One Baby Daddy (Dating by Numbers #3)(67)

That’s the last thing I need.

Dr. Dallas inserts the wand, and my eyes shut as she shifts it around. Here I am pregnant, legs spread, an ultrasound tool lodged up my vagina, and the father is across the country without a care. I never expected a moment like this in my twenties, but here I am.

“Ah, look, there is it.”

Turning to the side, the screen lights up with white waves surrounded by black. Right in the middle is a tiny circle that looks more like a lima bean than anything.

“From the looks of it, you’re almost six weeks along.”

Sounds about right.

Logan squeezes my hand as I stare at the screen. Dr. Dallas is taking measurements and printing pictures, but the entire time, my mind is whirling with what I created. What Hayden and I created.

That tiny blip, that little baby is going to be born into a crazy, chaotic world. A mother completely freaked out, not knowing what the future will hold, and an oblivious father losing nothing. Life will simply go on for him, and I will eventually become a tiny blip on his radar. And I know that’s on me, but right now, I feel resentful and sad.

A tear slips down my cheek.

This baby deserves so much more.

Chapter Eighteen

HAYDEN

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I stand outside the restaurant, looking up at the neon sign.

Going in Blind.

Christ. This was a stupid idea, but when Calder told me he made me a profile a few weeks ago on the dating app, I didn’t really have an option.

I was matched with a few profiles but didn’t jump on them. I wasn’t interested. But after a few more weeks of feeling so damn alone, I decided to give it a try, if anything to at least not spend another night alone in my apartment watching Jane the Virgin on Netflix, which if I have to be honest is a good fucking show.

But I’m regretting it now. As much as I like to think I’m over Adalyn, I’m not.

I’m so not fucking over her. I don’t want to be over Adalyn. I want her to be mine. I think of her every goddamn day. I wonder what she’s doing. I wonder if I should send her flowers or lunch at work. I consider punching a wall every time I think about Logan being around her. Fucking happy as ever. When I’m clearheaded, I know that Adalyn didn’t dump me because she has feelings for Logan. But fuck if it doesn’t sting that he gets to see her every day, and right now, I’d settle for that. So, instead, I’ll focus on hating the bastard.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and tilt them to the sky. You can do this, Hayden. The profile suggests the girl was nice, she declared her love for Tom Hanks, which tells me she’s a classy lady. She could have said Zac Efron or Ryan Reynolds or some other Hollywood heartthrob, but she went classic with Tom Hanks. Leads me to believe she’s not going to be someone chasing after hockey players for one thing . . . the celebrity chaser.

Making my way through the doors, a beautiful African American woman at the hostess desk greets me. Her hair is pulled back, black eyelashes flutter, and a warm smile tugs on her lips.

“Welcome to Going in Blind. How can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah.” Hands stuffed in my pockets, I take in the ambiance of the restaurant. Fun and intimate with its modern aesthetics and exposed white brick walls, but the mood lighting creates a romantic feel. “I have a date with ShopGirl.”

“Ah yes, she’s waiting for you at the bar. She’s the blonde in the black turtleneck. Shall I show you to her?”

“Nah, that’s okay. I got it. Thank you, though.” I tap the desk and head over to the bar after the hostess tells me where we’ll be sitting for the evening. My date seems to be looking a little . . . loose. Her hand grips tightly onto a small tumbler, which she then tilts back, her head craning to accommodate the dump of liquid down her throat.

This should be fun . . .

“ShopGirl?”

The blonde spins around in her chair, her movements erratic and very . . . wobbly.

“IceBiscuit?”

When making a profile you had to choose a username. Can you tell Calder made mine?

Hmm, taking her in, I can’t help but think . . . I know this girl. We’ve met before. Where have we met—

It hits me.

Noely Clark, the morning show host whose friend tried to hook us up. What are the odds?

“Pecs,” she mutters under her breath, her eyes glossy, taking in my chest, trying to peer through my shirt as if she has X-ray vision.

Before I can ask her if she’s okay, her hand falls to my chest where she starts playing with the fabric of my shirt. Her face bright red, most likely a side effect of the alcohol she’s already consumed, she takes me in, observing my jeans, the black button-up shirt she’s playing with, to my face where she tilts her head to the side.

Realization hits her slower than let’s say someone who wasn’t chugging back what smells like a bottle of whiskey.

Shaking her hand away, as if my chest was on fire, she stands from her chair and with all the grace of a bottle of vodka, she stumbles forward falling to her knees right in front of me.

Popping up quickly, like a gymnast, she throws her arms in the air and bows to her left and right while saying, “Nine point five, not a perfect ten, but I’ll get there.” Laughing nervously, she rights her shirt, and lowers her arms. “They don’t score like that anymore, but who’s really going to say fourteen-point-two-six-seven? I mean, especially when the viewers don’t know the degree of difficulty. You know? Gymnastics, am I right?”