The Wild Card
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Getting pregnant after a one-night stand with my brother’s best friend was never part of the plan.
We’re talking about Foster Davis here.
Chicago Colts closing pitcher.
The broody king of one-word answers.
And the man everyone knows keeps one foot out the door.
Surprisingly, when two pink lines turn my world upside down, Foster doesn’t run. He steps in, he shows up, and he insists we do this together.
Pretending we’re fine is easy. Pretending this is just about the baby? Not so much.
Because Foster is gentle when no one’s watching.
Because he looks at me like I’m something worth protecting.
Because the walls he’s built start to crack—and I’m the one he’s letting inside.
Our arrangement was supposed to be simple. Boundaries were set. Co-parents and no catching feelings.
Okay, maybe a few sex lessons were added in too. Bad idea, I know.
Because the more time I spend with Foster Davis, the harder it is to remember why I ever thought he was the risky choice.
