Secret Baby Scandal. Joanne Rock
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an eyebrow. “So I assume that’s a no to my proposal?”
Swallowing hard, she nodded. “Most definitely.”
“I’m going to ask again.”
“And I’m going to ask you to leave if you don’t respect my wishes,” she said firmly, praying he wouldn’t roll out his old charm, which could too easily whittle away her shaky resistance.
“Fair enough then. For now. Because I very much want to stay. May I take him?” Jean-Pierre offered, already reaching to lift César from her shoulder. “You must be exhausted.”
She wanted to argue since it comforted her to feel the baby’s warm body against hers, but she was indeed tired. And she couldn’t begrudge César’s father this time with him. Not when he’d been denied five weeks of his life already.
“Thank you.” She straightened the spit cloth that he’d tossed over his suit jacket, trying not to notice the attractive vision this powerful man made while holding his son—their child—with such tenderness. “While it’s tempting to hold him all the time, I’m learning to rest more often. I was so tired the whole first week.”
“I wish I’d been there to help you,” he said simply. “Parenting is a team sport.” He patted the baby twice, elicited the necessary burp, then tucked the infant in the crook of his arm as securely as he carried a football for a first down. “That’s why I stand by the marriage offer. I don’t call that cold-blooded. I call it keeping your eye on the end zone. It would benefit our son for us to work together.”
“I don’t think a child gains anything from parents who aren’t happy and yet force themselves to be together. We’d be better off trying to figure out how to effectively co-parent.” Feeling rumpled and flustered, she fastened her dress. What woman wanted to field a marriage proposal over the head of a newborn, her breasts sore and her body bone-weary from the physical odyssey of a first pregnancy?
She knew it was foolish to care, but she could only imagine how she looked right now. And yes, she wished she could have met Jean-Pierre in one of her sleek Stella McCartney dresses, but they were all still too small for her postpartum body to fit into.
“I’m not sure your father is going to think much of a plan to co-parent from separate homes.” He wrapped a dangling swath of blanket around the baby’s foot.
“My father also parented his football players more than his own daughter, so I’m not accepting advice on the subject from Jack Doucet.” She loved her father, but she’d witnessed the way he indulged the elite athletes, giving them preferential treatment. As a teen, it had hurt to see him spend more time with them, showing up at a college prospect’s house on the weekend to establish a relationship while blowing off Tatiana’s debate championship—or any other noteworthy accomplishment.
Although, even as she said it, she realized that Jean-Pierre might bear more of her father’s disappointment than she would. But she’d learned long ago she couldn’t make decisions to please other people. She relied on herself and no one else.
“Of course.” He agreed more easily than she’d expected. “This is a lot for both of us to take in right now. We’ll talk tomorrow. I can put him to bed for you if you want to get some sleep.” He laid a hand over hers, a tender gesture that stirred all those emotions she couldn’t control lately.
But no matter how kindly he offered help now, she couldn’t forget that he’d walked away from her last time. Underneath the civil politeness, he was still the same athlete who’d spent weeks fuming silently at her while she’d methodically proved his former teammate guilty of sexual harassment. Afterward, he had continued to defend the man. If not for the spike of attraction that had never been too far beneath the surface with them, she and Jean-Pierre didn’t have anything in common.
Except now they shared responsibility for this precious life they’d created.
“I have a night nurse. She can take him. She knows his routine.” She glanced into Jean-Pierre’s eyes quickly. “I’m sorry. You can do it soon, but please, can we keep things simple for tonight? We have so much to sort through.”
Sliding her hand out from under his, Tatiana reached to take the baby, more exhausted now than she had been after eighteen hours of labor. She hadn’t known how stressful speaking to Jean-Pierre would be.
But now that he finally knew the truth, some of that weight had been shifted off her shoulders.
“I’m sure the night nurse is great.” He didn’t hand over the sleeping infant. “But since I have lost weeks I’ll never recover with him, I would appreciate being able to put him in his bed for the night.”
The cool words didn’t hide his judgment of her—he blamed her for not coming to him sooner about the pregnancy.
“Follow me.” Too weary to argue, she rose to her feet, gladly leaving behind the gorgeous Louboutin heels. The shoes that once brought her so much joy were now instruments of torture.
She led the way up the curving staircase of her apartment, a prewar building with plenty of amenities for children that she would be taking advantage of now that she could share the news of her baby with the world.
“Should you be climbing so many stairs?” He was beside her suddenly, his hand on her lower back.
It was a warm touch despite his frustration with her.
“Stairs are fine. I didn’t have a C-section so I’m in good shape.” Figuratively speaking. Her actual shape still leaned toward the soft side.
“I hope you are taking care of yourself.” His touch fell away as they arrived on the second floor and she pointed the way to César’s room.
The night nurse greeted her as they entered the nursery, but discreetly retreated to her own bedroom across the hall.
“I am. I’m looking forward to bringing him out in the stroller for walks once we speak to my family. The fresh air will be good for both of us.” Leaning into the antique crib she’d bought online and had shipped to the house before she’d even returned from the Caribbean, Tatiana slid aside the blue baby blanket. It went with the aquatic theme of the room.
She’d need major amounts of fresh air after speaking to her father. He’d always set the bar so damn high for her. Even when she was soaring at the top of her class or making junior partner ahead of schedule at her firm, she felt the pressure of his expectations. Now? She couldn’t even imagine telling him that his first grandson was a Reynaud.
“We can see your parents first thing in the morning. But I would like to leave for New Orleans shortly afterward.” He bent into the crib and laid César beside a stuffed baby whale.
One broad shoulder brushed the starfish mobile as he straightened, setting off a few gentle musical notes.
“You’re going there to tell your family?” She knew his parents, Theo and Alessandra Reynaud, had been divorced for years and weren’t even full-time residents of Louisiana anymore. Alessandra worked in Hollywood. Theo globe-hopped, content to live off his family’s money. But Jean-Pierre’s grandfather, Leon, still acted as the Reynaud patriarch in the public eye.
Leon, who had fired Tatiana’s father from the Mustangs and created the Doucet-Reynaud rift. Her stomach clenched at the thought of facing him.
“My family can wait.” Jean-Pierre stared down at her in the soft blue glow of the nursery’s night-light, his strong male presence radiating warmth and making her realize how close they stood. “We need to go there together to fulfill the promise I made in a televised interview this evening. I told the world you were going to be a guest of the Reynauds before the Gladiators-Hurricanes game.”
The words didn’t make sense at first. He couldn’t be serious about them simply pretending to be dating.
“I don’t understand. Now you must see that’s impossible.” She gestured to the crib, where César clutched a handful of blanket. “I can’t leave New