There are a thousand things wrong with this plan, the least of which is the possibility that following him tonight will be fruitless. Even if he does have some side piece in Chicago, what are the chances he goes straight to her on a Thursday night? But I don’t have any better ideas, so I follow him the two and a half hours on the interstate, staying a couple of cars back, and hope for the best.

In truth, the downtime of the drive is kind of nice after months of a packed schedule. I’m behind on my pleasure reading, so I listen to a new release on audio from one of my favorite romance authors. By the time we’re pulling off the interstate, I’m in a pretty good mood.

If he just goes home and not to his girlfriend’s, I’ll call up some of my old college friends who still live in the area and enjoy a nice dinner. But when I follow him into a residential area and he pulls into the garage, I realize I’m a little disappointed. This is his house. He’s told me all about it, and I recognize the big front porch and the swing in the front yard from his descriptions.

I park along the road a couple of houses down to regroup. I tried to prepare myself for this possibility, but I really don’t want to drag this out any longer. I don’t relish the idea of delivering bad news, and I want to get it over with. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

I’m barely even paying attention when George comes out the front door with his daughter. That strikes me as strange. I thought she lived with her mom during the week, and I would’ve thought he’d need to make a stop to get her. Did her mom meet him here?

There’s a tire swing hanging from the big maple tree in the front yard, and he lifts her onto it and starts swinging her. A wave of guilt flashes over me. I’m being a vindictive ex trying to find his other girlfriend, and here he is, playing with his daughter. I turn on the car with a resigned sigh. Dinner and friend reunions aren’t appealing anymore. I’d rather just drive home.

I’m pulling away when I spot a woman coming out of the house. She has the same blond hair as the little girl—maybe her mother. She goes up to George and loops her arms behind his neck, kissing him full on the mouth. Wait. Who is she? Did the girlfriend bring his daughter over? It never occurred to me that he might have a serious relationship with Buttercup. Or maybe . . .

Maybe that is the mother of his child.