Cold Nose, Warm Heart

by Mara Wells

  The boy clapped again. “Beckham!” The terrier bounded back, jumping higher than the kid was tall. Lance laughed at the sight. This Beckham was so much like his old dog that Lance’s laugh turned brittle. It was Beckham, his Beckham. His ex must’ve given his dog away to complete strangers.

  Why? She knew he’d take Beckham back in a heartbeat, so the only reason that made any sense was malice. She’d fought to get ownership of Beckham and then given him away at the first chance, just to spite him. He’d never thought she was that cruel, but divorce showed you a lot of things about your mate that you didn’t necessarily want to see.

  “Oliver! Beckham!” A woman’s voice caused both the boy and the terrier to spin toward the gate.

  It couldn’t be, but of course it was. Dark hair pulled back in a smooth, high bun, coordinated leggings and tank top with green and gold accents, dark running shoes with gold laces. Even dressed for a workout, Carrie still managed to be chic. She held a smoothie in one hand, cell phone in the other. A small knapsack rode low on her back. He had time to take it all in, the very realness of her. Straight back, long neck. Sleek sunglasses that hid the hazel depths of her eyes. Was pineapple-mango still her go-to smoothie choice or had her tastes changed in the years they’d been apart?

  “Carrie.” The one word felt awkward on his tongue. Too heavy. Too unused. Even in his head, he usually called her his ex. Carrie felt too intimate. Held too many memories, memories he’d done his best to obliterate. Still, here they were, popped into his mind as fresh as the days they were made, as painful as the conversation where she’d handed him divorce papers. Yeah, Carrie.

  “Lance?” She whipped off her sunglasses and her gaze ping-ponged from where Oliver’s hand rested on Lance’s knee to Beckham’s enthusiastic licking of Lance’s work boots. “What’re you doing here?”

  Her voice was the same—that low timbre that strummed through him, soothing nerves he hadn’t known were agitated until they calmed. Perhaps they’d been agitated for years, three years and nine months to be exact, but he pushed that thought away along with the other uncomfortable memories and forced a smile to his face. At least she hadn’t given his dog away. There was that to be grateful for at least.

  “Caleb owns that building now.” He pointed toward the Dorothy with his chin. “Lives there, too. I’m watching his dog. Or rather, practice watching for when he and his fiancée Riley take all the old folks on the cruise.”

  “You’re finally talking to Caleb?” Carrie shoved her sunglasses back on and took a visible breath, chest rising and falling, drawing his attention to how the workout wear outlined her breasts. Okay, he could admit he missed Carrie’s breasts, their weight in his hands, the way her nipples puckered before he even touched her as if anticipating the pleasure to come. That part of their relationship had never been an issue, and as he felt an ill-timed erection pushing against the fly of his jeans, he was hard pressed to remember exactly what all their issues had been.

  “Uh, yeah.” His voice came out as awkward as his body felt. “We’re partners, actually. With Knox.”

  “Well, that’s something, isn’t it?” She stood so still that he knew she was nervous. She’d trained herself to hide all signs of nervousness. Carrie was not a fidgeter. She clamped down on her muscles the same way she did her feelings—total control at all times.

  “How’ve you been?” It should’ve been his first question. He knew how to schmooze clients, but his small talk skills scrambled at the glimpse of skin through the mesh cut out that ran diagonally across her leggings. Just as well. She ignored his attempts at polite chit chat.

  “Oliver, come here.” She held out her hand, and the grubby kid patted Lance’s leg and hopped over to Carrie. She stepped so that she was between the child and Lance. “We’ll leave you to it then.”

  “Wait.” It’d been so long since he’d seen her, he wasn’t quite ready to watch her walk away. “What’re you doing here? Do you live nearby?”

  Carrie shook her head, the movement unsettling her bun. It didn’t fall, though. It wouldn’t dare. “Not exactly. We like to take Beckham on adventures. You remember how he is.”

  “Our little Jack Russell terrorist.” Lance quirked a real smile her way, quoting a Jack Russell blog they used to follow when they first adopted Beckham. He’d been such a handful that they’d needed lots of advice. Luckily, the internet was full of it, and Jack Russell owners loved to talk about their rambunctious pets. Saying terrorist instead of terrier referred to how the little dogs took over your life, and if not exercised and kept busy enough, could wreak utter destruction in the home. “Still doing the big walk every morning, huh?”

  Perhaps sensing the adults weren’t going anywhere soon, Oliver plopped onto the ground. Beckham trotted over and climbed into his lap, nudging the boy’s hand with his nose for petting. Lance remember that move all too well. How many mornings had Beckham woken him up with demands for attention? Carrie was not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, so Beckham learned early that Lance was his best bet for an early morning outing.

  Carrie didn’t answer his question. “We should be going.”

  Except Oliver and Beckham were now wrestling and oblivious to Carrie’s attempts to get their attention.

  “Cute kid.” Lance didn’t want to ask, but he had to. “Your son?”

  Carrie’s whole body stiffened. She nodded.

  “How old is he?”

  “Almost three.”

  Lance let out a low whistle. “Dang, Carrie, you didn’t waste any time remarrying. And I guess husband number two talked you into kids, huh? Well, good for him.”

  “I did not remarry.” Carrie’s lips didn’t move as she bit out the words.

  “Oh.” Lance’s muscles tensed. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe the shock. Carrie, a single mom? From the beginning of their marriage, they’d been in agreement: no kids. They had their careers to focus on, and neither one of them wanted to recreate the disasters to be found on both sides of their family. What happened to not only change her mind, but to also make her go for it on her own? He rubbed his temple, trying to imagine a scenario in which she ended up with a baby. He did not like the first option that popped to mind. “Wait a minute. How old is Oliver?”

  “I told you. Three.” Carrie leaned down to hook Beckham to his leash. He protested by sprinting away, one of his favorite games. Oliver took off after him.

  “No, you said almost. Almost three.” Lance wasn’t the numbers guy his brother Caleb was, but he could handle the basics. Checking account, accounts payable and receivable. Counting forward and backward from nine months. “When’s his birthday?”

  Carrie mumbled something he couldn’t hear.

  “Did you say December?”

  “Yes, he’s a Christmas baby. Is that what you wanted to know? Are you happy now?”

  Christmas Day minus nine months equaled a March conception, but he and Carrie split up in February. In fact, he’d sent back the divorce papers on Valentine’s Day. Just because. So, Oliver wasn’t his. He should be relieved, right? He’d never wanted kids, never would. That Carrie changed her mind didn’t mean he had to change his. Good for her. Girl power and all that.

  “Congratulations.” Now he was the one biting out words. Deep down, he could admit he didn’t like the idea of Carrie having a baby with someone else. Tough cookies, Lance. “He’s a good-looking kid. Seems smart, too.”

  Carrie choked on a swallow of smoothie. “Oh please. Complimenting him is like complimenting yourself.”

  Lance’s eyebrows crashed into each other. “What’re you talking about?”

  Carrie searched his face, her hazel eyes filled with messages he couldn’t read. “You don’t remember.”

  Oliver and Beckham bounded back, the dog sliding to a stop directly in front of Carrie and the boy clinging to her leg.

  “Say goodbye to the strange
r,” Carrie coaxed her son with a stiff jerk of her chin that tipped the bun at an awkward angle. It dangled like it wanted to fall, but Carrie quickly rewound her long, dark hair and secured it with a green band.

  Oliver looked up at him, those eyes as blue as Grandpa William’s. As Caleb’s and Knox’s. As his own. But women weren’t pregnant for ten months, and besides, Carrie wouldn’t have his child without telling him. Sure, they’d been angry at the end, but not so much that she’d keep something like this from him. No, ten months put Oliver in the safety zone of someone else’s problem. Lots of people had blue eyes, and in every other way, the kid was the spitting image of his mom complete with double dimples and her fine, sable hair.

  “Bye-bye!” Oliver waved a dirt-streaked hand at him.

  Carrie tugged on the leash, and Beckham followed her to the gate. Oliver followed, turning his head every few steps to look at Lance and wave again. Lance waved back.

  You don’t remember. Remember what?

  And then he did. March. Grandpa William’s birthday party. They hadn’t told the family yet about the divorce, although Grandpa William knew they were separated. Even so, they’d been given the same bedroom they always shared when staying over and rather than make a fuss, Lance offered to sleep in the reading chair by the window. But he’d had a few too many at dinner, and after dinner. So had Carrie. He hadn’t slept in the chair.

  He’d reasoned that one more time wouldn’t hurt anything. The ink was barely dry on their divorce papers, and they were both willing. Who knew? Maybe it was the start of a reconciliation. It was hazy, all the details, but one memory stood out crystal clear. Waking up in the morning with an armful of Carrie, her sweet body curled into his. He’d felt peaceful for the first time in months. God, he loved this woman. He tightened his grip, and she woke up, flipping to rest her head on his chest. She’d twisted her neck to look him in the eye.

  “This doesn’t change anything. You know that, right?”

  Even with her warm body next to him, he’d felt chilled enough to pull a blanket over them. “Of course,” he’d said, inching away from her. “Why would it?”

  “Old habits.” She’d swung her legs over the side, her back to him. “They’re hard to break.”

  He’d wanted to say she was more to him than an old habit, but she’d already shrugged on her bra and was shimmying into her panties. She looked over her shoulder at him. “I’m sure your girlfriend wouldn’t like to know about last night. I’ll keep my mouth shut if you will.”

  He nodded, her words a blow to his gut. She knew about Rachelle? How? They’d only been seeing each other for a couple of weeks, since he’d finally flirted back with his client’s daughter. After he signed the divorce papers, what did he have to lose? He’d hurried to finish up the Florida room Rachelle’s father wanted added to the back of his ranch-style home so there’d be no conflict of interest. As soon as the last screen was in place, he’d asked Rachelle out for drinks. They’d been having fun together, that’s all. It wasn’t like he’d posted about it on social media or anything. His relationship status was still married, a situation he needed to update but couldn’t quite bring himself to do. Not yet.

  “Well?” Carrie fussed with the bow on the waist band of her panties. The elastic stretched across her smooth stomach, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the freckle that lived an inch south of her belly button. Lance shook his head, trying to get his mind right.

  “Last night never happened.” The words came out as a vow. He’d taken the whole episode and buried it deep in his mind.

  “That’s the spirit.” Carrie had smiled at him and slipped into the emerald sheath dress she’d worn to the party. In their five years of marriage, he’d zipped her up a million times. That morning, she didn’t even ask. Her fingers fiddled with the zipper until she’d pulled it all the way up, taking twice as long than if she’d asked for his help. And somehow, that was the moment he really knew it was over. The zipper said it all.

  Watching Carrie now as she carefully closed the double gate and held Oliver’s hand while they crossed the street to a small SUV across the street, it hit him harder than a ton of concrete pouring out of a mixer truck: Oliver was his son.

  Worse, if he hadn’t run into them today, she never would’ve told him.

  Even worse, he didn’t chase after them. Because honestly, he had no idea what to do. He sank back onto the bench, and LouLou jumped onto his lap. She licked at his chin, and for once, he didn’t push her away.

  “I’m a father,” he told LouLou. She wagged her tail, and he smiled. “Yeah, it is pretty great, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 3

  She should’ve told him. Carrie chastised herself while she buckled Oliver into his car seat. He was such a good child, full of smiles and easy going. He watched her out of his Donovan-blue eyes, patient as she fiddled with the complicated straps and buckles. Beckham was less patient, bouncing beside Oliver on the back seat. Once done with her son, she maneuvered Beckham into his red booster seat and strapped him in, too. He immediately pressed his nose to the window, adding more nose smears to the already smudged pane.

  Taking her place as the chauffeur, she started up her Chevy Blazer and headed home to their small condo. It was only a few miles from the dog park they’d explored today, but with beach traffic, it’d take them fifteen minutes to get home. Why had she decided to go to Fur Haven? The write-up in the free local paper had described it as a paradise for dogs, and while it was certainly quite nice with all its shiny new equipment and fresh plugs of grass, paradise was stretching it a bit. She was always on the lookout for new places to take Beckham. The dog did love novelty. Although she’d seen Caleb Donovan’s name attached to the park, she hadn’t thought he’d be around, and she surely hadn’t thought his brother would be anywhere nearby. Last she’d heard, the brothers hadn’t spoken in years.

  Now Lance was somehow working with Caleb and Knox? If the brothers were pulling together after their father’s terrible trial, more power to them. She’d wanted to call Lance so many times during the media frenzy surrounding his father’s conviction and sentencing, but she never had. One, because she had no right to, not anymore, and two, because of Oliver.

  Which brought her back to that moment at the park when she’d seen her son standing next to his father and something inside her had flipped over. Kerplunk. Maybe it was her stomach that made her so queasy at the thought Lance would find out. Maybe it was her heart that made her eyes tear at the sight of father and son together. Maybe it was her pride that made her march over to them like nothing was amiss and try to brazen her way through the encounter like she hadn’t kept a major secret from Lance, a secret she knew he was entitled to but had rationalized away. He’d never wanted kids, and he’d stopped wanting her. She’d done him a favor, really, not telling him. What would he have done? It would only have led to more ugliness between them, and there’d already been plenty of that.

  Besides, she’d intended to tell him. A few months after Grandpa William’s birthday party, she’d taken a home pregnancy test. And gone to her gynecologist. And thought long and hard about what she wanted to do. She’d driven to Lance’s, who still lived in their old condo on South Beach, to tell him she’d decided to have his baby. She’d planned to reassure him that nothing was expected of him, but she imagined that at some point the child would want to meet its father, and she hoped Lance would be open to that idea.

  She should’ve texted. Instead, she’d gotten caught up in some ridiculous fantasy where the pregnancy news magically brought her and Lance back together. Months of distance and miscommunication would disappear, and they’d be a family. A reunion like that should be face-to-face. She’d convinced herself surprising him was best. Looking back, she could only blame crazy pregnancy hormones for such delusions.

  Rachelle opened the door. Rachelle, with her spiked pixie haircut and heavy eye-liner. Rachelle, who Carrie knew abou
t in a theoretical way but hadn’t actually met yet. Rachelle, who’d started dating Carrie’s husband the minute the divorce was finalized. No, Rachelle had not been part of her baby-news plans.

  “Hi.” Carrie stood on her old welcome mat, a sunburst made of coir fibers harvested from coconut husks, feeling uncharacteristically shabby in her stretchy yoga pants and off-the-shoulder knit top. “Is Lance home?”

  Rachelle took her time looking Carrie up and down. Shabby and shabbier. Carrie looked back. It was hard to imagine a woman more different than herself. Rachelle was model-thin in a black tank top and satin shorts that looked like pajamas. It was midafternoon. Perhaps the shorts were a fashion statement of some kind.

  “Lance?” Rachelle finally drawled out. “He’s still sleeping.” Rachelle yawned like Carrie was keeping her from joining him. “I’ll tell him you stopped by. What’s your name?”

  “Sylvia.” Carrie gave the name of her best friend from high school. If Rachelle didn’t know who she was, Carrie wasn’t about to be the ex-wife popping in with some maternity news. No, Lance could ponder who the mysterious Sylvia was for five seconds and then shrug it off. He wouldn’t remember that Sylvia had taken a gap year in Europe, fallen in love with a Parisian, and never returned to the U.S.

  “Ok.” Rachelle leaned against the open door, light from the hallway light catching on a ring. A diamond ring. On her left hand.

  “Sorry to bother you. Tell him it wasn’t important.” Carrie lurched away, sure she was going to hurl all over the mother-in-law tongue plants lined up in a neat row in the courtyard. She hadn’t, though. Morning sickness was still a month away. She did, however, drive herself home and cry. She was going to be a single mom, and she was pretty sure it was going to suck.

  Now, only a few years later, Carrie couldn’t imagine her life without Oliver. She checked on him in the rearview mirror, happily bobbing his head to the song playing on the speakers. She used to love her Justin Timberlake and Taylor Swift, but these days it was Disney songs and Itsy Bitsy Spider blasting from her sound system. Oliver was trying to create the thumb-pinky finger ladder motion of the spider, but his coordination wasn’t quite there yet, and he kept going thumb-thumb, pinky-pinky. It was so funny Carrie was tempted to whip out her phone for a video to send her mom, but they were almost home and she didn’t want to take the time to pull over. They’d see her mom, or Gamma as Oliver liked to say, in a few minutes, and Carrie’s hectic day would begin.