears spilling from my eyes, and goes into defense mode.

“Who hurt you? Was it Beckham? I mean, obviously it has to be, he’s such a jerk. What did he say? Do you have his address? I’ll fuck him up, I swear to God.”

Through my tears, laughter bubbles out of me. “It’s not Beckham.” I take a few breaths, quieting my sobs. “It was a commercial.”

She stares at me, lips parted in shock as she attempts to process my words. “You’re lying here having a meltdown over a commercial?”

“The puppy was so cute.”

And the tears are pouring again. Great.

Laurel takes a terrified step away from me, toward the side table that has a box of tissues. She grabs the whole box, then sets it gingerly in front of me, like I’m a bomb that might detonate at any second.

“The puppy was cute? That brought on all of this?” She waves a hand at me. “Is this like . . . normal?”

I take one of the tissues, drying beneath my eyes. “I think so. Pregnancy hormones are weird.” With a gasp, I sit up, and Laurel rears back in surprise from my sudden movement. “We should get a puppy!”

She starts to laugh. “Len, we’re not getting a puppy.”

Oh no. My eyes start to burn again. “Why not?”

“Because puppies are hard work.”

“So are babies,” I defend, fighting back tears, “but I’m having one of those. Maybe a puppy would be a good thing—you know, like training wheels.”

“I can’t believe you just referred to a puppy as baby training wheels.” Shaking her head, she walks into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of wine and a glass. Ugh, I’m a sobbing mess and I can’t even have a glass of wine with her.

“You don’t get it.”

Holding my blanket tight around me, I get up from the couch and waddle to my room. Waddle, not because I’m that big yet, but because I don’t want to trip over the bottom of the blanket.

After closing my bedroom door behind me, I grab my phone and FaceTime the last person I should probably be bothering.

Surprisingly, he picks right up, his handsome face peering at me through the screen. His forehead is sweaty, his breath heavy over the line.

“Are you working out?” I blurt.

“Yeah.” There’s a beeping sound, and he slows down. “I was running.”

I bite my lip. “I didn’t mean to mess up your workout.”

“It was time for my cooldown anyway,” he says dismissively. “Are you okay?” His eyes narrow on me through the screen. “Have you been crying? Your eyes are red. Is everything okay? The baby—”

“The baby’s fine.” He exhales in relief. “I want a puppy.”

His lips twitch the tiniest bit, like he’s fighting to hold back a smile. He used to smile a lot when we were teens—it would transform his face, soften him. Now he keeps those smiles close, refusing to unleash them. Perhaps that’s a good thing. He might obliterate my heart with a smile alone.

“You didn’t answer my question, honeybee. Once you do that, we’ll circle back to the puppy thing.”

“It was a commercial with the cutest puppy. A little dachshund—”

“I said forget the puppy.”

“But that’s what made me cry.”

He adjusts his AirPods, like he’s not sure he heard me right. “You cried because of a puppy?”

“It was so cute! I think I should get one. I’ve never had a pet. It would be good practice for the baby, right?”

“Do you have time for a puppy right now?”

I frown, not liking that he’s hitting me with logic right now, when I just want him to agree with me. “No, not really.”

He steps off the treadmill. “Then you don’t need a puppy.”

“B-but they’re so cute.”

“And so is Cheddar. You can come over to my place and babysit his cranky ass anytime you want.” He looks a bit surprised at his own proposal. “I mean, only if you want.”

“You’d let me watch your cat?”

“I’m sure he’d love the company.” He grabs a towel, wiping his face. “He loves treats and belly scratches. See, he’s like a puppy already.”

“Can I come over now?”

“Uh . . .” He steps through a door. “Yeah. I guess so. Sure. I just need to shower. Have you had dinner?”

“No,” I admit. I hadn’t even thought about dinner until he mentioned it, but now that he has, I’m starving.

“I’ll order delivery then.”

“Text me your address?”

“Sure.”

“And Beckham?”

“Mmm?” He’s stepping into an elevator now. “What?”

“Thank you.”

He stares back at me through the rectangular screen. “Anything for you.” He swallows thickly, his eyes darting away like he didn’t mean to say that.

He disconnects the call, and I almost expect him not to send me his address, but he does, and then I’m doing the craziest thing of all and slipping out into the night to see him.

No, not him.

The cat.

I’m going to see the cat. Yep, that’s right.

Almost an hour later I’m standing outside Beckham’s lair.

I mean, his apartment.

He swings the door open, and I can’t help but take him in. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling against his forehead. A white T-shirt clings to his chest, hugging every delectable muscle. A pair of loose athletic shorts hangs off his hips. It’s such a dressed-down look for him, and he has no right looking this hot in what I assume are his pajamas. Especially when I’m pregnant with his child and surprisingly horny.

His brows furrow. “Did you just moan?”

“Shut up.” I shove past him and into his apartment. “I smelled food.”

“The food isn’t here yet.” He closes the door. “But nice attempt to save.” He turns to me, crossing his arms over his chest with an infuriating smirk on his lips.

“Well, then someone on your floor is definitely cooking.” I stick my nose haughtily in the air, daring him to contradict me.

“Whatever you say. Do you want a drink?”

“Some water would be great.” He heads into the kitchen, and I follow. “This place is nice.” His apartment appears large by New York City standards, and his kitchen even has a dishwasher. What a luxury.

“Thanks,” he says, just as a scream flies from my throat. A big orange cat jumped onto the counter right beside me, seemingly out of nowhere.

I press a hand to my racing heart. “Where did he come from?”

Beckham points to the top of the fridge before opening it. “He hangs out up there a lot.”

“Oh.” I reach out, scratching the cat behind his ears. “Hi, Cheddar.” He immediately starts to purr. “I can’t believe you actually have a cat.”

Beckham fills a glass with water from a filtered pitcher. “Why wouldn’t you believe I have a cat?”

“I don’t know.” I pet Cheddar’s head. “It just doesn’t seem like you.”

He returns the pitcher to the refrigerator. Leaning his butt against the counter in front of me, he meets my stare. “Why? Because you think I’m an asshole?”

I take a sip of the water, stalling. “I guess. I mean, a pet is a responsibility. It seems like it wouldn’t be something you’d want.”

“That’s where we don’t really know each other. Not anymore.”

I drop my gaze first because he’s right. We’re different people now than who we were before. Who we’ve become is strangers. I don’t know the real Beckham any more than he knows the real me, and what a sad fact that is. We’re going to be raising a child together. Whatever happens, moving forward, we’re in this together in some shape or form.

Finally, I manage to find my voice. “I guess that’s something we should work on.”

I can see the shutters go up behind his eyes. “I don’t think that’s really necessary.”

“How is it not? We’re having a baby together.”

He glowers at me, and I bet right about now he’s regretting inviting me over into his domain. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. “What is it you want to know?”

So many things—why he disappeared from my life after he took my virginity, why he has such a chip on his shoulder, how he really feels about the baby.

“Anything,” I whisper into the air between us. “Anything you want to give me.”

And I mean it. I don’t want to push him too far, too fast. He’s handled my surprise pregnancy well so far and seems to want to be in our child’s life. It wouldn’t be fair to the baby if I pushed their father away, even unintentionally.

“That’s the problem, Lennon.” His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, like he’s steadying himself. “I have nothing to give, and you’d do well to remember that.”

My heart breaks a little—not for me, but for him.

He really thinks he has nothing to offer, that he is nothing.

He has no idea that once upon a time, he was my everything.