More Than Love You Page 18

  I glance at the clock. About fifteen minutes have passed since I headed upstairs, so I risk creeping down. Harlow sits on the sofa, still staring at her paused game, unmoving.

  She’s in shock.

  “Baby?” I rush to her side.

  “Apparently Evan is for real, and I also have a sister I’ve never met. Her name is Bethany, and she’s close to Griff’s age. Maxon knew everything. He’s known for months.”

  And his secrecy hurt. She doesn’t say it, but I know. The grit in her voice tells me she chewed him a new asshole, too.

  “Did he say why he didn’t tell you?”

  She lets out a heavy breath. “He didn’t want to disillusion me. He knew I’d wanted to be a daddy’s girl as a kid. He was trying not to color my opinion with the sordid details. Griff knows, too, of course.”

  Harlow doesn’t have to tell me how alone she feels. I see it all over her face. She adores her brothers, and she feels betrayed that they’ve kept secrets from her, even if they meant to protect her.

  “I’m sorry, baby.” I take her hand in mine and kiss it, wishing I could take away her pain.

  She shakes her head. “In his shoes, I probably would have done the same thing, especially since Maxon and my dad have had a strained relationship for as long as I can remember. He seemed to prefer Griff, even though they both worked for Dad as interns while in high school. He constantly belittled Maxon for not being macho and manly enough.”

  “What an awful thing to say to your own son, especially when he’s still just a kid. Any reason he showed favoritism to Griff?”

  “I don’t know, and Maxon won’t spill. But I’m sure it sucked. Just like I’m sure whatever Griff had to do to curry favor with the old man must have been dirty and underhanded since that’s all Barclay understands. So my brothers learned to be unscrupulous, ambitious assholes from the best—at least until Keeley and Britta.”

  And until Harlow accepts that I’m here for her, she’s handling all this alone.

  “I’m sorry, baby.” That her father is an asshole. That her brothers aren’t forthcoming. That she’s having to deal with an illegitimate brother when she’s already in turmoil. “I wish I could say something to make it all better.”

  She shakes her head slowly. “You can’t. I’ve known for a long while that Dad is a total bastard. With the age gap between us siblings, I didn’t realize how much our father picked on my brothers. I thought I was the one who got the brunt of his displeasure.”

  My heart stops. Is Harlow going to tell me something? Is she finally willing to open up? “What displeasure? Baby, what did he do to you?”

  Harlow jerks, seemingly startled by my question. “If you’re thinking he touched me inappropriately or something awful like that, no. The truth is, he saw a girl child as useless in business, so when I wanted to intern, he laughed at me, patted me on the head, and told me my best bet was to marry well.”

  I gape at her. “Does this man know how smart you are?”

  “I don’t think he paid much attention to me once he saw that I lacked the requisite penis to house one’s brains.” She rolls her eyes. “Once I got older, he dolled me up and took me to functions, introduced me around…” She shakes her head. “You know what? He’s just an asshole, and I don’t want to give him more energy. I’d rather focus on now. I don’t know whether to pity Evan growing up as the wrong-side-of-the-blanket kid or congratulate him for skipping a childhood with Barclay Reed.”

  There’s more to this story. I can feel it. But like everything else between us, I can’t force her. It’s starting to frustrate the hell out of me. What will it take to make her trust me?

  “Does Maxon want to meet him?”

  “Yeah. I gave him Evan’s contact information. We’ll see. Maxon is all about family now. Well, not the parents, but he’s ready to surround himself with people who matter. He also seems interested in finding out whether assholery is a genetic trait or a learned behavior, and I guess Evan will answer some of those questions for him. I’m sure Griff will go along, too. You know, scope out the long-lost brother together.”

  “What about you?”

  She shrugs, then shakes her head and picks up her game controller. “I don’t need anyone in my life, Noah. I’m better off alone.”

  I wake up early the next morning. Harlow isn’t beside me.

  I don’t need anyone in my life, Noah. I’m better off alone. Harlow’s words resonate in my head. After the two brothers she trusted more than anyone shut her out, even to well-meaningly shelter her, I fear she really means them.

  This damn woman is tying me in knots. How the hell am I supposed to reach her if she won’t talk to me? If she refuses to even sleep in the same bed with me?

  Creeping down the hall, I find her in her own room, curled up under the covers as if blankets can somehow ward off the hurtful people in her life. Or does she only mean to keep me out?

  The frustration is bugging the shit out of me. Being under the same roof with a woman who only wants laughs and sex when I know we could have so much more isn’t easy.

  After tossing on running shorts and a pair of sneakers, I run out of the house and past the guard gate. The sun is just beginning to lighten the sky with vivid oranges and golds. I’m thanking every higher power imaginable that there are no reporters or paparazzi hanging out now. The new guard at the gate waves me out and I head down the deserted road, pounding one foot in front of the other on the pavement.

  My thoughts circle and chase one another. Am I spinning my wheels with Harlow? Will she ever come around? Giving up seems logical. Why beat my head against that towering brick wall she has up around her heart? On the other hand, who in Harlow’s life has ever truly invested in and cared about her? Not her father or mother. Definitely not her ex-fiancé. Not even her brothers until recently, if everything she’s said is true. It begs one question: Who’s been on her side? Who’s been that someone she can count on, no matter what?

  I don’t think anyone. And keeping everyone out is her way of stopping potential hurt before it even starts. I don’t blame her. But I also don’t like it. Do I really want to be like everyone else who’s let her down? Can I really imagine my life without her?

  No.

  Jesus, I think I am in love.

  Well, hell…

  After a three-mile loop around the estate, I walk back the last quarter of a mile, sweaty and exhausted and no closer to talking myself out of it. The sun is a blazing orange ball rising in the blue sky. It’s going to be a scorcher, and I have a feeling summer will be no joke. But after a dozen seasons in Dallas, I’m used to heat and humidity. What I’m struggling with is the fact that days are sliding by, and while I’ve learned more about Harlow, I’m no closer to convincing her to trust me.

  Something’s gotta give.

  The phone in my pocket buzzes, and I pull it free in case she’s calling and wondering where I’ve disappeared. When I see Cliff’s number pop up, I groan. Unless we’re negotiating a new deal of some sort, he’s never calling with good news.

  “What’s up?”

  “Who the fuck is Mercedes Fleet? Where did you meet her?”

  “Who?” I press the phone to my ear and struggle to catch my breath.

  “Mercedes Fleet.”

  “I don’t know her.”

  “Apparently you know her well enough to have knocked her up, at least according to her. TMZ broke the story an hour ago. They just called me for comment.”

  The bottom drops out of my stomach. This is one more problem I don’t need. I search through my memory bank, trying to remember the last woman I had sex with before Harlow. I have to go back about three months. The party after my final Super Bowl win. I don’t remember her name. Shit. I gloved up, but…nothing is foolproof.

  Is it possible? What do I do now? And given what’s up with her father right now, what will Harlow think?

  “What does this woman look like?” I’ve been accused more than once of sleeping with some chick I’v
e never touched. Some women like to brag about bagging someone famous, and I have to set the record straight. Or try. The truth is, too many people don’t believe the denial. It sounds like weaseling, reeks of not manning up.

  “There’s a nice picture of her on TMZ, front and center.”

  “Hang on.” I launch my browser and surf to the tabloid site.

  WESTON’S LOVE CHILD ON THE WAY! screams the headline.

  The picture below shows a woman standing behind a podium, microphones reaching to her lips and reporters leaning close as if no one wants to miss a word of her story. She’s a beautiful woman with long, light brown hair, a slender frame, and stoic blue eyes. I scan the article. She claims we met at a Super Bowl after party at the St. Regis in Houston. I can’t deny I was there. I was also stone-cold sober, so I know damn well she is not the anonymous brown-eyed blonde I fucked that night.

  But several bystanders and even a former teammate place me at the scene and say they remember us talking before disappearing into one of the suite’s bedrooms together. I’m baffled.

  I lift the phone to my ear again. “I swear I don’t know her. I certainly didn’t get her pregnant.”

  “It doesn’t look good, buddy. The network isn’t happy. First that Harlow chick and now Mercedes. They’re all for you being the man in the broadcasting booth, but women are a growing segment of NFL viewers, and they don’t want to hear a guy led around by his dick, even if he is a football legend.”

  “Listen!” I growl. “I swear to god that I don’t know her and I didn’t fuck her. Why don’t you try being on my side, goddamn it. I pay you enough.” I huff in frustration. “Handle the PR on this. I’ve got to go.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I hang up on Cliff. If it’s all over TMZ, then it’s hitting other news outlets, too. It will be the talk of ESPN and other sports-dominated channels. It may even make mainstream news. Which means Harlow will hear about it soon…if she hasn’t already. I can just imagine how she’s going to take this. She’ll lump me in with her sleazebag father and Simon. She’ll assume I’m a man whore and an asshole. My denials will fall on deaf ears. She’ll turn her back on me because she’ll be too afraid to trust people, much less the guy she’s known for barely a week.

  I hold in a roar of frustration. What the fuck? I’ve got to get to her now, before the news reaches her. I need to explain. If I tell her I need her help… Yeah, inciting her sweet, natural empathy by asking for her assistance might keep her close. Maybe.

  Shit.

  I full-out sprint back to the house. There’s a growing gaggle of reporters waiting for some scoop at the gate. They shout questions about this woman supposedly carrying my baby. The new guard, who understands his role, opens the gate. The tabloid press is still haranguing me as I dash through with a “no comment.” The guy in uniform shuts the barricade behind me quickly.

  The sun beats down on me as I run the last quarter-mile up to the house and crash through the front door. As soon as I step inside the entryway, I nearly trip over Harlow’s suitcases. I hear her cursing from across the room and look up to see her dragging another piece of luggage down the stairs, her motions jerky and flustered. I step over the heap of her things and approach her. She almost collides with me, then shoots me a glare that’s grim and red-eyed and resolute.

  “Where are you going?” I demand.

  “Anywhere that’s not here. I’ll stay with Griff and Britta until I can get back to California.”

  Like hell. “So you’ve heard the rumors? And you’re believing this woman who says I met her at a party and knocked her up without first talking to me?”

  “I’m not leaving because of you, Weston. Look, you’ve got your hands full, and frankly I don’t need more drama. I’m not mad. You met her long before me, so what you did with her in February is none of my business. I don’t think your mom is going to be thrilled that you’ve indiscriminately spread your DNA around, but…” She shrugs and reaches for her purse. “You’ll figure that out, I guess.”

  I wrap my fingers around her arm. “I am not your father. Or your ex. I didn’t do this.”

  She seems to lose some of her composure as she jerks from my grip. “Did you hear me? It doesn’t matter. I didn’t know you then. The truth is, I woke up this morning and realized I was done processing what happened a few days ago in the shower. I think this…fling means more to you than it does to me, and I’d rather not hurt you. So I’m going to do you a favor and leave. You’re going to be great. I left the names of some fantastic therapists on the island—both speech and psychological. You may need both since anxiety seems to be a real trigger for you. Any of these people would be really qualified to help you.” She gives me an entirely false smile as she gathers her luggage. “I wish you the best.”

  “This is bullshit.” I jerk the bags out of her hands as fast as she can pick them up. “You’re absolutely running away from me because you think I got that woman pregnant. You’re scared to trust that I’m not Barclay or Simon.”

  “No.”

  “Hell yes. Look at me, Harlow. When have I ever hurt you?” She presses her lips together mulishly and picks up her big suitcase again. I yank it from her grip. “When have I ever done anything except try to help you?”

  She doesn’t answer, just grabs her computer bag and hoists it onto her shoulder. I grab the strap in my fist and jerk it behind me.

  “Stop it!” she insists.

  “You stop,” I growl. “You’re not leaving, goddamn it.”

  “Oh, I’m not? So you’re going to keep me here against my will?”

  “I’m not letting you run out over nothing.” I lock the door behind me and lean against it, arms crossed.

  Harlow is determined, but compared to me? She can’t beat my size, strength, or persistence.

  “I’m not running out. I’m getting out of your way and getting on with my life. That’s it. So give me my bags and move so I can leave.”

  “Nope.” I shake my head resolutely. “You don’t get to do that. Did you forget? We have a contract. You’ve signed it. I’ve paid you. You’re obligated to stay here with me until Labor Day.”

  She’s a tiny thing, but her giant temper makes an appearance. “That’s how you want to play this? So you are my father, after all? Besides the illegitimate kid on the way, you fucking think you know how I should run my life better than I do and you don’t give two shits how I feel? Nice. Next you’ll be telling me that I’d be better off marrying well, too. Never mind my aspirations or ambitions… So who, in your estimation, should I whore myself to for a ring on my finger?”

  I won’t let her manipulate the situation or my composure when she’s only trying to push my buttons. “You want to marry well, baby? Marry me.”

  She scoffs and frantically grabs her luggage again, this time trying to scoop multiple pieces in her grip at once. “Yeah, right. That’s not going to happen.”

  I divest her of her bags again, earning a screech of frustration from her.

  “Give me one good reason why not,” I challenge. “Just one.”

  “Hand that over.” She reaches for her makeup case, but I set it behind me, too. “You want one good reason, Weston? Okay, you piss me off. We barely know each other and somehow you get under my skin and manage to scratch around and give me hives and—”

  I laugh. That’s not a reason to let her leave me. If I’m crawling under her surface and getting to her, that’s a reason to make her stay.

  “You think that’s funny?” she challenges.

  “No. But I think that makes us even. You get under my skin, too. You make me want you, make me need to understand you, hold you, heal you—”

  “I’m not broken!”

  She is, but not irreparably. “All right. But how many men have you dated you didn’t care about at all? Who let you walk all over them? Who couldn’t handle your backbone?” Her pause tells me the number is high, and she’s aware of it. “I can handle you.”

  “I don’t want a man wh
o thinks he needs to try. When I agreed to marry Simon, I just wanted a decent guy to spend my years with, one who’d be there for me when it mattered. One who’d give me the children I want. I didn’t care about adoration or devotion, just kindness and the appearance of happiness. I still want those things. I don’t think you can give them to me.”

  “Try me.”

  She studies my face and frowns. “You’re serious?”

  “Completely.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “You didn’t say you were looking for sane, baby. Marry me. You want a decent guy? I’m here. You want someone who will spend their years with you? I will. I’ll always be here for you. You want kids? I will happily get you pregnant. I’ll relish it. You might not care about adoration or devotion, but I’ll give you those, too. I’ll endeavor to be kind and do whatever it takes to make you genuinely happy, not just help you look as if you are. All you have to do is say yes.”

  “I’ve known you for nine days.”

  I shrug. “So? You listed off your wants, and I’m telling you I’ll fulfill them. Who cares about the details?”

  “I did the bride thing recently. Not looking to do it again. Now move so I can go.”

  “If you leave, tell me one person you know who’s capable of giving you everything you want.”

  Her silence is telling.

  “No one, right? You want to call Simon again? Or wait a few years and hope you meet someone better?”

  She presses her lips together, and I can tell that she’s thinking. One part of her would love to tell me to pound sand, but I’m dangling the life she wants most in front of her face. If I can’t appeal to her heart, I can tug at her deep-seated desire.

  Suddenly, she says, “You’re already having a baby. You don’t need me to have one, too. Move.”