Free Songbird by Sydney Logan Page A

scare you.”
    She remains silent as I pick up her ice cream, crackers, and something that looks suspiciously like spinach. After putting everything back in the bag, I offer to carry it inside for her.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “We need to talk, Callie.”
    “You’ve said enough.”
    “No. I—”
    But she doesn’t give me the chance to finish. She reaches for her bag and snatches it out my hand. Without another word, she pulls her keys out of her pocket and unlocks the door.
    “Callie, please talk to me.”
    She steps inside her apartment and promptly kicks the door closed right in front of my face.

“C allie! Open the door!”
    I ignore his relentless knocking and put away my groceries. How long has he been here? Have my neighbors seen him? Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll call the police.
    After half an hour, I grab my phone and put my earbuds in. Singing along, I start opening ingredients to make my grandma’s chicken noodle soup, hoping it’ll settle my queasy stomach. While it simmers, I throw in a load of laundry. I’ve just closed the door on the washing machine when I get the first text.
    I’m not leaving.
    Great. Totally forgot that I gave him my number.
    I pull out my earbuds and toss my phone onto the sofa. Thankfully, he finally stops knocking, but I hear a distinct thump, which leads me to believe his legs have finally given out and he’s now propped against my door.
    I ignore the sound and grab a banana freezer pop before collapsing on the couch.
    My phone chimes again. I wait a whole ten minutes before glancing at it.
    I know I’m an ass. I’m sorry.
    I gaze at the screen. Sorry for what? For being an arrogant jerk? For knocking me up? For accusing me of being a tramp? For dismissing me—and our baby—so easily? For pounding on my door for God only knows how long?
    My fingers ghost along the screen, eager to ask what he’s apologizing for.
    You aren’t talking to him. Remember?
    I wish I could just turn it off, but I’m too afraid I’ll miss a call from work.
    Almost instantly, there’s another text.
    Please talk to me.
    I smirk. Now he’s begging.
    Good.
    By ten o’clock the text messages stop, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Grateful that he’s given up and gone home, I quickly clean up the kitchen and load the dishwasher before grabbing my baby book and going to bed. I climb under the blanket, looking forward to the chapter on relaxation techniques for a stress-free pregnancy.
    Before I can even open the book, I’m fast asleep.
     

     
    I wake up the next day feeling relaxed, well rested, and starved.
    Excited that I’m not hugging my toilet this morning, I rush to the kitchen in hopes of having a real breakfast for a change. I glance in the fridge, and my stomach growls when I spy a fresh package of turkey bacon.
    Yes!
    Usually, I prefer my eggs sunny-side up, but the baby book warned about eating raw yolk, so I scramble them instead. I add a couple slices of toast and then sit down to enjoy my first decent breakfast in weeks. A moan actually escapes my lips when I take the first bite.
    Note to self: Baby likes scrambled eggs.
    After breakfast, I get ready for work. I’m feeling so good I actually dress up a little today, choosing a knee-length skirt to wear with my flats. As I check my reflection in the mirror, I’m amazed how happy I look . . . all because I didn’t throw up this morning.
    It’s the little things in life.
    Confident that it’s going to be a great day, I grab my bag and phone and head out. When I open the door, a man’s body—and his head—fall at my feet. I find myself staring down into Devin McAllister’s brown eyes.
    So much for my great day.
    “Good morning, Songbird.”
    “What the hell are you doing here so early?”
    He smirks and climbs to his feet. “You’re actually acknowledging my presence this morning?”
    Shit. I snap my mouth shut.
    “And, for your information,” he continues, leaning close as I lock my door. “I