Page 86 of Sterling Heat

He hasn’t pressed me for the truth, but there’s an accusation in his eyes when he’s asked about her father. At this point, I’m certain he thinks Lance is the dad when I’ve told Sebastian he isn’t.

My parents suggested I say Lance was Adara’s father. It would make sense after being together so long and having a momentary relapse last summer. They even went so far as to hint I could get child support from my ex if I made such a claim. However, Lance isn’t Adara’s father, and I would never feel right stating he was. Not only because I don’t want his money, but because I wouldn’t want his name associated with my sweet baby.

Now, if a certain someone suggested Sylver be her last name . . . But that’s wishful thinking and like always, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m taking Sebastian’s kindness, friendship, good orgasms, and a promise to try, and turning that combination into a complex layered cake.

Similar to Lance, Sebastian is not suggesting we are anything other than friends, even if he says he’s interested and I’m his number one. Like when younger people say they are talking to someone, but they aren’t officially dating. If anything, I should be upset that Sebastian isn’t dispelling the paternity rumors because the gossip assumes I’ve slept with a man whom I’m not living with, not engaged to, and not going to marry. A mystery woman who suddenly appeared . . . with Sebastian Sylver’s child. I’m his baby mama.

I shiver at the derogatory suggestion.

Suddenly, the cheese in my mouth tastes moldy and the chunk of bread along with it tastes like chalk. I set down the remaining piece of bread and swipe my hands together.

“I’m going to get a lemonade. Want one?” A group of high school kids are making the refreshing drink from scratch with a full lemon, a cup of sugar, and a container of ice, and that lemony goodness has my name all over it.

“You love your lemons,” Sebastian teases. He’s lying on his side across a blanket while Adara sleeps in the stroller with a lightweight baby blanket draped over it to prevent the sun from hitting her.

With a tight nod, I hum and stand. As I near the canopied stand, someone bumps into my side.

“I’m so sorry,” a masculine voice says at the same time I apologize. His hand lands on my hip while I catch his bicep to steady myself.

Glancing up, I recognize the man who held the door for me the other day at the bakery.

“We meet again.” His smile is warmer this time. His eyes are lighter in the sunlight. He squints and glances around. “No baby?”

“She’s sleeping in her stroller over there.” I point in the general direction of Sebastian, who I notice sits upright, looking like a jeans model with one knee bent and an arm crooked over it, while the other stretches down the length of the blanket. He’s perched up on his other hand, watching me.

“Too bad. I could hold another door for you.”

Turning back to the stranger and his flirtatious tone, I look at him with pinched brows. “No doors around.” I twist to indicate the open space around us.

“I’ll just need to find a place that has one. Maybe Milton’s Roadhouse, where I can open the door for you, and we could share a drink inside.”

My mouth slightly opens. Is he asking me out? “Need to escape the heat?”

“Trying to ask you to meet me for a drink.” His smile grows larger. His dark eyes twinkle beneath the sun.

I’m flattered by his attention, but I’m not attracted to him. There’s something about him that suggests I should be on my guard, although the judgement feels unfair. He’s been nothing but polite. Maybe it’s just that a certain someone takes up all my headspace and my heart.

“I’m kind of in a tough spot,” I cautiously admit. “With the baby. Not much of a social life.” I wave a hand, brushing off the rejection, by making Adara my excuse, hoping not to hurt his feelings.

“But you’ll be sticking around tonight for the fireworks, right?”

I hadn’t decided yet, as the timing depends on Adara and her fussiness. “Still on the fence.”

“Well, if you decide to get off the fence, I’d be willing to open a gate for you. Or ready to open a door for you at Milton’s.” He winks.

My face heats. He’s rather charming, and again, I’m flattered. The prospect of a date, when only a week ago I didn’t think I’d ever be attractive to any man, is a compliment. However, I already have a man giving me mind-blowing orgasms and mind-puzzling whiplash with his words and actions sometimes in conflict.

“Thank you. Maybe I’ll see you there.” It isn’t fair to lead him on, but his good-natured smile suggests he won’t be holding his breath waiting on me.

“At least let me buy you a lemonade.” We step up to the table as it’s finally my turn and he pulls a twenty from his pocket. Holding it out to the teen, he says, “Make it two.”

“You don’t need to do that.” He probably shouldn’t do it. Allowing him to buy me even a simple lemonade sends the wrong message. Before I can protest, though, he’s handing me the sugary drink in a large plastic cup. When he’s offered his change, he sets the full amount in the transparent jar labeled: College Fund.

“That was very generous of you.” I nod toward the tip jar.

He lifts his lemonade and takes a sip, puckering his lips at the sweet-tart flavor. “Gotta go to college. Stay off the streets and away from drugs.”

My head swims as déjà vu wraps around me. I’ve heard those words before, but the voice in my head isn’t this man’s. The sound is fleetingly familiar. Who said that before?