The Black Sheep's Baby

“I was going to say I didn’t know you were a photographer.”

It wasn’t what he’d expected. He lowered the shovel blade to the floor and leaned on the handle. “My mom been blabbing?”

“No. I went to check on the baby and saw the photos in your room. I asked about them, and she told me they were yours. And that you’re a professional photographer.”

He gave a soft grunt and corrected it. “Photojournalist.”

She said, “Ah,” and went on looking at him in a searching, appraising kind of way he found intensely annoying.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he said after a moment, smiling without amusement. “What did you think? Yeah, I have a profession, even earn a living at it, pay taxes and everything. You just assumed I was some homeless street person?”

“Why shouldn’t I think that?” she shot back, riled and defensive. “How else would you have met my sister, much less—”

“Got her pregnant?”

Devon closed her eyes and held up a hand to stop him in case he meant to say more, which he sure as hell didn’t. As far as Eric was concerned, any conversation with this woman was a waste of time.

“Look,” she said, taking in a long draught of air through her nose—the smell of which seemed to surprise her a bit, since her eyes got watery and she blinked and gave her head a little shake to clear it before she went on. “I just thought, since we apparently got off on the wrong foot this morning—” She broke off. Eric was shaking his head.