Juniper Hill (The Edens #2)(37)

She was dusting a dresser with a yellow microfiber rag.

Her hair was in a ponytail, the ends swishing against her spine.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

She was entirely too attractive to resist.

I rapped my knuckles on the door, then strode into the room, making sure to keep more than an arm’s length between us so that I didn’t kiss her again. Not until this conversation was over.

“If you want to pay more rent, then pay it.”

She blinked, standing straight. “I do.”

“Done.” I nodded. “Like I said last night, I enjoy cooking for you. If you don’t like extras from the restaurant, fine. I won’t bring them over. At home, I usually have plenty of stuff on hand, but if I’m ever short, maybe you could hit the store.”

The corner of her mouth turned up. “Just send me your list.”

“You’re not charity.” I lost the battle with the distance and closed the space between us. “My mom made you a pie. It’s not charity either. She makes pies for people she likes.”

“I like her too.”

“This job is not charity. You’ve earned it. You’ve kept it.

You. Got it?”

She nodded.

“Out loud, Memphis.”

“Got it,” she whispered.

My hand lifted to tug at the end of her ponytail. “That kiss was not charity.”

“I didn’t think it was.”

“Good.” I took her hand and pulled her to the edge of the bed, taking a seat. “I’m not one for complicated these days.”

“I get it.” She slipped her hand from mine, dropping her gaze to her lap. “This doesn’t have to be anything. You don’t owe me an explanation. We can forget the kiss ever happened.”

I couldn’t forget it if I tried. “Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

Her entire body sagged. “I don’t want to be your mistake.”

Those words held so much pain. So much weight. She’d been someone else’s mistake.

If I had to guess, I’d say it was Drake’s father.

Memphis hadn’t offered that story. Considering she hadn’t told her own family and, to keep her secret, had given up a

trust fund, I doubted she’d confide in me.

Not yet. Maybe if I made my own confession, she’d realize she wasn’t the only one with a story.

“When I lived in San Francisco, I was dating a woman.

Gianna. We were together for about a year. And during most of that year, she was pregnant.”

Memphis sat straighter, her eyes widening. “You have a child?”

I gave her a sad smile. “No.”

“Oh, God.” Her hand came to her mouth.

“It’s not what you think. Gianna has a child. A son. His name is Jadon.”

“But . . . he’s not yours?”

“Thought he was mine. We started dating and she got pregnant. Neither of us expected it, certainly wasn’t planned, but we made the best of it. Gianna moved in. I went to the doctors’ appointments. Tagged names in the baby-name book.

Helped her decorate the nursery in our cramped apartment.

Held her hand through labor.”

“You were the dad.”

“I was the dad. After we got home from the hospital, I spent long nights walking the baby back and forth across the apartment.”

Just like I’d done for Drake.

“That was your look.” Memphis’s eyes softened. “When you’d come over at night, there were times you looked miserable. Just for a second. This is why.”

“Yes.” I hadn’t realized she’d noticed. But I was learning that Memphis didn’t miss much. “Jadon was two weeks old when it all fell apart. Gianna took him in for a doctor’s appointment. I came home from work four days later and she told me that he wasn’t mine.”

Memphis gasped. “Knox.”

Gianna had dropped a bomb on my life and everything had exploded. After a long day, I’d come home, dead on my feet, and found Gianna on the couch. Jadon had been asleep. I’d sat beside her, instantly knowing something was wrong. And then she’d looked at me with tears in her eyes. She’d apologized first.

Then she’d taken my son. She’d changed my life.

“She cheated. At the beginning of our relationship, she slept with a guy she knew from college. She suspected Jadon might not be mine but chose not to say anything. She told me she’d hoped I was the father. But then he was born and . . . she wanted the truth.”

Memphis’s hand closed over mine. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” I whispered. “I haven’t talked about Gianna in a long time.”

“I get that. It’s painful to dredge up the past.”

“Is that why you don’t talk about yours?”

“Yes.” It was only one word, but there was a plea for me not to ask. Not yet.

“I would have stayed in San Francisco,” I told her. “Been there for Jadon. But Gianna and I were done, and she made the decision that if we weren’t going to stay together, it was better to call it quits. She moved out. And I . . .”