Page 46 of Not Mine to Rescue

I fought the urge to rush to the bathroom and vomit.

“Isn’t he the cutest?”

I didn’t give a fuck. And oh, hell no. Someone was shoving him at me to hold. I held out both hands in protest. “I’m covered in dog hair, and⁠—“

Jesus Christ. Denise plopped Jim’s pride and joy into my hands. Whether it was instinct or lawsuit avoidance, I carefully cradled the little guy’s head and tucked him closer so I wouldn’t drop him.

But what if I fainted?

I didn’t even glance at him. I barely dared to breathe. What if I got him sick?

And worse... what if I got angry, or what if I looked down and fell in love and then did something insane like not hand him back? So many things were running through my head, I wasn’t paying attention to the crowd of coworkers and my ex-plus-family commenting on how “nice” it was that the divorce was amicable and we were all just one big happy family, weren’t we?

If it wasn’t a senior partner asking, I would have ignored it. Instead, I did what I needed to in order to survive the scrutiny. I lied. “Absolutely. He’s beautiful, Denise.” With that, she smiled, and I took the opportunity and shoved him back into her arms.

Holy hell!

My hands were shaking.

Jim wrapped an arm around Denise and stared down at his son.

It felt like I was watching a movie or a play on stage. It was titled “The perfect family.” Jim looked casual in his blue polo shirt and field jacket. He wore jeans. Denise appeared picture-perfect in her belted, double-layered, cowl shawl and khakis.

Two weeks post-pregnancy and she was already losing the baby weight. Not to mention her thick hair, perfect nails, and skin glowing with health.

Sure, she still had a little puffiness around the chin and eyes from water gain, but...

Was I really dissecting her looks?

Yes. I made a mental note to call my therapist again.

The infant in her arms made smacking noises and let out a little squeak of protest.

Denise indicated to an inner hallway. “Oh, may I use the family room to nurse him?”

Because, of course, she was breastfeeding.

But it was located in the same hall as my office. It was as if the universe wanted to shove their baby down my throat.

“How’s my cases coming along?”

My eyes narrowed at Jim’s question. A million and one snide remarks about the workload and the disorder of his note-taking clamored to spill from my lips. But I was a professional who knew how to read the room. If I put out one peep of complaint, one, I’d never stop at just one complaint, and two, I’d reveal myself as the bitter ex who was too emotional to handle a little pressure. It would kill my chances for the future. “They’re fine. You take all the time you need to get used to being a parent.”

Did that really come out of my mouth? And it even sounded perfectly calm and kind.

When I packed up and got home for the night, I planned to pour a sixteen-ounce glass of vodka as dinner. Maybe then I’d die and be spared from all this.

Whoa.

Not suicidal, remember? What I needed was Molly, maybe a movie, and those three orgasms Wombat promised. Of course, that wouldn’t happen because I’d blown off our celebration date.

My life was a mess.

“Are you sure? Maybe we could talk while Denise is feeding Jake.”

I shouldn’t be angry. “I’ve got this, Jim.”

“Are you sure? I know your caseload was already packed and⁠—”