by Emma Chase
“Am I going to be able to stay in your class?”
“I’ll talk it over with Miss McCarthy, but I don’t see why not.”
But I’d be a big, fat liar if I said I wasn’t relieved that I don’t have to.
Relieved and . . . thrilled. It’s the thrilled part that worries me.
“What am I supposed to call you?”
“I dunno. What do you want to call me?”
“Dean would be too weird at school.”
“Agreed. You start calling me Dean, the whole class will start calling me Dean . . . it’ll be anarchy.”
When Dean showed up on my porch, flashing those stormy blue eyes and swore that he was all in—like it was the most solemn, important thing he’d ever done—I almost swooned right on the spot. My knees actually got weak. For. Real.
“But calling you Coach Walker around the house . . .”
Dean shakes his head. “Way awkward. It’s like calling someone Grandfather or The Colonel. It’d be like living in a game of Clue—Coach Walker in the bedroom with the turkey baster.”
Jason chokes on a snort.
“Too soon?” Dean asks with a laugh in his voice.
And now he’s having a heart-to-heart with my Jaybird and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard. The care in his voice as he talks to my son. The interest.
Having a conversation with a teenage boy about the more complicated situations of life isn’t easy. Not many men would know how to handle that, and listening to one who does is a heady thing. An alluring, attractive thing that speaks to a deep, primal part of me.
The part that wants to rip Dean Walker’s clothes off.
“All right, so you call me Dean around the house and Coach Walker at school. How’s that sound?”
“That works for me.”
I can already feel my emotions getting away from me—like a balloon getting caught in the wind, rising higher and higher until it’s so far gone you can’t even see it.
It’s better to keep your feet on the ground.
Hope is scary. Attachment is risky. Disappointment can be crippling.
I’ve learned that the hard way. It’s easier not to expect things from people—not to want or dream about a future that may never happen.
“Are you gonna, like, be around the house? A lot?”
“As long as it’s cool with your mom, yeah. That’s my plan.”
But now there’s a giddy, gushy sensation in my chest. The smile pulling at my lips is silly and permanent and it’s all because Dean has decided to do this with me. To be a part of our lives.
“Just so you know, I don’t need a dad or anything. There’ve been guys who tried to play the father card—and I’m over it. That ship has sailed.”
There was one guy that I dated for a few weeks who tried to play the father card. He was a hunter-gatherer type who wanted to share his outdoor-sportsman love with Jay—but gutting a deer in front of a six-year-old is a dealbreaker for me.
“Just so you know, I don’t think I’m qualified to be anyone’s dad, at least not yet. I’ve got a few months to whip my ass into shape for that. But for now, for you, I just . . . I want to be your friend, Jason.”
That soft confession melts my heart into a gooey mess of sweet, tender desire. From the jump, I thought that Dean was a good man—and he confirms it with every word out of his mouth. He’s smart and talented and funny—and let’s not forget the hot. So very, very hot.
Those glasses—holy hell—goodbye wild-boy drummer, hello sexy professor. The fantasies are instant and numerous. I want to lick every inch of him while he’s wearing those glasses.
“Would that be okay with you?”
“Yeah, friends would be good.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
How do you stop yourself from wanting a man who’s so damn wantable? And wanting Dean is just asking for trouble. It could make things messy and awkward between us. Simple is better. Easy. Keep the focus on the baby. Co-parenting and friendship.
That is all.
I need to keep my thoughts away from Dean’s gorgeous mouth, his sexy smile, his hands, his firm, oh-so-grabbable ass and especially—his cock. The beautiful dick that made me light up brighter than the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. I’m pretty sure it’s ruined me for all other penises—including my best vibrator, Charles. Charles and I have had a few encounters since the summer—but it’s just not the same.
“The thing is . . .” Jason pauses, glancing around and lowering his voice like he’s telling a secret. “My mom’s used to doing things on her own. She says it’s easier that way. She’s never really had anyone to help her—nobody but me. But she deserves that. She deserves someone who’ll take care of her.” Jason turns to look at Dean. “As long as you do that—you and I will be A-okay.”
Dean puts his hand on my son’s shoulder and that soft, solemn tone comes back.
“Yeah, Jay—I can definitely do that.”
I’m in so, so, so much trouble.
~ ~ ~
After Dean and Jaybird come in from outside, I show Dean around the house—the kitchen, the projects that are halfway finished, the bedroom where the nursery will be. An hour or so later, we end up in the den that’s still jam-packed with mismatched furniture and raw materials.
He sits in a taupe loveseat I salvaged from an estate sale that I plan to reupholster, his knees spread, one arm draped casually across the back. And he’s watching me. Tracking my every move as I flit around the room.
I unroll a bolt of plush silver faux fur fabric. “I’m going to use this for accent pillows in the living room. Maybe a throw rug or a beanbag chair. I like texture—it adds individuality to the space without overcomplicating it.”
I’m babbling—unnerved by the fluttery feeling in my stomach, brought on by the intensity of those ocean-blue eyes.
I take a breath and set the fabric down. “You’re not really interested in any of this, are you?”
His mouth curls at the corner—a decadent, dirty kind of smile.
“Oh, I’m interested. No doubt about that.”
Then he turns his head toward the boxes and stacks of paint cans.
“I think what you’ve done with the house is amazing, Lainey.” He gestures to a few long-necked, teal wine bottles that I’ve filled with solar twinkle lights. “I think what you do, how you can make something special out of nothing, is incredible. I’ve never met anybody like you—and that’s not a bullshit line.”
Dean rises from the couch and moves closer, looking into my eyes and pressing his hand against my stomach. The feel of his palm is warm and soothing—the kind of touch you want to sink into.
“Between your creativity and my brain and superior athletic skills, our kid is going to be all kinds of outstanding.”
Our kid.
It’s not a phrase I’m used to hearing, but I like the sound of it. And for the first time in ever, I let myself imagine how it could be to not do this alone. To have someone to share it all with.
The thought is really, really nice.
When you get used to carrying a weight around on your shoulders for so long, you don’t realize how heavy it actually is until it’s been lifted off.
I put my hand over Dean’s and smile. “Yeah.”
“Moooom!” Jason’s dragged-out voice cuts through the intimacy of the moment. “What’s for dinner?”
The question of teenage boys around the world.
Dean glances at his watch. “How about you and Jay come to my house for dinner? You can meet Grams. I have to pick her up from movie night at the senior center.”
That fluttery feeling plummets like an inner-tube on a waterslide—straight down.
“Grams?”
“My grandmother. My parents aren’t in the picture, I don’t have brothers or sisters. Grams raised me. She’s the only family I have.”
“Oh.” I tap my fingers on my stomach. “Does she know about the baby?”
“Not
yet.”
“Don’t you think you should tell her first?”
He seems confused. “That’s what we’d be doing—telling her.”
Apparently, once Dean is on board with something, it’s full steam ahead. It must be the football coach in him—gotta move that ball down the field. Go, team, go.
His eyes search mine. “What’s the problem, Lainey?”
“Is it a good idea to just spring it on her like that? I’m going to show up at her house pregnant and with my teenage son—two children, with two different fathers. Your grandmother is from a whole other generation . . . won’t she think I’m, like . . . a whore?”
Dean throws his head back and laughs, deep and rumbly. And that Adam’s apple is there—taunting me again with its sexiness.
Maybe I am a whore.
Dean’s laughter fades as he looks down at me. “Back in the day, Grams was an attorney. She had my mom later in life and worked a lot when she was growing up—her office was in the city. Her main area of expertise was women’s rights—sexual harassment claims, fighting for equal pay, abortion rights. She’s burned her bra on the steps of the capital and argued before the Supreme Court. Though not on the same day.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Yeah.” Dean nods. “But the moral of the story is you could have seven kids by eight different fathers and she wouldn’t give a rat’s ass. You’re having her first great-grandchild and I’m happy when I’m around you—that’s all that’s going to matter to her.”
His words trip around in my head. “I . . . make you happy?”
Seems a little early to make that call.
But that playboy smile drags across his lips and his voice goes low.
“You make me hard.”
Like a magnet to metal, my eyes make a beeline for Dean’s crotch. And—oh my—he is hard. The long, thick outline of him strains against the zipper of his jeans. My mouth waters, remembering the taste of him and the hot, smooth feel of his flesh against my tongue.
“The happy tends to follow close after the hard, so yeah—I think happy qualifies in this situation.”
Deans leans in and presses a quick kiss to my cheek.
“Don’t be nervous, Lainey. I’ve got you.”
~ ~ ~
Mr. Giles, Lakeside’s local carpenter, has a few scrap pieces he said I could pick up tonight, so I suggest taking my truck to pick up Dean’s Gram and the wood along the way.
Dean stands in the driveway. “Sure. I’m confident enough in my manhood to ride bitch.”
Beside him, Jason strikes a similar stance, nodding.
“Me too. I don’t mind riding bitch.”
And I wonder if Dean knows he’s got a burgeoning mini-me who already idolizes him.
He opens the truck door and shuts it closed behind me after I climb aboard. I don’t get out of the truck when we get to Mr. Giles’s place, but instead watch in the rearview mirror, with a strange swirly tenderness swooping through my belly, as Dean and Jay load the long boards of oak into the bed for me.
Then Dean directs me across town, and we pull up in front of the school-size brick building of the senior center. He hops out and a few minutes later, exits the building with a petite, gray-haired woman—literally half his size—shuffling along beside him.
Dean opens the passenger side door. From behind round, violet glasses that take up more than half her face, his grandmother peers bewilderedly at the distance between the ground and the seat.
“Going to need an assist with this one, Deany.”
He lifts her up into the truck, then buckles the seatbelt around her as he introduces us.
“Grams, this is Lainey Burrows and her son, Jason.”
I hold my hand straight out and a bit too eagerly—I don’t have a lot of experience meeting the parents. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Walker.”
She puts her frail hand in mine and smiles. And I notice, Dean gets his eyes from his grandmother.
“Call me Grams—everyone does.”
Jason waves from the backseat and Grams waves back.
“How was movie night?” Dean asks as he climbs in.
She clucks her tongue like an annoyed hen. “Just terrible. It was Driving Miss Daisy. Why would I enjoy watching a film like that—I’m practically living it.”
Grams runs her hand over the dashboard.
“I like this vehicle, Lainey. Very muscular. I bet no one messes with you in this bad boy.”
I smile. “That’s true. And it comes in handy with my work.”
“Lainey’s a decorator, Grams.” Dean tells her. “She makes furniture, artwork. She’s redoing the old house on Miller Street.”
“Oh, that’s a lovely home—it’s nice to know a young family is living there again.”
And it’s all going so well.
Until Dean says, “Hang a left up ahead, Lainey—onto 2nd Street.”
But when I make the turn, and my wrist brushes the button on the steering wheel that activates the bluetooth. The speakers come alive inside the cab, and the truck automatically syncs to my phone—playing the audiobook of A Brand New Ending by Jennifer Probst—a fabulous romance I started listening to when I was doing the backsplash work in the kitchen.
The narrator’s voice comes through loud and clear.
“She dragged her teeth over his flat stomach, blowing her breath over his hardened shaft until he jerked with need.”
I press button after button, but I can’t find the right one. “Where’s the button? Where’s the fucking button?” I think I say it out loud, but it’s hard to hear myself over the blood pounding in my eardrums.
“She closed her hands around his erection, squeezed, sent her tongue darting out to taste his essence—”
And . . . got it! The sound cuts off—though I’m definitely going back to listen to the rest of that scene when I’m alone.
An awkward silence is shrouded over the cab—as my eyes dart to Dean’s grandmother. “Sorry. It’s an audiobook I was listening to.”
Her thin, penciled eyebrows rise. “I’ll have to borrow it from you when you’re finished.” And then she winks. “Can’t wait to hear what happens next.”
The anxiety that was squeezing my chest, loosens. Dean and Jason’s muffled laughter comes from the backseat, and a second later I join them.
I pull into the driveway of a modest home. We all lumber out of the truck and head inside. In the foyer, a small black cat comes padding around the corner, curling itself around Jason’s leg. He crouches down and scoops the fluffy ball up into his arms.
“Careful with the cat, Jay,” Deans warns, “She’s not—”
The cat loves on Jason hard—rubbing its head along his collarbone, purring loudly like a happy mini-lion, planting a string of adoring, licking kisses along his jaw.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head, pouting. “Tell you later.”
And when I glance at the cat—I swear she’s wearing a gloating, smirking expression—aimed right at Dean.
“That’s my Lucy,” Grams says, scratching her head. “It’s good to have a pet around the house. It teaches boys to be responsible and nurturing.”
“Except when the pet is trying to kill you,” Dean murmurs under his breath.
I swapped my cotton shorts for a pair of navy yoga pants before we left the house. They’re comfy, but snug around my middle, putting the bump on full display. My sweater shifts as we all move into the living room, and Grams suddenly stops short.
She puts her hand on my shoulder, and speaks like she’s breaking the news to me—in case I didn’t know.
“Lainey, you’re pregnant, dear.”
Over her shoulder, Dean chuckles soundlessly.
“Uh, yeah.” I fidget. “I know.”
Dean moves around his grandmother to stand beside me, and takes my hand in his.
“Lainey and I met over the summer, Grams. We’re having a baby. Tog
ether.”
I wait for her reaction—this woman who raised Dean, who obviously means the world to him. I brace myself for suspicion or disapproval to creep into her aged eyes. But her gaze just shifts back and forth between me and her grandson. And then she covers her mouth with a slightly trembling hand.
“Oh, how wonderful!”
Then she hugs me—wrapping me in an embrace that’s warm and welcoming and surprisingly strong. Then she gives Dean the same treatment.
“What a beautiful child you two will have. This calls for champagne—life is short, drink champagne whenever you can. Jason,” she calls with an easy familiarity. “That liquor cabinet there. The key is beneath the elephant on top. Open it up and get the bottle of champagne. Dean—get the crystal glasses from the dining room.”
I opt for apple juice, but once Dean, Grams and even Jason have a glass of champagne—Grams holds up her sparkling flute.
“Welcome to the family, Lainey and Jason. The best days are when babies come—to the best days coming our way soon.”
We all click glasses and my son drains his in one gulp.
Then he makes a face. “It doesn’t taste anything like stars. John Green is full of shit.”
We sit on the couch and Grams pats my knee. “How far along are you?”
“About four and a half months.”
“That’s when things start to get interesting.” Grams pats Dean’s leg with her other hand. “And if the baby grows up to be a hellion like you—you’ll know all the tricks they’ll try before they do.”
“Dean was a hellion?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. But mark my words—they grow up to be the best fathers.”
Grams pours herself another glass of champagne and Dean rubs his hands together. “What are we doing for dinner?”
“You could make your spaghetti sauce,” Grams replies.
I meet Dean’s eyes. “You cook?
“I do. I cook spaghetti sauce. That’s the only thing.”
“But it’s delicious,” Grams adds, proudly.
“It is delicious. She’s not lying. But I can’t cook spaghetti Grams—Lainey has heartburn.”
