Lizzie Blake's Best Mistake (A Brush with Love, #2)(27)

“Don’t yell at me,” Lizzie shot back.

There was a pause. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice softer, but still holding a jagged edge. Lizzie understood that edge. She was dancing on it herself. “I’m sorry. This is just … This is the last thing I expected.”

Lizzie snorted. “Yeah, join the club.”

“We used condoms.”

Lizzie shrugged, even though he couldn’t see it. “They were … expired,” she admitted, swallowing past a dry, tight throat. “I’m sorry. That’s on me.”

“I—” Rake coughed. “I had just as much ability to check them as you did,” he whispered.

Another silence stretched out and threatened to kill her.

“Listen,” she said, finding some pretend reservoir of strength in her voice. “I’m calling because I thought you deserved to know. I don’t expect anything from you, okay? I don’t expect you to uproot your life or be forced to play house or do anything just because I want to keep the baby. I just thought you should know.” The words were tumbling out of her, a rambling disaster, but she needed him to understand that she didn’t need him. She could figure out her mess.

“I want to be involved,” he said suddenly. Forcefully. “I want to be involved, please don’t try and stop me.”

Lizzie’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Wait, what? Stop you? I’m saying—”

“I know what you’re saying,” he cut her off, “but I’m saying I want to be involved. If you’re keeping the baby, I want to be involved. Completely.”

Lizzie couldn’t suppress the nervous bubble of laughter that burst from her. She always laughed at the most serious moments. “While I can respect the sentiment, you live across the globe,” she pointed out.

“I’m booking a flight,” he said, leaving no room for argument, his words punctuated by the rattle of a keyboard.

“What?”

“We need to figure this out, and I think we should do it in person. I can be there in thirty-six hours.”

“Sorry … what?”

He didn’t respond, more keyboard clicking filling the line.

“Are you telling me you’re moving here in thirty-six hours?” Lizzie asked, her heart hammering up into her throat. This was a lot to comprehend, and her brain seemed to be moving in slow motion.

“No, that will take a bit more planning—”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“But,” he pressed, ignoring her comment, “I’m coming to see you. We have a lot to figure out.”

“You don’t have to figure anything out. I can handle this.”

Rake didn’t say anything.

“Why are you doing this?” Lizzie asked weakly. For some reason, the idea of him coming, being involved, being a witness to the inevitable mess she would be at this, was agonizing. “I’m giving you an out. You don’t have to do this.”

There was yet another long pause. This one felt heavy, weighted, something close to pain punctuating the silence.

“Rake?” she prompted at last.

He cleared his throat. “I don’t want an out. I’ll see you in thirty-six hours.”





Chapter 15




AFTER buying a ticket for the next flight Rake could realistically catch to Philadelphia and booking a hotel room, he phoned his boss.

“Hello?” Robert answered in his gruff voice after the third ring. Robert was the president of Onism, a long-standing luxury swimsuit line that was a staple among Australia’s richest.

“Robert, hi. It’s Rake. Have a minute?”

“This couldn’t wait until I see you at the office in an hour?”

Rake looked at his watch. 7:30 a.m. He’d been halfway out the door when Lizzie had called him. “No, sir. I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling great. If we can manage, I think I need a few days off.”

“A few?” Robert asked skeptically. Rake never got sick, never took time off, so this request was no doubt odd to his boss.

Rake cleared his throat, fumbling to come up with a lie. “Yes, sir. I visited my mum this weekend, and she had … strep,” he said, grabbing at the first illness he could come up with. “And I think I caught it. Heading to the doctor in a bit.” He drummed his thumb on the counter, hoping that his rustiness at lying could be mistaken for some sort of high fever.

“Pity about your mum,” Robert said distractedly, the noise of a morning household floating in the background behind him. Then, pulling the phone away from his ear he called out, “Betty, have you seen my navy tie?”

“So is a few days okay?” Rake prompted.

“That should be fine,” Robert grumbled. “But what about your meeting with Walton’s?” he asked, referring to a small, regional department store in the south of the country Rake was scheduled to meet with later in the week, hoping to develop an exclusive marketing campaign with them for Onism’s next line of resort pieces.

“Anderson can cover the pitch,” Rake said, throwing in a fake cough for dramatics.

Robert grunted in response. “Well, make sure he has the slide deck,” Robert added. “Feel better.”