Sexting the Daddy (Billionaire Baby Daddies #12)

Chapter 1 Lena

LENA

Five years ago

Brandon arrives an hour later than he said he would. He walks in talking into his phone, doesn't acknowledge me, and sets his backpack on my kitchen counter.

His voice is irritated, loud, and completely unaware that I'm standing right in front of him.

This isn't new.

What is new is the part of me that no longer wants to pretend it doesn't bother me.

He ends the call and exhales as if the world has wronged him personally. "Unbelievable," he says, shaking his head. "You have no idea what I deal with."

I nod once because I don't have the energy for the usual guessing game. "Everything okay?"

He pulls out a takeout container. "I picked up dinner for myself. I didn't know if you'd eaten, but you can have some fries if you want."

I look at the container, then at the pot of pasta I made. I spent twenty minutes on it. He didn't notice the smell, the bowls I set out, or the effort. The familiar sting rises in my chest, but I breathe through it. "I made dinner," I say. "I told you earlier."

He shrugs. "You didn't say it like a plan."

I resist the impulse to throw something at him. "I said I was cooking."

"You also say a lot of things you don't follow through on."

I feel my jaw tighten. "Such as?"

He waves a hand. "Let's not start. You're already in a mood."

I cross my arms. "I'm not. I'm trying to have a normal conversation."

He snorts out a laugh. "Normal for you."

I stare at him. "What does that even mean?"

"It means you get worked up over every little thing," he says, like he's reciting a weather report. "You say you're going to try something new, then you bail. You said you'd join me at the gym. That lasted a month."

My stomach drops, because I stopped going to the gym to give myself a break from him.

He made every second in that place feel like an exam I was failing.

If I slowed down, he'd lean in and whisper that it must be "that time of the month again." If I wanted a heavier snack after a workout, he'd say I was "undoing the measly calories" I burned.

He'd watch the treadmill screen and remind me that other women ran twice as long without getting winded.

He treated my body like a problem he had to fix, and when I pushed back, he accused me of being emotional or hormonal, like I couldn't possibly know what I needed.

"Are you serious right now?"

He shrugs again. "I'm just saying. You get sensitive about the stuff you don't want to talk about. Like your… lifestyle choices."

"My what?"

He doesn't look at me when he says it. He reaches for his jacket like we're discussing groceries. "Lena, come on. Don't make me spell it out. You know what I mean."

The air turns sharp, thin. "Say it."

He sighs, long and annoyed, as if I'm the one causing trouble. "You've put on weight. A lot of it. And you act like I'm supposed to pretend it isn't happening."

My breath catches in my throat for a second too long. He keeps going. "You asked. I answered. Don't start crying about honesty now."

"I'm not crying," I say, but my voice shakes.

"Good," he says and checks his phone. The glow lights his face more than I do these days. "Because I'm not the bad guy for noticing things. It's just reality, and anyway, I'm not really up for a deep talk tonight."

I cross my arms in front of my chest and make a last attempt at saying something that could save this. "I didn't ask for a deep talk. I asked for a basic one."

He tosses his phone beside the stove. "I swear, Lena, it's like walking into a test every time I come here. You're always upset about something."

I stare at him. "Brandon, we barely see each other. Of course I want to talk."

"You want to argue," he corrects. "You look for problems. Then you blame me when you find them."

I feel a slow, heavy disappointment settle under my ribs.

Every conversation we have is like this, basically a loop that leads nowhere but frustration. "Last week," I say, "you disappeared for three days. No message. No explanation."

He lets out a loud, exasperated groan. "Here we go again. I needed space."

A warm pulse of anger moves through my chest. "You could have said that," I reply.

He taps the counter twice with his thumb, a habit he has whenever he thinks he's about to deliver some brilliant truth. "You would have made it emotional."

I blink. "You think it's unreasonable for a partner to want to know if you're okay."

"I think you take things personally that aren't personal," he answers. "I'm busy. I have a life outside of you."

The words land with a cold clarity, because they aren't surprising to me anymore.

If anything, I finally believe them. I straighten a little. "Do you want to be in this relationship?"

He sighs like I've inconvenienced him. "Why do you always push things to extremes? Can't we just enjoy what we have without all this pressure?"

"What do we have?" I ask quietly.

He frowns. "I don't get why you're making this into a crisis."

I look at the dinner I made. I look at his takeout. I look at the backpack he never unpacks when he stays over because he never plans to.

I look at the pattern in front of me and realize I'm done pretending the pattern is fine. "Brandon," I say, "you don't treat me like I matter."

He laughs under his breath. "You're being dramatic."

I shake my head. "No. I'm being honest."

He picks up his container again. "You know what your issue is? You expect too much from people. That's why your last relationship failed too. You smother."

Something inside me goes very still, the way water settles right before it starts to boil.

The heat is there, building under my ribs, but it holds itself in place instead of spilling over.

I feel my pulse climb into my throat, steady and hot, and a tight pressure forms behind my eyes. "That's unfair," I say. "And unkind."

He shrugs. "At least I'm real with you."

I nod slowly. "Alright."

He looks confused. "Alright what?"

"I'm done."

He laughs again, louder this time, like I've told a cute joke. "Sure, you are."

"I am," I say. "I can't keep doing this. I can't keep trying to convince someone to care."

The laugh fades. "You're overreacting."

"I'm choosing myself."

He shakes his head. "You're going to regret it."

"No," I say quietly. "I'm already relieved."

He stares at me for a long second. "Fine. If you want to be alone, be alone."

He grabs his bag and walks toward the door. He doesn't look back, ask if I'm sure, or if I'm even okay.

Somehow, that confirms everything I needed to know.

When the door clicks shut behind him, the apartment feels different. It's empty, but it's also all mine. I breathe out. My shoulders loosen, and my chest feels lighter.

The relief lasts all of twenty minutes.

Then my phone buzzes with a reminder about Dad's birthday dinner, and my stomach drops. I promised I'd show up early to help set up.

I love him, but walking into a crowded room less than twenty-four hours after ending a relationship feels like a punishment from the universe.

I pace my kitchen once, twice, trying to gather myself. I picture the noise, the hugs, the questions, the well-meaning comments about my age or my job or whether I'm seeing someone.

I picture Brandon's empty expression from earlier, and my nerves spike in a sharp, unpleasant jolt.

I grab the counter to steady myself. "It's fine," I whisper. "You're fine."

Except I don't feel fine. I feel exposed, like if anyone so much as asks me how I'm doing, I'll either cry or throw a fork.

Neither option is ideal for a birthday gathering.

I take another breath and try to summon the part of myself that can fake normal.

Then, completely uninvited, a memory surfaces, one of Dad's old photos of his service buddies. A group of men in uniform, smiling in the sun.

My eyes had lingered on one face even when I was younger. Strong jaw, steady stare, a kind of sexy confidence that didn't ask for attention but got it anyway.

Gabe Holt.

I press my palm to my cheek, startled by the heat there. I don't know why he comes to mind. Maybe because he always looked composed, or because looking at that photo made me feel something I didn't have language for back then, or because he was the first man I ever crushed on.

Frankly, part of me wishes someone like him would walk into my life right now and tell me I didn't waste my twenties on men who never saw me.

The thought is embarrassing, but it makes me smile just enough to move.

I pull on a floral dress I haven't reached for in a while and tell myself it's about comfort. That's not the truth, and I know it.

The fabric sits right on my body, close enough to feel intentional.

I fix my hair, take my time with mascara, and lace my sandals without rushing.

I look at myself in the mirror and recognize her. She's put together on purpose. She likes how she looks. She's not armoring up or making excuses.

I grab my purse, take a long breath, lock the door behind me, and head to Dad's.

When I get there, the noise is loud enough that I can feel the floorboards vibrate under my sandals.

His birthday parties always sound like someone dropped a microphone into a barrel full of yelling uncles.

Old friends crowd the living room with red cheeks and loud voices. Beer bottles clink against tabletops.

Someone accidentally elbows the light switch and plunges half the room into dim chaos before turning it back on again.

Classic Carter gathering.

Moving through the bodies with a tray of snacks, I try not to drop anything.

I'm twenty-three, which is an age where I should feel young and glowing and full of promise. Instead, I feel like one giant exposed nerve with fresh breakup energy.

My ex left me with a long list of insecurities and a short list of reasons to trust anyone.

The dress doesn't help.

The confidence I felt earlier is gone, and my brain keeps whispering that I look soft in the wrong places and not soft in the right ones. I tell the brain to shut up, but she keeps talking.

Dad circles through the crowd like a politician who forgot his own platform.