Forbidden: A Stepbrother Secret Baby Romance by Vesper Vaughn Page B

of work to get ahead on before we fly out tonight, okay?"
    His words sting. I would have a lot of work to do as well, but today will just be another day with my six-month-old baby instead. I love Ryan; he is a bundle of chubbiness and giggles and is overall an incredibly mellow baby. But I’m going stir-crazy stuck at home all day without adult interaction. To make matters worse, today is going to be spent with the mind-numbing tasks associated with travel: getting the house cleaned up for our return, packing everything up, and cleaning out the fridge. "You already packed your suitcase, right?" I ask Paul.
    He opens the door and starts to walk out. "No, Tessa, I didn't. Seriously, I need to go. You're going to have to figure it out on your own." He leaves the room without another word.
    I hold back tears as the front door slams and the key clicks in the slot, locking me in behind him. A moment later, I hear Ryan's startled cries ring out through the hallway. So much for another half hour of sleep; the sound of the door slamming woke him out of his tenuous slumber.
    I push my feet into slippers and hastily wrap myself up in my warmest robe. Paul is insisting on saving money by not turning the heater on until January first. Unfortunately for us, winter arrived with a biting ferocity two months early.
    I walk into Ryan's nursery; in the glow of the night light I see my breath forming puffs in the air. I put my hand into Ryan's crib. He is like a little nuclear reactor. In his fleece sleep suit, he is actually sweating. He gurgles as he looks up at me. "Hey there, buddy," I whisper, reaching into the crib and lifting his warm, rubbery body into my arms. He laughs jovially as I carry him into the kitchen.
    I flip the light switch and the peeling, laminate cabinets greet me along with a chorus of cracked tile backsplash and the backing vocals of a leaky faucet. I’ve been asking Paul to fix it for months. He keeps saying he will get to it, but has forbidden me to try to fix it or call someone. “It’s too expensive,” he always mutters.
    I set Ryan into his high chair, buckling him in safely. I pour water into the kettle and hit the switch. The steam will warm the room up a little. I busy myself with preparing Ryan's bottle of formula. I weaned him off of breast milk a few weeks ago. My milk has dried up but miraculously, they’ve maintained the size they were during my pregnancy. I still love them, even if I don’t love the tire of fat that doesn’t seem to be budging from around my midsection. I know that Paul doesn’t like either. He can barely bring himself to look at me.
    Last week, we had a half-hearted sexual interaction, the first since Ryan’s birth. Paul had finished in about three minutes and refused point-blank to let me have my turn.
    The kettle whistles. I pour water into a mug and sink a teabag into it, then use the rest of the hot liquid to mix up Ryan's powdered formula. It’s so cold in the kitchen that I know it will cool down quickly to a safe temperature. Ryan is babbling to himself, banging his sticky palms on the metal tray of his high chair.
    "Hold on, baby," I intone. I shake the bottle of formula and then twist off the top, letting the steam rise into the frigid air of the kitchen. Within two minutes the formula is the perfect temperature. I walk over and hand Ryan the bottle, his hands happily smacking together with glee.
    The squeak of the chair legs screeches out across the kitchen. My mug of tea warms my hands. I run through my mental checklist. We will be staying at my mother and stepfather's house for seven days. I am already panicking about flying across the country with an infant.
    My cell phone rings. I pull it out of my robe pocket. It’s Jillian. “Hey,” I say sleepily.
    She shrieks. “Girl, please tell me that you’re all packed and ready to go!”
    I look at the clock. “What on earth are you doing up? It’s like three in the morning in California.”
    She laughs. “I