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“And not mad?”
“No.” Dylan rubbed his hand over her arm. “Of course not.”
“I mean—we can still probably see each other on weekends.”
“Sure.”
“And...” Jenna kissed the side of his neck. “I think the sex’ll be even hotter when we do see each other, don’t you think?”
Dylan tried to muster a smile in response, but he just wanted her to get off his lap.
“Do you want to go upstairs for a quickie before I grab my stuff?” Jenna slipped her hand into his shirt so she could run her hand over his bare chest. “I only have, like, an hour because I have to finish packing over at my place, but...we still have time. If you want...”
Dylan patted her leg. “Not now, Jenna. I’m...beat.”
Jenna shrugged nonchalantly. “That’s okay. But at least come up and keep me company while I pack.”
Jenna uncurled herself from his lap, held out her hand and wiggled her fingers so he’d take her hand. Dylan followed Jenna up the stairs. He sat on the edge of the soaker tub while Jenna cleaned out the drawer he had cleared out for her. He listened while she chattered excitedly about her new job, but he couldn’t focus on her words. His mind was fixated on one thing and one thing only: Hope. Usually he enjoyed hanging out with low-demand Jenna. But today she was grating on his nerves, and he had never been so happy to see her go. He had gone through the motions of carrying her bag out to her BMW and then kissing her as if he meant it before she drove away. There was an unspoken goodbye in that kiss; he had the feeling that it was only a matter of time before their relationship fizzled under the pressure of distance. They had both always known that neither one of them was playing a long game.
After seeing the last of her taillights, Dylan closed the front door and went outside on the balcony so he could look at the ocean waves. He needed to clear his head, figure out his next move. The best way he knew to clear his head was to get on his surfboard. The waves were small, but he didn’t care. He just needed to blow off some steam and get his head screwed back on straight. After he spent several hours pounding the waves, Dylan jumped into the shower with clarity of mind—he knew exactly what he needed to do. He wasn’t about to let this thing fester overnight. He was going to have to confront Mackenzie. He was going to ask her point-blank if Hope was his child. Direct was the only way he knew how to do business. Dylan dried off quickly, pulled on some casual clothes and then dialed a familiar number.
“Jordan. I’m glad I caught you.” Dylan held a pen in his hand poised above a pad of paper. “Listen—I think I may have a job for your cousin Mackenzie. Can I grab her number from you real quick?”
* * *
Mackenzie put all of Hope’s medicine bottles back in the cabinet. Even though Hope had fought it valiantly, getting injured at the barn, however minor, had worn her out. After she ate and took her medicine, Hope had gone to bed early.
“So tell me what happened,” Rayna said over the phone. “They actually met today?”
Mackenzie pushed some recipe boxes out of the way and sat down on the love seat. “I needed a ride. He was there. It just happened.”
“Well...you know I don’t believe in coincidences...”
“I know...”
“So...what are you going to do?”
Mackenzie slumped down farther into the cushion and rubbed her eyes. “I’m going to get myself through this week, and then I’m going to call him. Ask to meet.”
“I think you’re doing the right thing. Do you know what you’re going to say?”
“No. Not a clue.” Mackenzie stared up at the ceiling. “I have a couple of days to think about it. What’s the etiquette on something like this?”
“I don’t know. We could look it up online.”
Mackenzie kicked off her shoes and pulled off her socks. “I was joking, Ray.”
“I know. But I bet there’s a ton of stuff out there about how you tell your baby daddy that he is your baby daddy...”
Mackenzie curled into the fetal position on the love seat. “Ugh. I hate that term. Baby daddy.”
“Sorry. But you know what I mean. You know someone had to write a ‘how to’ manual. There’s probably a DNA for Dummies out there...”
Mackenzie’s phone chirped in her ear, signaling call waiting. “Hold on, Ray. Someone’s calling.”
Mackenzie took the phone away from her ear and looked at the incoming call.
Dylan Axel was the name that flashed across the screen.
“Dylan’s on the other line,” Mackenzie told Ray.
“I’m hanging up,” Rayna said quickly. “Call me back!”
Dylan couldn’t sit still while he waited for Mackenzie to answer. He had been staring at Mackenzie’s number for nearly an hour. Before he dialed her number, he began to question his own logic. Yet, after nearly an hour of careful consideration, his gut just wouldn’t stop prodding him to place the call. If Hope was his daughter, then he had a right to know.
“Hello?” Mackenzie picked up the line.
“It’s Dylan, Mackenzie.” It was work to control his tone. “How’s Hope?”
“She’s worn out, but doing fine. The doctor cleared her to return to the barn tomorrow...”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Dylan was pacing in a circular pattern.
After an uncomfortable silence, Mackenzie asked, “Um...did Jordan give you my private number?”
“Yes.” Dylan needed to get to the point. “She did. Look—there’s something that I need to ask you, Mackenzie.”
There was a razor-sharp edge in Dylan’s tone that brought her to the edge of the love seat.
“What’s that?” Her attempt to sound casual failed.
“And I need you to give me an honest answer...”
Dylan stopped pacing, closed his eyes and tried to control his out-of-control heartbeat, as he posed his simple, straightforward question:
“Is Hope my child?”
Chapter Four (#ulink_02ed97bb-2c7c-565c-a324-08ef544c0f67)
Mackenzie sat like a statue on the edge of the love seat, but bit her lip so hard that she could taste blood on her tongue. Once again, fate had snatched control away from her grasp. She had wanted to broach the subject with Dylan gently, calmly, at the right moment and in the right setting. This wasn’t how she wanted it to go at all.
Dylan waited impatiently at the other end of the line. But he had heard Mackenzie suck in her breath when he asked the question, followed by silence. For him, he already had his answer. Hope was his daughter.
“Mackenzie.” Dylan repeated the question, “Is Hope my child?”
Mackenzie stared in the direction of Hope’s room, grateful that she had gone to bed early. “I...” She whispered into the phone, “I don’t think that we should discuss this over the phone.”
“You’re probably right,” Dylan agreed. “You pick the place and time and I’ll be there.”
“I can meet after work tomorrow.” Mackenzie pushed herself to a stand. “But I don’t know where we should meet.”
“Let’s meet at my place.” Dylan’s forehead was in his hand, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Mackenzie pressed her back against the wall and crossed one arm tightly over her midsection. “I’ll get my friends to watch Hope. I can be at your place around six-fifteen, six-thirty.”
“I’ll see you then.” Dylan opened his eyes. “Good night, Mackenzie.”
“Good night.” Mackenzie touched the end button and slowly slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. She wrapped her arms tightly around her legs and rested her forehead on her knees. From the moment she had held Hope in her arms at the hospital, she had felt, like a splinter under her skin, this day would eventually come. And now that it had, she felt undeniably shell-shocked and strangely...relieved.
But with the relief came another strain of uncertainty. She prayed for Hope’s sake that Dylan wouldn’t reject her. But what if Dylan decided that he wanted to play a larger role in Hope’s life? She had raised Hope on her own for ten years. It had always been Mackenzie and Hope against the world. And she knew she was being selfish, but she liked it that way.
When Dylan ended the call, he started to straighten up the condo to keep his body busy and his mind occupied. He moved restlessly from room to room, cleaning surfaces and pounding pillows into submission. He wound up back in the kitchen and began to unload the dishwasher even though the housekeeper would be there in the morning. One by one, he put the glasses in the cabinet, setting them down hard and then shutting the cabinet doors a little bit more firmly than he normally would. Finished with the chore, Dylan tried to push the dishwasher drawer back in, but it caught.
“Dammit!” Dylan rattled it back into place and then with a hard shove, slammed it forward. He lifted up the dishwasher door and shut it, hard. Stony faced, he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. Still frustrated and restless, Dylan headed down to the beach and once his feet hit the sand, he started to run. He was grateful for the cover of the night. He was grateful that there were only a few souls on the beach with him. He started to run faster, his feet pounding on the hard-packed sand. Pushing his body harder, pushing himself to go faster and farther than he had ever gone before. His lungs burned, but he didn’t let up. His leg muscles burned, but he didn’t let up. He didn’t let up until his leg muscles gave way and he stumbled. His hands took the brunt of his body weight as he fell forward into the sand. Fighting to catch his breath, he sat back, and dropped his head down to his knees. He pressed his sandy fingers into his eyes and then pinched the side of his nose to stop tears from forming.
He’d never wanted to be a father and he’d worked damn hard to make sure it never happened. That he never had a slipup. He had been vigilant all of his sexual life to make sure that he never got anyone pregnant. Even if he had been dating someone for a while, even if he saw them take the pill every day, he always wore a condom. But the one time he didn’t—the one time he didn’t—he’d gotten caught. And now, he had to face the one fear he had never intended to face: Was being a bad father genetic?
* * *
“I’m here.” Mackenzie pulled into a parking spot a couple of doors down from Dylan’s condo. She was on speakerphone with Rayna and Charlie.
“Mackenzie—you’ve got this,” Charlie said.
“And don’t forget—” Rayna began.
“Rayna,” Mackenzie interrupted her. “Please, please, please don’t give me another spiritual affirmation. I just can’t take it right now.”
After a pause, Rayna said in her “let’s meditate” voice, “I was just going to say—don’t forget that we’re always here for you, anytime, no matter what.”
“Oh. Sorry. Thank you,” Mackenzie said. “I’ll be by to pick up Hope after I’m done.”
Mackenzie hung up with her friends and then got out of the car. She stood by her car for several minutes, staring at Dylan’s condo, before she forced herself to get the show on the road. Stalling wouldn’t help. She needed to face this conversation with Dylan head-on and get it out of the way.
Mackenzie took a deep breath in and knocked on the door. This time, unlike the last time she stood in this spot, Dylan opened the door seconds after she knocked.
“Come on in.” Dylan stepped back and opened the door wider.
Mackenzie walked, with crossed arms, through the door and into Dylan’s world. She noticed, more so than she had the first time she was here, how neat and organized Dylan’s home was. His home was sleek, expensive and masculine: the ultimate bachelor pad. It was a sharp contrast to her 1930s Spanish-style Balboa Park rental with an interior decor that was cobbled together with flea-market finds and garage-sale bargains. The lives they lived, the lives they had built for themselves, couldn’t be more different.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Dylan stood several feet away from her, hands hidden in his front pockets. He looked different today. The boyish spark was gone from his eyes. The features of his face were hardened, his mouth unsmiling. Today, he seemed more like a man to her than he ever had before.
“No. Thank you.” Mackenzie shook her head, wishing she were already on the back end of this conversation.
“Let’s talk in the den.” Dylan slipped his left hand out of his pocket and gestured for her to walk in front of him. “After you.”
Mackenzie waited for Dylan to sit down before she said, “I’m not sure where to begin...”
“Why don’t we start with an answer to my question.” Dylan was determined not to let this conversation spiral out of control. He had always been known for his cool head and he wanted to keep it that way.
“I think you’ve already figured out the answer to your question, Dylan. But if you need to hear me say it, then I’ll say it,” Mackenzie said in a measured, even voice. “Hope is your daughter.”
Instead of responding right away, Dylan stood up and walked over to the large window that overlooked the ocean. He stared out at the waves and rubbed his hand hard over his freshly shaven jawline. With a shake of his head, he turned his back to the window.
“I’m just trying to wrap my mind around this, Mackenzie. It’s not every day that my friend’s sister turns up with my kid.”
“I understand.” Mackenzie wished that she could stop the sick feeling of nerves brewing in her stomach.
“How long have you known that she’s mine, Mackenzie?” Dylan asked pointedly. “Have you always known...or did you think that she was your ex-boyfriend’s child?”
Mackenzie’s stomach gurgled loudly. Embarrassed, she pressed her hands tightly into her belly. “I’ve always known.”
“How?” Dylan asked quietly, his face pale. “How did you know?”
“You were the only one I’d slept with in months, Dylan. It couldn’t’ve been anyone else but you.”
Dylan leaned back against the window; he felt off balance. “That’s not what I expected you to say.”
“It’s the truth....” Mackenzie said.
Dylan didn’t respond; he didn’t move. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he didn’t.
“I have a question for you.” Mackenzie turned her body toward him. “What made you think she was yours?”
“The bump...on her ear. It matches mine.”
“Oh...” Mackenzie said faintly. Dylan had always worn his hair long when they were kids—she never noticed that birthmark before.
“And then there was this.” Dylan retrieved the photo album, opened it and held it out for Mackenzie to take.
“Look familiar?” Dylan pointed to the picture of his aunt Gerri.
Mackenzie nodded, stared closely at the picture.
“Who needs a DNA test, right?” Dylan nodded toward the picture.
Mackenzie stared at the old black-and-white photograph. “This little girl...she’s the spitting image of Hope.” Mackenzie looked up. “Who is she?”
“That’s my aunt Gerri when she was nine.”
“I remember your aunt Gerri. We went to their horse farm a couple of times. She played the organ for us.”
Dylan’s jaw set. “Hope should be able to remember my aunt Gerri, too. Uncle Bill’s the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had. He deserved the chance to know my daughter.”
Dylan’s well-crafted barb hit its intended mark. And it hurt. Because Mackenzie knew that he was right. Silently, she carefully closed the photo album and handed it back to Dylan.
Dylan put the photo album on the coffee table and sunk down on the couch a cushion away from Mackenzie. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his legs and cradled his head in his hands.
“So...” Dylan said quietly. “We both know she’s mine. The next question I’d like answered is...why did you know ten years ago and I’m only finding out now?”
