Chapter 3
DEXTER
DAYS LATER. MID-LATE JULY.
Her proposal hasn’t left my thoughts.
I’m not exactly a family man. I’m the opposite. Fathering a baby has always been the furthest thing from my mind, until Holly dropped the baby bomb on me.
During the trip, we talk more than we ever have. Morning texts, midday check-ins, late-night calls.
It’s different now. She doesn’t tease me about living off caffeine and to-do lists. I don’t remind her that toast doesn’t count as cooking. This isn’t the usual back-and-forth we’ve coasted on for years.
Some nights, she rambles just to fill the silence.
Other nights, I let her, because it keeps me from saying something I can’t take back. When I make the call, it’ll be the right one.
But one thing’s clear. She’s all in.
Meanwhile, I lie there in the dark, every damn alarm in me blaring.
Tonight, she’s halfway through a story about her sister’s kids when a yawn slips out.
“Go to bed, Holly,” I tell her.
Her voice comes back soft and sleepy. “Not until you tell me how you’re feeling about it.”
She’s not pushing, she’s just trying to let me in, cracking the door and waiting to see if I’ll walk through it.
I’m still turning it over, even though I knew where I stood the second she asked.
“You understand what you’re asking, yeah? Because I don’t do halfway,” I say finally. “And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t scare me. I’m scared as hell, Holly.”
She gets quiet after that. Not awkward, not upset, just... thoughtful.
Then, so faint I almost miss it, “Me too.”
We just sit with it, miles apart, phones to our ears, letting the thought of this whole thing hang in the air between us.
I’m upstate with some of my team, touring sites for an account I want.
This one is big. Big enough to change the firm’s direction once we land it.
Holly hums, satisfied enough to let it go, and within half a minute her breathing evens out.
“But a little version of me and you running around?” I pause, lips twitching. “Could be worse.”
No reaction. She’s out.
I stay flat on my back, listening to her even breathing, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell I went from running a billion-dollar company to maybe raising a kid with my best friend.
It’s a hell of a leap.
Feels impossible. Feels inevitable.
I still owe her my answer.
My last relationship ended with the woman I was seeing saying I was “married to my damn job.” She wasn’t wrong.
I’ve never pretended I leave much space for anything outside work.
And yeah, women have walked when they got tired of coming in second to the office.
I didn’t stop them. It wouldn’t have been fair.
No woman I’ve ever been with has grounded me the way Holly does. Not one.
So if it means sleeping with my best friend so she can have a baby? I’ll do it. Gladly. (After the tests. I’m not about to roll the dice with her future. Or mine.)
When I told her I don’t want her doing this alone, I meant it. Like Holly, I was raised by a single parent. My dad did a damn good job. He wasn’t around nearly long enough, but the time we had, he made count.
And now, I’d do the same. For Holly. For our kid.
The next morning, I step out of the elevator and make for the hotel café.
I order a double espresso and take a seat in the corner.
I’m early. The others will meet me here before we head out again.
The prospective client wants us at a private walk-through with a few of their decision-makers. Not something they offer to every firm.
For now, I have a few quiet minutes to myself.
I pull out my phone. The screen lights up with my lock screen.
Me, about eight, standing next to my dad outside the bike shop.
I’m grinning like a fool, one tooth missing, hands clamped on the handlebars of a black Raleigh we’d picked out together.
He’s got his worn green cap pulled low, one hand on my shoulder, the other steadying the seat.
That bike had cost me a whole summer of yard work.
Pulling weeds, compost trips, watering plants, hauling bags of soil in and out of his truck.
By sundown, I’d be covered in grass from the knees down.
Even now, I can feel it sticking. Can’t think about that summer without feeling the itch.
He told me we’d split the cost, but I knew damn well he paid more than half. Didn’t matter. Back then, I felt like I’d earned it.
Some memories don’t wash off. Not the sound of him laughing when I almost plowed straight into the mailbox, the warm, relieved kind of laugh Dad always let out when his only kid dodged a trip to the ER.
Not the way he told me to quit looking at the ground and keep my eyes forward.
Not that damn sunburn on the back of my neck, the sting of sweat in my eyes, and the way his hand tightened on my shoulder before I finally pedaled off on my own.
Or the way his old cap kept slipping down over his eyes until it finally fell off while he ran beside me, yelling that I had it.
One of the best days of my life. And not the only one he gave me.
My thumb hovers for a second. Then I hit Call.
She picks up on the first ring.
“Dexter?” Her voice is breathless, as if she’s been waiting by the phone. “Did you decide? Are you going to be my baby daddy?”
Right to the point, no warm-up. So much for easing into the conversation. She must have sensed I’d made up my mind.
“Yeah. I can do that.”
There’s silence.
“W–what?” she whispers.
“I’m in,” I say, solid. “All in.”
“Really?”
“Really. Say the word, and it’s done. But don’t expect me to back off after.”
She blows out a breath, followed by clapping and a full-blown cheer—and abruptly cuts it off. “Wait, there’s just one rule. No…two rules.”
“Now you have rules? Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“I told you. I didn’t think you’d say yes.”
“All right. Hit me.”
“First, no kissing. It’s going to be weird enough having sex with my friend. Kissing would just complicate things.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m one hell of a kisser,” I rumble.
“Sure you are. Every guy thinks he is. No offense, but… you have dimples. Every woman knows that men with dimples can’t kiss.”
“The hell kind of logic is that?” She’s brought this up before. It still makes no sense to me.
“It’s a thing. Ask around. Thanks, but no thanks.”
“You gonna be this bitchy when you’re pregnant?”
“Dexter!”
The waiter sets a double espresso down beside me, trying and failing to hide his smirk. I nod a quick thanks.
“What’s the second ‘rule’?” She can’t see it, but I know she hears the air quotes loud and clear.
“We can discuss details later,” she says, “but the second rule is this: you don’t try to control me or my life. I’m not doing relationships anymore. No strings. No attachments. I always end up with control freaks. Like Dean. It never works out.”
“Holly, you do realize I am a control freak.”
“Yeah, but you’re my control freak. And nothing romantic is ever going to happen between us, ever. I’m done with heartbreak. I need a reset, a clean start. And now, with the kindergarten actually happening, it’s the perfect opportunity. You can fly in when I deliver the baby. In England.”
I say nothing, still not loving the idea of her leaving.
“I know we’re both adults,” she goes on. “And we’re not in love. We never will be, and that’s a good thing. Most couples fall out of love and end up hating each other. Kids get stuck in the fallout. I’ve told you what my nephews and niece are going through. You know how bad it’s been.”
I do.
She doesn’t want love, doesn’t believe it lasts. Old news. Fair enough.
It doesn’t change a thing. I’m still in.
I hear her pour something. “Here’s to modern times,” she says before I can respond. “Apple juice will have to do. You got a drink?”
“I do.”
“Chin-chin!” Her voice is happier than I’ve heard in a while.
I raise my cup and take a sip, mentally clinking it against hers.
We drink to having a baby.
Verbally, I never agree to her conditions. Because here’s the thing: I don’t just nod and play along. Not in business, not in life.
And definitely not when it comes to my kid.
There are too many variables to consider, and I’m not one to sign on the dotted line until I’ve observed the deal from all angles.
She wants modern? Fine.
But I’m not here as just the donor. I’ll be the damn father.
And I don’t backseat parent.