Page 25 of Buckin' Around

I don’t move, reluctant to let him use this sweet little girl to prove his point. But she is his child. The eyes are strikingly identical. The complexion the same. The tiny dimples on her cheeks as she sucks the pacifier are a match for her father’s.

I loosen my grip on the precious pink bundle. Why am I so protective of a baby I have no association with? A question for therapy one day, I suppose.

Spencer slides his hands around her, too low.

“No, around her ribs.” I move one hand away so he can readjust. His fingers graze my breast as he moves his hand higher.

Ignoring the touch, I try to hand the baby over.

“Don’t get attached, Spence. We’re sending her back to where she came from before Mom and Dad get wind of this.” Stacey flips her phone shut with a triumphant expression.

Spencer and I both turn to face her.

And I catch a hint of disappointment on his face as the baby leaves my grip and he takes her into his arms. His gaze drops to the small bundle in his arms, and his jaw flexes.

“I guess it’s for the best.” He looks up. “Thanks for your help, Riley. Guess I don’t need you, after all.”

He doesn’t consider it.

He doesn’t even hesitate.

I huff a disbelieving sound, folding my arms.

You utter ass, Spencer Lockwood.

Utter ass.

If I never see Spencer Lockwood again in my entire life, it will be too fecking soon.

Chapter 7

Spencer

Aharsh cry splits the dark room.

I roll over and face-plant onto the pillow. The cold pillow I just laid down on two minutes ago. I lose a staggered groan into its cool softness, my eyes burning from being awake most of the night.

I’ve never wished for dawn so badly in my entire life.

I roll over and rub my hands over my face, half hoping the cries will peter out. Knowing they won’t. They haven’t all night.

With a heavy sigh, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The small pink bassinet rests on my nightstand, which I repositioned to the furthest corner of the room. In a brief moment of insanity, I thought maybe that might help. It didn’t.

My feet hit the marble floor, and I cross the room for what feels like the hundredth time in the last eight hours.

In the dim light, I can make out the wriggling pink bundle, her mouth open to expose her gums, still screaming.

“Geez, baby girl. I have no idea what I’m doing here. Give a man a clue, will you?” I run my hands through my mess of hair and lean over, laying my hand on the restless baby.

My hand covers most of her chest and belly.

She’s too damn small.

I’m terrified I’ll hurt her . . .

What kind of woman leaves her baby with a useless prick like me?

Hell, I’m barely holding my own life together. I have no right to be responsible for another.