Just Desserts

He had a lot to do, especially with Patty about to take sick leave, but tonight, the tenth anniversary of signing away parental rights to his then unborn son, he stayed home. Turned on a basketball game and started drinking. Alone. Never a good thing to do, but right now it seemed appropriate.

The first few anniversaries had passed practically unnoticed. Yes, he had a child out there somewhere, one he’d been totally unprepared to care for at the age of eighteen. When his girlfriend, Rachel, had opted for adoption, it had seemed a godsend. No child support. No confessing to his sisters what he’d done. The child was better off with parents who were married and had resources to provide for it. Problem solved.

And if every now and again, in the early hours, he found himself dwelling on the matter, he shoved it out of his mind. A strategy that had worked fairly well until his niece, Rosemary, had been born.

From the moment he’d first felt her warm little body snuggle against his shoulder, watched her mouth form a tiny O as she yawned, he’d been overwhelmed with protective instincts he hadn’t even known he possessed. Who would have thought that a baby could make a guy feel like that?

But the kicker was the lost baby, the miscarriage his sister, Reggie, had suffered a little less than a year ago, when she’d been four and a half months pregnant. It had devastated both her and her husband, Tom, to the point that they’d talked of having only the one child because they didn’t want to risk another loss. They eventually decided, though, to try one more time and so far, so good, but Justin was still on edge. He never wanted to see his sister go through that again. He never wanted to go through it again vicariously.

From that point on, denial lost its effectiveness. Kids were not something one signed away and forgot about.

Even if he tamped the thoughts down deep, as deep as he could possibly get them, they slowly but surely worked their way to the surface. He began to notice babies everywhere. And kids. Especially kids about the same age that his son would be.

Justin was a father. Somewhere in the world he had a child. A kid who needed to be protected and loved, as Rosemary needed to be protected and loved.

And he hadn’t done that.

It ate at him. Maybe it had always eaten at him in ways he refused to acknowledge.

Last year on the ninth anniversary of the day he’d signed his child away—four months after Rosemary’s birth and before Reggie had acknowledged her second pregnancy—he’d sat down in front of the TV to have a single beer and ended up drinking himself into oblivion.

He planned to repeat the performance tonight. Kind of a yearly ritual, like a birthday party, which worked, since he didn’t know when his child had been born. Rachel was sent across the country by her wealthy parents shortly after they’d discovered she was pregnant, and he’d never received word. All he knew was that he had a son, information Rachel had given him after her first ultrasound.

He was on his third beer, blindly watching the game and thinking that whiskey would work faster, when the doorbell rang.

Layla. She’d stopped by the kitchen earlier that afternoon to pick up her overnight bag, which was still here at his apartment. Eden had given her directions and sent her over, then called to warn him.

He appreciated that, because now all the scattered gym socks were in the hamper and he wasn’t too deeply into a bottle. That would wait until after she left.

But truth be told, he was on his way to a pretty good buzz. Maybe Layla wouldn’t notice.

LAYLA©STOOD©NERVOUSLY on the concrete outside Justin’s second-story condo, hugging her coat closer to her body as protection against the stiff breeze. Why was she so agitated? Not a clue.

Liar. She was tense because Justin made her that way. She never knew what he was going to do, and she hated unpredictability. The door swung open and there he was, barefoot, dressed in washed-out jeans and a plain white T-shirt. His dark blond hair was out of control as always. She wondered if he still cut it himself.

“Layla. What a surprise.”

“I bet it is, what with you having my overnight bag and Eden calling to warn you that I was on my way.”

He smiled, that cocky Justin smile, but he wasn’t looking so cocky with the blackish-yellow circle under his eye. Plus, it was pretty obvious that he’d been drinking. She could smell it on him.

“Would you get it for me, please?” Because all she wanted to do was to get out of here. She’d seen Justin drunk before. He and Derek and Eric had whooped it up a time or two when their parents were gone. Her parents, of course, thought large house-wrecking parties were a rite of passage, and other than making the twins clean up and pay for any damage, turned a blind eye. Stupid, stupid outlook.

“Yeah, sure. You want to come in for a sec?”

“I, uh…no.” She gave her head a shake. She did not care to step into the lair.

He shrugged and walked away, holding a beer bottle by the neck. A few seconds later he was back with her small black case in his hand—a gift from Robert. She’d have to donate the bag to charity once she unpacked her clothes.

He held it out and Layla gingerly took it from him, noting that Justin had really nice hands—long, strong fingers that should have been used to make music. She’d forgotten about that—how she’d once told him he should be a musician. He’d laughed at her, since she’d been so disdainful of her parents’ obsession with all things Clapton. She’d been thinking of the violin or the piano, but had left in a huff before explaining matters to him. Justin Tremont playing a piano. Right.

She studied him warily. “I, uh, wanted to thank you for bringing me home Saturday night. And…I hope your eye is all right.”

“It’s feeling better.”

She drew in an audible breath. “Yes. Well. Sorry about that. I can see that you’ve been taking something for the pain.”

“My favorite painkiller.” He lifted the bottle of Black Butte Porter he held in his right hand, and Layla suppressed a grimace. Dark beer. Uck.

“How many have you had?”

“A few. The game’s on and you know how it is with guys, beer and games.”

“You sit home alone, drink beer and watch sports?”

“The hookers should be arriving any minute.”

“Don’t start, Justin. We’re not fourteen anymore.” She met his eyes. “Well, I’m not, anyway.”

“You wouldn’t have known that from the other night.”

She didn’t have an answer for that one, but she did have another question. “Uh…what all did I tell you? After you brought me home?”

“You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.”

“Let’s see…that bastard is sleeping with your trollop of a coworker.” He shrugged. “That about sums it up.”

Did she see pity in his eyes? Dear heavens, she hoped not, because she would not tolerate pity from Justin. “That’s all?”

“For the most part. I’m sorry about what happened.”

“I’m sorry about parts of it,” Layla said, thinking it was a sad day when she was confessing her troubles to Justin, even if he was rather intimately involved. But the situation was gnawing at her.

“What part?”

She looked up at him, meeting those rather amazing green eyes. Such a waste. He’d grown from an obnoxious skinny kid into a very striking guy. “The part where it affects my job.”

“Because of the trollop?” His shoulders were hunched against the brisk breeze that was blowing past him into his condo, and Layla heard the furnace kick on. Yet he stood in the open doorway, waiting for her response instead of sending her off and stepping back into his warm house.

“Yes, because of the trollop. I…” Layla gave an impatient, dismissive gesture. “It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

She blinked at his unexpected response. His expression remained serious. No smirk. Nothing. She narrowed her eyes slightly, gauging him. Something about this didn’t seem right.

Was it possible that he didn’t want to drink and watch the game alone? Well, if he was soliciting her company, then he must truly be desperate for companionship.