Better Daddy (Dadcoms #2)

1. Sloane

Sloane

N o, no, no. Not this one too.

I blow out a breath, sending the curly wisps from my fancy updo fluttering, and growl.

I styled my hair this morning, and now I’m regretting my choice, wishing I’d pulled it back in a simple ponytail to keep it out of my face.

Maybe then these stray hairs wouldn’t be sticking to my sweaty cheeks.

Because yeah, now I’m sweaty on top of everything else.

Today, for the first time in seven long years, I’m supposed to be in court. For seven years I’ve been deprived of doing the one thing I love most about law. Arguing. God, I was good at it. For the last few years the only practice I’ve had arguing is with a pint-sized opponent.

We’ve argued over time limits on his tablet: he wanted seventeen hours; I gave him thirty minutes a night.

We’ve battled over sock colors: white seemed perfectly reasonable to me, but last week, bright blue was the only color he’d wear.

For years we’ve gone rounds when it comes to what he eats.

Nothing but chicken nuggets, and only a certain brand.

Oh, and slushies, thanks to his Uncle Cal.

Maybe I should be annoyed by the slushy part, but honestly, a little variation, even if it’s one hundred percent processed sugar, feels like a win .

Yes, I celebrate the tiny wins against my six-year-old son. What mom doesn’t?

In the last seven years, I’ve also become really good at losing fights. Every single one of them with my ex. Though, can I really call him my ex if we’re still married?

If asked, he’d probably say I was the one picking the fights. He’d also swear I won the majority of them. Of course, he’d be wrong. No one wins in a marriage like ours. Where both people are miserable, barely talking to one another, and almost divorced.

But I’ve been working hard to start over. My life now is supposed to look different. I need it to be different.

“Julius, I need you,” I call from the bathroom suite. It’s possibly the fanciest one I’ve ever been in, and I’ve been in plenty over the years. Especially early on in my marriage, when I often traveled with Sully.

Sully, with his charming English accent, a smirk that, for years, he reserved only for me, and his expensive taste.

He only ever wanted the best of the best, and his love for me made me feel as if I was the best. For a while, it was my reality.

We were the couple. The ones on Instagram who look like they have hot sex all the time and live amazing lives.

We did too. The sex was truly amazing. God, I miss sex.

I didn’t fake it for social media. Hell, I didn’t have social media. Our life really was perfect.

I glare down at the next test. “You will not be positive.” I twist both of my fingers, willing my wish to come true, then yell, “ Julius .”

My overzealous and slightly sarcastic assistant peeks in, his brown eyes scouring the space like he’s worried he’ll find me standing naked in the freaking lounge.

“Get in here,” I hiss.

He steps in slowly, his shoulders practically at his ears. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Has Will left yet? ”

My boss, and my former law school colleague, is a partner in this firm, his father’s firm, and he and I were supposed to be in court in—I glance down at my Movado watch—ten minutes ago.

Julius winces. “Yes, about thirty minutes ago.”

I sigh, my body slumping. This is my case, and I stayed up late to prep every night for the last week.

I figured that explained the exhaustion.

The dizziness this morning? My body’s reaction to missing dinner last night because I was too busy reading the wife’s deposition and the Bergen family’s best interest reports.

“Look at that and tell me what you see.” I point to the counter, then turn around and pace the luxury cushioned floor.

Is it heated? Is that why I’m drenched in sweat? I slip off a heel and plant a foot on it. Motherfucker . It is heated. I toss the other one off, accidentally sending it flying through the air. It hits the wall with a loud thud, then clatters to the floor.

There’s no point in wearing Louboutins when all I’m doing is occupying the women’s restroom at the firm. My celebratory heels mock me from where they’re tipped on their sides. Looks like it was premature of me to wear them before my first day back in court.

But they’re rose gold! How could I not buy the rose gold heels?

Julius steps up to the counter, his reflection clear in the gold-etched mirror, his eyes darting every which way. He’s probably worried that I was aiming for him when I kicked off the shoe.

“Stop being so dramatic and tell me what you see.”

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling, and looks down. Immediately, he lets out a loud screech. “Is that a pregnancy test?”

“Shh,” I hiss, seriously contemplating picking up that shoe and lobbing it at him. “Could you not tell the entire office what we’re doing in here?”

“We aren’t doing anything in here,” Julius says, backing away from the stick.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Can you just tell me what you see?” I pluck the stick off the marble counter and thrust it into his face. “Is that a plus sign?”

He stumbles back, almost falling on his ass this time. “Did you pee on that?”

Annoyance courses through my veins, bringing my body temperature up to molten levels. “It’s got the cover on it. Stop being so dramatic and read .”

I flick it with my wrist, and this time, he really does trip and fall. Now that he’s on the ground, I crouch and hold it close to his face. Can’t get away from me now. “So?”

He squeezes his lips shut and winces like he’s worried he’ll get splashed with pee. Men are so freaking dramatic.

I wait him out, knowing he’ll give in eventually. Like clockwork, thirty seconds later, he sighs and says, “Yes, it’s a plus sign.”

“Shit.” I shoot up and stride to the line of other tests. “Check these.”

“Mrs. Murphy,” he says, standing, “when I said I’d do anything for you, I meant in the capacity of an assistant. Not this .”

“And I told you not to call me Mrs. Murphy. It’s Sloane. Mrs. Murphy is married to Mr. Murphy, and I am not. ”

He shrugs, backing toward the door. “Pretty sure Mr. Murphy’s going to be very surprised to learn that Mrs. Murphy is having his baby.”

I dart around him, arms out, feet planted wide, blocking him from exiting. “We don’t even know if that’s true. Get over here and look.”

Finally realizing he’s not getting out of here, he dusts off the lapels of his very fancy Tom Ford and shuffles over to the tests. “Positive, positive, positive. This one says plus three weeks .” He glances back at me. “Did you buy out the pharmacy or what?”

I roll my eyes. “Uh, yeah. Law school 101: always be prepared.”

“If you really lived by that rule, I’m guessing you wouldn’t be pregnant.” He turns around, and when he locks eyes with me, he cringes, hands held up in defense. “Sorry. You’ve got me all out of sorts with your pee sticks. ”

I shake my head. “I need to see a doctor.”

“Yes, I think you do.”

“Now.” Stepping aside, I throw out an arm, motioning to the door.

He points to his chest. “You want me to make an appointment for you?”

I don’t deign to respond. I only glare.

“Right, of course,” he mumbles, likely giving in so easily because it means he can leave the women’s room.

“And make sure they can see me this morning.”

He shakes his head. “You want me to come hold your hand too?”

For a single second, I feel relieved. The idea of doing this alone scares the shit out of me. The relief quickly evaporates when I take in his flat expression and realize he was being sarcastic. I don’t reply, instead turning toward the mirror and absentmindedly fixing my hair.

The second the door closes, the first tear falls. I really am on my own. I have no one to hold my hand. That’s the only thing I ever loved about these appointments. Having my husband at my side, his attention fixed on me. With his hand in mine, I felt like I could do anything.

Two hours later, as I sit in the exam room by myself, I feel lost, without the first clue what to do.

“You’re sure that’s not like a cancerous mass?”

The tech throws me a scowl. Yeah, I’m guessing most people wouldn’t prefer cancer over a baby.

For the record, I don’t either. But lately, everything has gone wrong, so it would be par for the course. Can’t blame me for being thorough.

“No. Cancerous masses don’t have heartbeats. And this is a strong one.”

I nod as I stare at the little gummy bear on the screen.

That’s what we called T.J. the first time we saw him.

A little gummy bear. Sully brought home a whole bag of them the next day.

Of course, I didn’t eat a single one. He laughed his ass off at me, but I thought it’d be weird to eat something that looked like our child.

“Hi, little bear,” I say to our baby.

My heart thuds painfully. Looks like I have to call my future ex-husband to tell him we’re having a baby.