Suddenly One Summer (FBI/US Attorney #6)(77)

She felt a lump in her throat. That was . . . a really sweet thing for him to offer. “That won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

He pulled back, his eyes searching hers. “What the f*ck is going on, Victoria?”

She blinked, caught off guard by his sudden anger. “I told you what’s going on.”

He stepped closer, his expression a mixture of confusion and something else she couldn’t read. “Everything was fine until tonight. But then you faint, and suddenly you’re shoving me out the door.” He paused. “Did I . . . do something wrong?”

“No,” she said emphatically, feeling terrible he would even ask. “Not at all.”

“Then help me understand what’s happening.” His expression softened. “Victoria, talk to me.”

She looked down at the ground, needing a moment, and then met his gaze. “I don’t want to fight with you, Ford.”

He stepped closer, his lips curved in an affectionate smile. “Shockingly, this time I actually don’t want to fight with you, either.”

“But I do want you to go,” she said softly.

He stopped, hearing that.

She saw a brief flicker of emotion in his eyes, but then his expression turned stony. His voice was cool as he backed away from her.

“You know what? Fine. I spent years living with someone who ran hot and cold. Someone who would be my best friend—my f*cking hero—one day, and then the next morning he’d wake up hungover—or sometimes even still drunk—and tell me to get the hell out of his face, or backhand me for making too much noise while playing basketball on the driveway.”

She took a step toward him. “Ford.”

“Don’t.” He held up his hand. “You don’t want me around, Victoria? No problem. I’ll get the hell out of your way, no more questions asked.”

Without so much as a second glance, he turned and walked out of her loft, slamming her front door behind him.

When he was gone, Victoria put her hand on her stomach and inhaled slow and deep, just like the good doctor had taught her.

Breathe, Slade.

Just breathe.

Twenty-eight

THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY morning, Victoria caught herself once again staring out her office windows when Will came in with his update.

She sat upright in her chair and put on a smile. “So? What’s the word?”

The day’s mail had been delivered and, notably, once again there hadn’t been any paternity test results for Peter Sutter. Wanting to keep the momentum of the case going now that she had Sutter’s attention, she’d asked Will to call the lab and find out how much longer it would take them to process the results.

“Get this: the lab says Sutter never showed up to take the paternity test,” Will said.

“You’re kidding,” Victoria said.

She was so going to light this guy up.

“Thanks, Will.” After he left her office, Victoria reached for her phone and dialed Peter Sutter’s work number. “Well, Mr. Sutter, it appears we’re going to do this the hard way,” she said when he answered.

“No, no—we’re good,” Peter said immediately. “I planned to call you today to explain. I’m going to the lab on my lunch break, I swear. It’s been a crazy week—Melanie got an abnormal result on her quad screen test, so we had to do an ultrasound, but that was still inconclusive, so then she had to have an amniocentesis . . . and luckily, everything’s okay with the baby. But with all the medical procedures and everything going on at home, I didn’t get a chance to get to the lab.”

Either Victoria was losing her touch, or Peter Sutter was the best damn bullshit artist she’d ever encountered. Because, despite his extremely spotty track record, she actually believed the guy.

Which was a shame, really. Given her mood, she’d rather been looking forward to biting someone’s head off.

“Today, Mr. Sutter,” she said, in no uncertain terms. “It’s a cheek swab, not brain surgery. Get yourself to the lab or I’ll come down to that gym with a Q-tip and get it myself.”

She hung up the phone, debated whether to call Nicole with the update, and then ultimately decided to wait until after lunch to see whether Sutter actually did go to the lab as promised.

Then her mind drifted—as it had several other times this week—to the other Dixon. The one who’d stormed out of her place four days ago.

You don’t want me around, Victoria? No problem. I’ll get the hell out of your way, no more questions asked.

Feeling terrible about their argument, she’d texted Ford the morning after and apologized for the way things had ended. His reply, several hours later, had been short and not especially sweet.

Don’t worry about it.

She hadn’t seen him since, although she knew he was around. She could hear him through their shared wall at night, watching the news per his routine, while she lay in bed trying to pretend she was actually reading whatever the heck book she had open on her e-reader.

She’d thought about knocking on his door to try to smooth over the awkwardness, but in the end she’d decided it was probably better to just let things go. He clearly had zero interest in talking to her, which she undoubtedly deserved. She had ended things out of the blue, after the man had carried her off a train and gone above and beyond to take care of her.