“Just for a minute,” I plea, rocking my newborn son in my arms. “Hold him for one damn minute.”
It’ll change your mind.
It has to change your mind.
Heather sneers, refusing to look at us, and crosses her arms, as if she’s scared I’ll push him into them.
I count to ten, my jaw clenching harder with each number. Ten hits and I blow out a series of calming breaths.
Not that it works.
I’m fighting to keep my cool.
For him.
Not her.
Fuck her.
“Enough is enough, Heather,” I say.
Her green eyes, void of emotion, narrow when they meet mine. “I told you, Cohen, I wanted out. I can’t do this—”
“You decided out of the fucking blue that you wanted out two months ago. A little too late to change your mind about having our baby.”
“I don’t want him. You agreed to accept all responsibility, and I expect you to keep your word.” She uncrosses her arms and rubs her hands together. “My job is done. I’m leaving.”
I trace the tiny features of Noah’s face with the pad of my thumb. “Give it a week. Please.”
“My flight leaves in three days.”
“Heather—”
“If you hoped me seeing him would change my mind, you were wrong.” She tips her head toward the little man in my arms. “Neither will holding him.”
Revulsion seeps through me when she turns around and walks away without giving us another glance.
How did I ever love this woman?
That love splinters into disgust.
Trailing a finger over Noah’s peach fuzz, I whisper, “Looks like it’s just you and me against the world, buddy.”