Chapter 6
SIX
DARCY
I was getting nervous that my life was becoming a never-ending series of sitting in waiting rooms. One after another, listening to various versions of crappy elevator-esque music while avoiding eye-contact with everyone else in the chairs around me.
Today’s waiting room had me more on edge than the OB’s office. In fact, I think I’d rather sit in the OB’s office with a thousand pregnant women, and be forced to talk about all things baby with each of them.
“Darcy Adler?” a woman in a grey pencil skirt called from the end of a hallway. Her hair was pulled back so tightly into a chignon that she probably had chronic migraines.
I stood, feeling like I left my insides behind me in the chair, and walked toward her.
“Mr. Peters can see you now.” Her tight-lipped smile was professional, giving nothing away of what her boss thought of my impromptu meeting request.
But this was stage one of Linnea’s plan for me.
Well, technically stage one was making a decision on what I was going to do with the baby.
After our conversation, she’d graciously let me ruminate on it, which had taken the better part of last week.
My initial instinct was to terminate it.
For many reasons—namely that I was a single woman who had no idea who the father was—but mainly because I wasn’t motherhood material.
I didn’t know the first thing about being a mom or how to take care of a baby.
Being a personal trainer provided me with a decent income, but kids were undeniably expensive, and while I could always pick up more clients, that meant more hours away from home, which meant more money in childcare.
But when I had picked up the phone to make the appointment, the image of my baby in the ultrasound room came to the forefront of my mind, and I couldn’t press the call button.
There was a living being inside me who needed me.
Who was defenseless without me. I was the only one standing between it and all of the dangers this world possessed.
Some day, this baby would need me to tuck it in at night, to help it with the homework that was due the next morning, or tell it how proud I was and how much I loved it. This baby needed me.
And a part of me wondered if maybe I didn’t need all of that too. If having someone I could care for, and support, and love unconditionally, wouldn’t help me too.
So here I was, at the second stage: Inform the Father. Or potential fathers, as it were. Stage three was to get a paternity test done, but in order to do that, I had to get their consent, which required informing both of them.
I hated this stage.
Liam’s office was not one of those all-glass offices where you could see in from the outside, but I wished more than anything in that instant that it was.
I could’ve mentally prepared myself better if I’d been able to see his body language or facial expression before being trapped in a room with him.
His assistant knocked on his door and poked her head in. “Mr. Peters? I have Miss Adler here to see you.” With that, she stepped aside and motioned me through.
I sent her what I hoped was a kind smile, but knowing my face and how it felt, was definitely more grimace than smile.
A giant mahogany desk sat in the center of the room, several towering, matching bookcases lining the wall behind it. Dual computer screens blocked my view of him, until he pushed away from the desk to stand.
Well, shit, go former Darcy, because he was as good looking now as he was two months ago. I knew he would be from the online stalking I did with Linnea, but seeing him in person was different.
His sandy blond hair was on the longer side of what was deemed professional, but when the law firm you worked for was your father’s, it probably didn’t matter too much.
Inside, his brown eyes didn’t have the same glow, but his height and breadth of his chest remained the same, even hidden under a suit.
Then I remembered the fact that he was currently engaged, and had neglected to tell me he had a girlfriend when we hooked up after that concert. Most likely, he neglected to tell his fiancée about me too. I sobered instantly. What a douche.
“Darcy, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He held out his hand, and somehow that felt like a slap in the face, though I knew it was only polite. Plus, did I really want a hug from him? The answer was a resounding no.
“So, you remember me?” I asked, my voice chipper with an undercurrent of malice that he didn’t seem to pick up on, judging from the smirk that curved his lips as he sat back down.
His voice was several octaves lower when he said, “Of course. How could I forget?”
I shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the same way you forgot to mention you had a girlfriend. Or, excuse me, I actually hear congratulations are now in order?”
The friendly facade faded from his features, a menacing scowl replacing it. “That’s none of your business. It was one time. You and I were never going to be anything.”
Maybe that would’ve hurt had I not known that when I flirted with him outside the venue. I was the one who hadn’t wanted it to be anything more than what it was. He, on the other hand, had asked me for my number. Twice.
“Yes, well, as it would turn out, you and I might be more than either of us originally wanted.” I held my ground, but my insides were vibrating with tension, the meager breakfast I’d eaten before I came here threatening to come back up.
His eyebrows pinched together, and his response was sharp. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I rolled my eyes, a bad habit I’d never outgrown since childhood. “I’m pregnant, and it might be yours.”
Silence hung in the air, but it was far from a dead silence. No, this silence was very much alive, much like what I imagined the atmosphere around a live bomb was like. I could practically hear it.
Tick, tick, tick.
He glanced down at my stomach, searching. “No.”
I scoffed. “No?”
I expected shock. Shit, I was shocked myself, and I had a couple of weeks to come to terms with it. But an outright refusal?
He grabbed his computer mouse and returned his attention to his monitors, clearly dismissing me. “No. It’s not mine. That’s not possible.”
“Wow, okay, um, do you need me to explain to you how babies are made?”
Dropping the mouse, he swung his gaze to me, anger radiating off his body.
“I know how they’re fucking made—” He pinched the bridge of his nose, cutting himself off with a deep breath.
“You said you had an IUD. Did you lie to me?” Something clicked in his brain and he sat up straighter, clearly convinced by whatever he seemed to have realized.
“Did you do this to get money out of me? I’m not giving you a fucking cent—”
“Let me stop you there. I didn’t lie to you. I had an IUD, it apparently expired.” I hated how ignorant that made me sound, but I continued. “And I didn’t come here to get money from you.”
He raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Then what do you want?”
“I figured you’d want to know if you potentially have a child, maybe do a paternity test to make sure.” I glared at him. In that moment, he every bit resembled the stereotypical rude, arrogant, stuck-up lawyer that he was.
“You figured wrong, and I won’t be doing a paternity test. I’d sooner go to court before I ever let you get solid evidence in your hands that could ruin my life.
And let’s be real.” He gave me a once over, judgement swirling in his eyes.
“You can’t afford a lawyer to take me there, let alone one that could beat me.
So whatever it is you’ve got, it isn’t mine, and I suggest you get rid of it.
” His voice was clipped, and harsh, and then he added, in the most condescending manner possible, “Don’t let this thing ruin your life, Darcy. Try to be smart.”
Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones, or maybe it was that I’d never been too good at being told what I could or couldn’t do, what was or wasn’t smart, but the anxiety in my body stilled. It became quieter. Colder.
“I don’t remember paying you for your legal counsel, Liam, but let me give you some advice, on the house.
” I planted my hands on his desk, narrowing my eyes at him as if I could crush him with my gaze.
“If you’re smart, which for the sake of your three-hundred-thousand-dollar degree, I hope you are, you’ll never tell me what to do again. ”
I’d love to say that storming out of his office was above me, that at twenty-eight years old I’d never stoop so childishly low as to cause a scene, but I’d always had a temper. A bad one.
On the way past reception, I grabbed a fistful of the candies I’d been eyeing the entire time I sat there waiting to talk to Dickhead, knocking them to the floor in the process.
The sound of glass shattering had a smirk breaking onto my face.
The receptionist, whatever her name was, called after me, but I kicked the button for the elevator with my shoe, my hands busy trying to unwrap my consolation prize.
Phase two: partially done.
***
I didn’t go home. The second I got into my car, my stomach rumbled painfully, my appetite finally deciding to make an appearance.
“Okay then, little human, what do you want to eat?” I don’t know when exactly I’d started talking to the baby, but it was oddly comforting.
I wasn’t alone.
My mind flipped through my usual favorites as I drove around town, hoping to inspire some kind of craving, but nothing. Everything sounded like I’d rather eat cardboard, which was crazy considering I’d never been picky a day in my life.
I was about to call the whole destination-less endeavor off when I saw the neon sign of The Crooked Quill.
My stomach growled loudly, and my mouth began watering thinking of their loaded fries, and bacon cheese burgers.
Turning the wheel sharply to the left, I cut back into the lane I’d almost left, and headed for the bar’s parking lot.
If I’d pulled that maneuver leaving the bar, it probably would’ve appeared like I’d had one too many, when in actuality, I was having one too few for the day I had.
A gust of warm air hit my face as I opened the door a moment later, the smell of beer and grease wafting toward me. Between the warmth and the low lighting, a sense of ease filled me.
The Crooked Quill sat somewhere between town dive bar and restaurant. It was nothing like The Squeaky Stool back home, with its sticky floors, mismatched furniture, and questionable clientele, but it wasn’t exactly upscale either. The booze was still cheap, but the atmosphere was better.
Like its name suggested, the interior played off Pennsylvania’s history.
Dark cherrywood chairs with green, faux-leather seats sat at tables whose tops were clear epoxy so that clippings of state history—including replicas of the Declaration of Independence—could be seen through them.
Oil lamps sat at evenly-spaced intervals across the black speckled bartop, the bar behind it accented with a heavy, wooden arch, at the crest of which sat a hand-carved bald eagle.
It screamed “America” in a subtle speakeasy sort of way.
Sitting myself at the bar on one of the high-top stools, I glanced briefly at the menu to give myself something to do while I waited.
Every item listed had a name that was also a historical event, person, or pun.
It was clever, but nothing changed my mind.
The only thing I wanted was a bacon cheeseburger from this exact place.
It was bad enough that if the bartender told me they’d run out of bacon, I was ninety-eight percent certain I’d cry.
However, no tears were shed, and twenty minutes later I had the best-looking burger in front of me with extra pickle spears, and loaded fries.
I was finishing off the last of my fries, and I mean the very last of them because I’d eaten everything the bartender put down in front of me except for the napkin, when a low, surly voice rumbled from behind me.
“A Sam Adams, please.”
I glanced over to where the man sat two seats down from me, setting his motorcycle helmet on the bartop, and almost choked on a fry.
His dark hair was pushed back from the helmet he’d been wearing, and he ran a hand through it, tousling the silky strands.
Mossy green eyes stared determinedly ahead, and I knew for a fact that if he turned toward me, I’d find the puckered, silver scar running from his hairline through his left eyebrow.
The black sweatshirt he wore stretched tightly over his broad chest, and the fabric around his biceps looked ready to tear.
Cold radiated off him, not in the literal sense, but in a way that screamed “run away” even though his rugged beauty was alluring—daring you for a closer look. A touch. One that would set you ablaze.
And nothing could’ve made this day worse, or made me want a drink more—other than being told I couldn’t have one—than this man walking into the bar because of course it was Archer Mack.
Well, today already sucked, so if I was going to go home feeling like a piece of shit, I might as well go home feeling like an accomplished piece of shit.
Plus, it saved me from having to make a trip to the fire station and embarrassing myself in front of the only humans who could save me if my apartment caught on fire.
Of course I’d run into him here, of all places. How serendipitous.
He was just sitting down when I turned his way, catching his eye. I filled my voice with all the confidence I absolutely did not feel, and said, “Archer Mack, you are just the man I was looking for.”