Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“This employee is no longer with the clinic,” Dr. Wickham adds, messing with the pen in his jacket pocket.
I never met him back in the day. I dealt only with his office staff and the nurses who took my blood and processed my donation. I’d seen his face on a business card by the front desk once. Nice smile. Lots of letters after his name. That’s about all I recall.
“I don’t want the settlement,” I say.
Farber taps my hand and mutters something I can’t hear.
“No,” I say. “I want part of that money to go into a college account for the child. And I want the rest to go into a trust for her. On top of that, I’d like a little extra for the mother.”
“We’re currently in the process of negotiating a separate settlement with her,” Wickham’s first lawyer says. He raps his meaty knuckles against the table top.
“Similar terms to what you’re offering me?” I ask.
His team exchanges looks before the second one answers, “We’re not at liberty to discuss another patient’s settlement with you. I’m sorry, Mr. Catalano.”
I should be back in LA right now, practicing for next week’s Rosemont Open, not sitting here banging my head against the wall with a bunch of apes. Dragging in a ragged breath, I grab a fistful of hair before rising and shoving the chair out from under me.
“Where are you going?” Steen asks.
“Getting some air.” Abandoning the conference room, I storm toward the first exit I see—and wind up in the rear parking lot, stopping short in front of a sapphire blue Subaru with an empty gray car seat in the back.
“Shoot.” A soft voice steals my attention, and when I follow the sound, I find a curvy brunette in skin-tight black leggings that stop just below her calves, a white tank top that scoops low enough in the front to showcase her generous tits, and a faded jean jacket cuffed at her elbows. In a haphazard rush, she gathers the strewn contents of her spilled purse from the sidewalk—lip gloss, car keys, hand sanitizer, Kleenex, wet wipes, a packet of pureed applesauce ...
Crouching, her silky chocolate waves spill down her shoulders, hiding her face, and the sunglasses that were perched on the top of her head tumble off, skidding across the concrete.
I seize a bullet of lipstick from the grass—and her scratched sunglasses.
And then I wait.
By the time she’s finished, she reaches for the top of her head, feeling around before scrunching her nose when she realizes her glasses are gone.
“Looking for these?” I wave, her belongings in my grip.
Sucking in a stunned breath, the woman gazes up at me with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, so blue they can’t possibly be of this world, so icy and vibrant I lose my train of thought. Framed with a fringe of thick dark lashes, she peers up at me and quickly looks away—the way most people do when they recognize me.
“Thanks.” Biting a full, rose-colored lower lip, she rises and takes the lipstick and glasses from my hand. “There’s an uneven crack in the sidewalk back there, so be careful …”
“Will do.”
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she steals another glimpse at me before fishing her keys from her bag and striding toward the sapphire Subaru with the baby seat in back.
“You’re Fabian Catalano, aren’t you?” she asks before she climbs inside.
Most people typically don’t ask that—they just know. Regardless, I nod and pray she doesn’t ask what the hell I’m doing at a fertility clinic outside Chicago. This is how blind items and TMZ articles get started. Last thing I need is some nosy internet sleuth digging into my business because they saw some gossipy post on Instagram.
Without another word—and before she has a chance to ask for a selfie with me—I shove my hands in my pockets and strut down the sidewalk, ensuring I avoid the place that caused her to take a spill.
“Wait,” she calls.
I turn around and spot her leaning against her car, arms folded casually across her chest as she examines me.
“I don’t do pictures. Sorry.” I turn away when she calls out again.
“I don’t want a picture.” She steps toward me, her white Adidas scuffing against the pavement. “I just … this is going to sound weird, but I just wanted to thank you.”
Facing her again, my gaze narrows. “For what?”
We’re separated now by a handful of feet, and I find myself momentarily distracted by her pointy chin, her delicate nose, that rosy pout, and those hooded, hypnotic blues. She isn’t like the women back in LA. I swear there’s a legion of clones, all of them with the same overfilled lips, the same wavy blonde extensions, the same fluffy lashes, and expressionless, Botoxed faces.
Her tank top is tugged down in one spot, revealing a hint of a lacy white bra barely containing her spilling cleavage, but I do my best to keep my eyes trained on hers.