Underfoot. Leanne Banks

shook his head, wondering why she was trying to pin the pregnancy on him. Did she need money or something? “I’m sorry if you think it’s me. But it can’t be,” he told her.

      “Yes, it can and it is,” Trina said, exasperation creeping into her tone. “But don’t worry. I don’t expect anything from you. That’s why I didn’t tell you when you were in Paris.”

      His circuits scrambled like eggs, he shook his head. “Listen, I’m sorry, Trina, but it can’t be me. I’ll tell you why. I had a vasectomy.”