1
Jonah
A loud thump from one of the many upstairs bedrooms pulls me awake. I shift on the sofa, open one eye, and groan. Partly because my place is a disaster after last night’s—all night—party, and partly because I have a killer fucking headache that’s blurring my vision.
I turn over, using slow, easy movements, and the beer bottles lined up on the coffee table sway as I try to blink the room into focus. I steal a glance at the massive clock on my wall, each tick of the second hand amplified in my head as I discover it’s just past noon. Christ, I’ve only been asleep for a few hours.
I close my eyes as I think about finding my way to my comfortable king-size bed, but another loud thump sets off a pounding behind my eyes. I’m going to fucking kill whoever is stomping around upstairs. But when the noise continues, I realize the banging isn’t coming from one of the bedrooms, it’s coming from my front door.
I drag my hands through my mussed hair, smoothing it down, and swallow against a dry throat as I try to pull myself together.
Who the hell would be at my door this early on a Saturday morning? All my buddies are asleep in my house. Most have flown back to Boston, my hometown and the spot where I’ll be hanging out after a successful season, to celebrate my massive contract extension with the Seattle Shooters, and anyone who knows me, knows I like to sleep in when I’m not on the road.
The knocking continues. “Okay, I’m coming,” I yell, and reluctantly climb from the sofa. I grumble under my breath, trip over a pizza box, and stumble to the door. “What?” I asks as I open it, the noon-hour sun burning the shit out of my eyes. I shade my face with my hand, take in the woman on my stoop.
“Jonah,” Shari says, and holds a small pink bundle out to me. A small pink bundle that looks as bad-tempered as I feel.
“What’s going on?” I ask, as the baby in Shari’s arms lets out a loud shriek. Jesus. I falter backward, my head ready to explode from the godawful noise.
“What’s going on is I’m tired, Jonah. I haven’t slept in four months, and now it’s your turn to take care of her.”
I squint and look into the baby’s blue eyes, take in her tear-streaked cheeks. “What are you talking about?”
“Meet Daisy,” she says and shoves the baby into my arms. She cries louder, and I’m sure my head just cracked at the base of my skull.
“Daisy?” I say.
“Yeah, Daisy. Your daughter.”
My head rears back. Oh, fuck no. I must be hearing her wrong. Has to be the hangover messing with my ability to comprehend. I pinch my eyes shut and open them again, hoping I’m hallucinating, but nope—Shari and the baby are still there. “What did you just say?”
“Meet Daisy. She’s your daughter.” Shari pulls a big bag from her shoulders and drops it in front of my bare feet. “You have enough formula and diapers for a couple days. I suggest you do some shopping.”
She turns to leave, and I reach out and cup her elbow. “Oh no, no way is this child mine.” I try to hand the squirming bundle back, but Shari folds her arms and steps backward, out of my reach.
“Oh, she’s yours, all right.”
I rack my brain, Think back to the last time Shari was in my bed. “We used protection. I always use protection,” I remind her. “You’re making a mistake. This kid can’t be mine.”
“She can and she is.” She gives me a look that suggests I’m dense. “The condom broke, remember?”
Wait, was that with Shari?
“No, I don’t remember.” Okay, I’ve been with a few girls—or a lot—but I don’t remember a condom breaking when I was with Shari. But it’s possible it could have. Judging from the bundle in my arms, I’d say it’s more than possible. Still, I’m not ready to accept it as truth. I give a hard shake of my head and the room spins around me. “You’ve got to be mistaken.”
“She’s four months old, Jonah. A little over a year ago, I was in your hotel room in Philly, and the condom broke.”