The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection Frost, J (good beach reads .TXT) 📖

bottle from her ridiculously expensive-looking, leather handbag.

“I always forget how hot it is here,” she says.

“Uh-huh. How’s the summer been in England?” I ask, not because I really care, but because there’s nothing I want to talk about with her, so we might as well discuss the weather.

“Lovely,” she says. “Sunny and warm but nothing like this. I went for a stroll along the river last night and needed a cardi.”

Miranda’s probably talking about the Thames. She always talks about London as though it’s the only city in the world and the Thames is the only river. She lives in Brentford, a suburb that isn’t quite as posh as neighboring Chiswick, but is seriously up and coming.

Just like Miranda.

“I finished work on Friday,” she continues. “I don’t know if I mentioned it, but I got that promotion. Team administrator.”

Very up and coming, and she never hesitates to let me know it.

“Congratulations.”

“They have to hold the position open for me, of course. I can’t imagine having a child over here.” She waves at the New York skyline. “Three months leave. It’s barbaric. With my holiday time, I’ll have nearly a year.”

“Uh-huh.” I’m sure that delights her employer, but I don’t care enough to discuss it. I stare out the window at the passing buildings, wishing I was anywhere but here.

She draws in a long breath and blows it out. “What do you want me to do, Lo? Beg? Go over your knee? I’m a little big.” She rubs her palms over her belly.

I give her a side-eye. “I’m not your master anymore, Mir. If you’re looking to be punished and forgiven, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

“I am sorry!” she hisses.

I turn my head and look at her. Now, she’s flushed. “Are you? No, don’t answer that. I don’t care if you’re sorry or not. All that matters now is dealing with the consequences.”

It’s her turn to stare out the window. “Why does it matter to you? If you don’t want me back, then why are you pushing this paternity test?”

“If I’m the father, I’m seeking custody,” I say simply.

“What?” She swings her head back to stare at me incredulously. “Have you lost your mind?”

I shrug. I’m not debating sanity with this woman. If she thinks about it for two seconds, she’ll realize the irony.

“What can you possibly want with custody of my baby?” Miranda persists. “You never wanted children.”

I don’t want children with Miranda. I never did. I still don’t. She’s wholly unfit to be a mother. Aside from The Thing she doesn’t know I know about, she’s one of the more self-centered people I’ve ever known, with the values of a social class I’ve come to despise. I can’t imagine standing by and watching her pass that on to our kid. Parenting with her would be an unending tug-of-war. If I’m the father, I’m seeking sole custody. But that’s a fight for another day.

“You’re right. I never wanted children.” I leave “with you” unspoken. “But I’d also never abandon what’s mine.”

“You bastard. This is my baby,” Miranda hisses through her straight, white teeth. Very un-British, Miranda’s teeth. Otherwise, she’s a perfect English rose.

“Everything in me hopes that Colin’s the father. When I pray, that’s what I pray for. But if he’s not, if I’m the biological father, then I’m seeking custody. I don’t walk away from the consequences of my actions, Mir. You’ve known me long enough to know that.”

She turns her head to stare out the window again and we pass the rest of the trip to the East Village in silence.

* * *

I try to drop her off at her hotel, but she’s not having any of it. She insists that I stay with her during check in, which makes sense on one level since the room is reserved on my credit card, and I notice she doesn’t try to put it on hers, but on another level, it just irritates the ever-loving fuck out of me.

Her room’s small but nice, all white linens and dark-stained wood, with a view over First Park. She gestures to the mirror-fronted closet and I set her rolling case inside it, then prepare to escape.

“Can I meet her now?” Miranda asks, before I can make it out the door.

“Who?”

“Emily, of course.”

That was the plan, but now that Miranda’s here, and all my anger has coalesced into a hot, spinning ball in my gut, and the clanging chimes of doom haven’t stopped ringing in my head, and I realize it’s not a count-down to her arrival, but to me going around the fucking bend, having her over for dinner seems like the worst idea in the world.

“Why? You’ve spoken to her on the phone and had not a single nice thing to say to her. Why would I let you meet her?”

She glares at me. “If she’s going to be part of your life, and if you’re seeking custody, then I have a right to know who is going to be in contact with my baby.”

“Miranda.” I shake my head. I don’t actually disagree with her, but she’s getting so far ahead of herself, it’s untrue. “She actually wanted to invite you to dinner, but that seems like a terrible idea now. How ’bout I meet you tomorrow at the testing center?”

Miranda flips her hair over her shoulders. “Give me five minutes to clean up and I’ll be happy to accept Emily’s invitation.”

Fuck me. I pull out the tiny desk chair from the equally tiny desk and take the weight off my aching leg. While Miranda washes, I pull out my phone. I have an unread text at 15:50 from Emily to say she’s had her snack. I send her a text back.

Good girl for eating your snack. Miranda’s coming to dinner.

She must have her phone right next to her because her response is immediate.

Great! Arsenic hors d’oeuvre will be served at 6.

That’s almost enough to make me smile.

I’m already in the throttling zone.

Poor Daddy. I know what will help.

She