New York City Docs

I want to take care of him or her.

At those words, all the anger from the past bubbled out of the compartment she’d built for it and tainted everything they’d shared over the past couple of weeks. His constant need to take care of her years ago—to give her things—had become a point of friction, rubbing at her until she was raw. Well, she could read the writing on the wall. He was about to start doing it all over again, and if she gave in on this point he would start pressing her to give in on other areas.

“That’s not your choice to make, though. I think I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself and any child I might have.”

His face closed, turning to stone. “That might be true, but you can’t stop me from setting up a fund like the one I have for Molly. Neither can you stop the child from using it once he or she comes of legal age.”

Horror went through her. Would he actually go against her wishes like that?

“Don’t draw this line, Clay. Please.” All her hopes for making things work between them shriveled in an instant. Nothing had changed. Nothing.

“I’m not the one drawing the line. You are. And if you think I won’t step over it, you’re wrong. I just did.”

With that, Clay picked up his wallet from the nightstand and shoved it in his back pocket. Out came his car keys. And without another look in her direction he let himself out of the door and, very probably, out of her life.

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