Page 13 of Untamed
Ruth
Igrip my phone tighter, resisting the urge to chuck it across the room as I pace from one side of my apartment to the other, doing my best to remain cool, calm, and collected. Screaming at the customer service rep from my credit card company won’t help my situation.
It might make me feel better, though.
“But Ihavea job. I just haven’t started yet.” If I can convince them to raise my spending limit, it might give me enough to work with. “I can email you a copy of my offer letter. It shows how much I’m going to be making.”
“I understand, Miss Wagner. But our policy requires proof of income on accounts that have been delinquent within the past twelve months.” The woman on the other end of the line is starting to lose her patience and get a little snippy with me, her words becoming short and clipped. “And you have been delinquent at least four times within that period.”
I pull in a deep breath, closing my eyes as I try to calm my racing heart. “What if I agree to an increase in my APR? Charge me more. I don’t care.”
All I care about is getting the fuck out of here. Especially after the letter that was shoved under my door yesterday. I don’t know if I believe William would actually take me to court—it would lead to the very result he’s gone to great lengths to avoid—but I don’t want to find out.
“I’m sorry, but that’s simply not an option.” Her fake customer service voice is back when she asks, “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
“No.” I disconnect the call without thanking her, because she didn’t do anything to help me. And because I’m about two seconds away from crying or screaming, and I don’t want to be caught on a recording doing either.
“Mumumumumumum.” Birdie babbles at me from where she sits on the floor with a plate of scrambled eggs and strawberries.
Slapping on a smile, I crouch down next to her, pushing a lock of curly hair off her forehead. “Mommy’s okay.” I steal one of her strawberry slices, forcing myself to swallow the tiny bit of food. I need to put something in my stomach, but I’m worried anything I try to shove down will come right back up. “Would you like to go to the park today? Play on the swings?”
She gives me an exaggerated nod, her chubby, fruit stained fingers clenched in a bobbing fist as she also signs her answer.
Teaching Birdie some simple signs was initially about passing down a piece of what my mother would have taught her if she was still around, but boy has it been useful. Being able to communicate, even before her little mouth could form words, has been a life saver.
Especially considering my little girl can be quite the impatient monster when she’s hungry.
“Finish up your breakfast and then we’ll go.” I steal one more strawberry slice before going to the kitchen to make a snack and fill her reusable waterbottle.
I’m packing up the diaper bag when someone knocks on my door.
I immediately turn to Birdie, checking to see if she heard the sound. Thankfully, she’s still engrossed in the brightly colored show playing across the television, and her remaining eggs, so she’s being blessedly quiet. Quiet enough maybe I can pretend no one’s home.
Slowly, I creep toward the door, continuing to check on my daughter as I silently move closer to the peephole. I don’t know what I’ll do if it’s William or one of his minions on the other side. Probably scoop my daughter up and hide in the bathroom until they leave.
Leaning forward, I brace both palms on the solid steel surface, needing a little stability as my whole body begins to quake thanks to the dump of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I assumed last night’s letter was a threat. Something to make sure I understood what would happen if anyone ever finds out who Birdie’s father really is.
But maybe it wasn’t a threat. Maybe it was a promise. One William has no intention of waiting to follow through on.
Squinting through one eye, I peer out into the hall, gasping when I see who is actually on my doorstep. The view is a little distorted and kind of cloudy, but that doesn’t make Tucker Bradshaw any more difficult to identify. The man is striking.
He’s tall and broad, with a square jaw and piercing eyes. His frame is solid and strong, but somehow the guy still manages to come off as boyish. I can definitely see the appeal, and understand why so many women have found their way into his bed.
I don’t know what in the world has brought him here—or how he found me—but the relief I feel over it being him and not William, or one of his people, makes it a little easier to open the door. Hopefully telling him the truth is just as easy. I’m notinterested in sharing my daughter with anyone. Not a man I don’t know, andespeciallynot one I do.
That means I have to break the news to the man holding flowers and a stuffed animal that I am a big fat liar. In another life I might even feel bad about it.
Not this one.
Tucker’s smile is wide when he sees me. The guy is grinning from ear to ear, and I have to admit, the expression is a little disarming. It takes the edge off my annoyance at his appearance, and has me rolling my eyes instead of clawing them out, which was where I was headed after that phone call.
“Good morning.” Tucker holds the flowers out between us. “These are for you.”
They’re beautiful. A collection of tulips in the prettiest peach color I think I’ve ever seen. I wish I could accept them, but that would make me an even bigger jerk. And I’m pretty sure he’s already going to think I’m a giant asshole when I confess my sins.
“Tucker.” I shake my head. “I can’t?—”
“I’m going to stop you right there, because I'm pretty sure I know what you’re about to say.” He shrugs. “And I don’t care.”
