“We have to do a DNA test, Eva.” I keep a safe distance. “Just to be sure. Before any arrangements are made. Before we can move forward from here. I have to know.”

Her smile fades, her eyes dimming. “Why would you say such a thing, Beckham? She’s yours. She’s all yours. She has your chin. Your ears. Your dimples.”

I try not to look, not to give in and let her think she’s winning.

“I had a vasectomy, Eva, before we were together. There’s no way this could’ve happened.” I swallow the hardness in my throat but it returns. “I don’t want to believe you could’ve tampered with anything at the clinic, but…”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Her eyes glass over until large tears fill at their brims. “We’re a family. You. Me. Our baby. To suggest that this wasn’t in God’s plan…”

She glances down, stroking the baby’s cheek.

“She’s beautiful, Beckham. We created her. She’s here because of our love.” Her voice is strained.

My stomach churns. Eva is not well. She hasn’t been for a long time.

“How are you going to take care of her?” I ask. “When you leave here. Do you have someone?”

Eva whips her attention toward me. “I thought we could come home with you. You have space for a nursery. A couple phone calls and we could have one set up within a day.”

She’s clearly fantasized about this a hundred times before.

“Eva…” Pressing my chin against my chest, I squint across the room at her. “Did you really think it would happen like that?”

“You’re a good man. I know you’ll do the right thing. I know you’ll come through for us. It’s not in you to walk away from family.”

She doesn’t know me. At all. I’m not some valiant prince. I’m a man with minimal responsibilities, reigning over a kingdom of beautiful women with my mighty cock in hand. I’m a playboy. My only commitment is to a life of debauchery.

“Remember what Dr. Brentwood said? About projecting?” I remind her. “I’m not a family man, Eva. I told you that from the beginning.”

“Then why were you at a fertility clinic?” she snaps back.

She has a point; a tiny point that doesn’t help my case.

“You knew you wanted to be a father, just not yet. Not now,” she says, her tone rushed and excited. “You knew there was a chance you might change your mind someday.”

“My mind was made up, Eva,” I groan. The sperm-freezing was nothing more than an insurance policy to keep me from backing out of my decision to get snipped.

“Sometimes we don’t know what’s best for ourselves,” she says, glancing down at the baby again. A tiny fist rises above the blanket and stretches out, grabbing onto the flannel fabric of Eva’s gown. She hums a little tune, something sweet and unfamiliar. I’m guessing it’s an Argentinian lullaby.

“I can’t be in your life, in her life, until we get the results of the test.” A sear of something sharp flashes across my chest. The thought of leaving the baby in Eva’s care for God knows how long unsettles me.

“She’s yours, Beckham. I would never lie to you, mi amor.” The humming continues.

Convincing Eva to agree to this is a tight walk along an unstable balance beam.

“And if you don’t think she’s yours, I have no problem moving back to Argentina,” she says a minute later, lightly raking her fingers through the baby’s jet black hair. “Raising her in my homeland.”

My fist clenches. The thought of the baby being whisked overseas despite not knowing if she’s mine was a possibility I hadn’t yet entertained. I wouldn’t put anything past Eva.

“Did you decide on a name yet, baby?” Eva smiles, looking up at me like we’re not locked in crossfire. “Something pretty for our pretty girl?”

Dr. Brentwood would be waving a checkered flag, telling me to abort the mission. Shut it down.

“You have to name her. It’s tradition in the Delgado familia. The fathers choose the names,” she says.

 “I haven’t given it any thought.”

She holds the baby up, grinning ear to ear and examining her. “You’ll think of something for our little angel.”

“The test, Eva.” I clear my throat, crossing my arms. “There’s a clinic uptown that does them. Results come back in two-three days.”

“No!” She holds the baby against her chest, patting her back vigorously.

“I hoped we could do this the easy way.” I grab my phone, dialing my attorney.

“What are you doing?” she spits.

“Getting a court order,” I say. Roger answers. “Roger, I talked to her. Make it happen.”

“You’re making a huge mistake.” Eva shakes her head, bouncing the baby in her arms. “She is our daughter.”

“I’ll file the petition,” Roger says. “Beckham, this won’t be quick. A judge has to determine if there’s sufficient evidence before he can order the paternity test, and even then Eva can hire an attorney. She’ll have thirty days to contest it from the time we serve her.”

“What choice do I have here?” I fire back. “Get it done.”

I hang up and step toward the door, watching as Eva sits up and places her hand out. She pleads with me to stay a while longer before slick tears slide down her cheeks.

Hate doesn’t usually reside in my heart, but right now, I hate Eva for doing this, for creating a self-serving, chaotic mess.

“I don’t love you, and I never did.” A furious burn fills my chest. I want to look at the baby, but I can’t bring myself to. “I will never be with you. And if she’s mine, God help us all because you’re not fit to care for her. You can hardly take care of yourself.”

I’ll never forget finding a medicine cabinet full of sedatives and benzodiazepine in her bathroom. Tranquilizers. Prescription sleep aids. Anything a person might need to forget about life for a while. None of it was in her name. I set her up with Dr. Brentwood immediately after that. She needed managed care not black market Xanax.

Her lips tremble as she squeezes the baby tight. Maybe I’m an asshole. Maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut and walked away, but it’s all I can do to maintain my composure. It’s building, burning inside me. It has to come out.

“We could be happy. Just give us a chance.” Her voice is tired, small. I won’t stand around and listen to this anymore. When I storm out the door, I hear her say, “I’m not lying, Beckham. She’s your daughter...”

I don’t want to believe her, and I fucking hate the fact that part of me does.

***

“You’re back.” Odessa glances up from her desk when I return.

I’m not sure why the first place I went was to her. I’m standing in her doorway. Not talking. I don’t know what to say. In the blink of an eye, I lost all control over my carefully crafted, painstakingly perfected bachelor life.

My hands ache for something real. Fuck, if I could feel those sleek auburn locks through my fingers and press my lips against hers, maybe I’d taste a bit of calm again.

“Hey, you okay?” Odessa raises an eyebrow, shutting the lid to her computer. “You’re freaking me out here.”

She comes to my side with hesitant steps, her sweet perfume filling my lungs. I’m in a mood. Fuck, am I in a mood.

I’m in a mood to burn everything to the ground.

“Say something.” Odessa laughs, not because it’s funny. She’s nervous. She winces, slightly, as if I scare her. “Where’d you go?”

She rises on her toes, brushing a rogue strand of hair off my forehead. I close my eyes, pulling another lungful of Odessa in. I have to have her. Fuck Dane’s rules. Fuck the consultancy. Fuck mind games.

“Odessa.” I swallow, eyes still closed.

“Yes?”

“Don’t touch me again.” My instructions are concentrated, clear as day. I peer down at her now, catching a slight shake in her chest when she breathes.

She backs up, her hand resting across her chest. “I-I’m sorry.”

“If you touch me again, I’m going to touch you back,” I say. “And I can’t promise I’ll stop once I start.”