Final Offer (Dreamland Billionaires, #3)(4)

God. You’re pathetic. I smack my head against the wall, and it throbs with retaliation.

“Here, mister. For your boo-boo.”

Oh, shit.

Alana has a daughter. A five-year-old daughter with dirty blond hair and big blue eyes eerily like mine. With me sitting down, we’re nearly the same height, although she has a couple of extra inches on me from this angle.

Alana’s child—possibly my child—stares down at me with round eyes and pajamas that are buttoned incorrectly. Her hair color borders on light brown, with most of the wavy strands falling out of her poorly constructed ponytail.

Is she mine?

God, I hope not.

The thought is shitty but true. I’m not ready to be a father yet. Hell, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ready. Until this point, I was satisfied with becoming the cool uncle who never really got his life together in time to have any kids. How could I when I’m only able to do the bare minimum for myself?

The kid shakes an ice pack in front of my face while she bounces on the tips of her toes. I reach out mindlessly and grab it from her.

“Are you okay?”

I wince at the sound of the child’s voice. It reminds me of Lana’s, right down to the slight rasp she has. Another dizzy spell hits me.

Lana rises and kisses the top of her daughter’s head. “Thank you, baby. That’s sweet of you to help him.”

“Do we need a doctor?”

“No. He just needs to get some rest.”

“And a strong drink,” I grumble.

Lana turns toward her daughter. “See? He’s good enough to make bad decisions again. All is well in the world.”

Her nose twitches. “That don’t make sense.”

Lana sighs. “I’ll explain in the morning, mi amor.”

“But—”

Lana points toward the stairs. “Vete a dormir ahora mismo.”

God. She looks and sounds just like her mother.

Maybe because she is a mother.

My body goes numb.

Are you having a heart attack?

From the way my left arm tingles and my heart feels like it might launch itself out of my chest, I wouldn’t rule it out.

The kid points at me with a chubby finger. “He don’t look so good.”

“He’ll be fine. He’s just got a headache.”

“Maybe your kiss will make it all better like my boo-boos.”

“No,” Lana and I both say at the same time.

“Okay. No kisses.” The child crosses her arms with a pout.

Lana’s eyes dip toward my mouth. Her tongue darts out to trace her bottom lip, turning the tips of my ears pink.

You’re hopeless. Completely and utterly hopeless.

“Will you read me a story?” The kid interrupts us, her voice having the same effect as an ice bucket on my mood.

Could she really be mine? Would Lana hide a kid from me for years solely because she hates me?

The room spins around me. I shut my eyes to avoid looking at my mini-me and Alana.

“Camila,” Lana warns.

“You still both owe the swear jar,” her daughter reminds her.

I can picture Lana rolling her eyes as she says, “Remind me in the morning.”

“Okay!” The sound of feet slapping against the wood stairs echoes off the tall ceilings.

Lana doesn’t speak until a door clicks closed in the distance. “She’s gone now, so you can stop pretending to be asleep.”

I stare up at the chandelier. “Is she—” No matter how hard I try, I can’t finish the sentence. Lana never seemed like the type to hide a secret like this, but people do crazy things to protect the ones they love, especially from those that will hurt them.

Maybe that’s why Grandpa gave Lana the deed to the house. He could have thought I was doing a shitty job supporting my kid, so he took charge.

Assuming he left her the house in the first place.

“Is she what?” Lana presses.

“Mine?”

She blinks. “Did you seriously just ask me that?”

“Just answer me.” My fear morphs into agitation. I’m not quick to give in to my anger, but between the early signs of a headache and learning about a child who I didn’t know existed, my patience is running thin.

“Would it matter if she is?”

Lana’s question feels like a trap, yet I willingly fall into it anyway. “Yes. No. Maybe. Fuck! I don’t know. Is she?” I run my hands through my hair and tug at the strands, making the tender skin throb.

“If you’re actually asking me that, then you must not know me at all.”

I scramble to my feet, ignoring the unsteadiness as I rise to my full height. “What do you expect me to think? It’s not like we left things on good terms the last time we saw each other.”

“So you assume I’d keep your child away from you because of my personal feelings?”

“Either that or you moved on pretty damn fast from the sound of it.” It’s an awful thing to say. An angry, judgmental, stupid-as-fuck statement that I regret the moment it comes out. I can’t even blame alcohol this time, which only makes my outburst that much worse.

The temperature in the room drops.

“Get out,” she whispers.

I remain frozen in place. “Shit. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I mean, I know why I said it, but I shouldn’t have—”