“You know, you could just put him in his crib,” I call after Scottie.
His disembodied voice rings out. “Try it, mate. I dare you.”
A door slams, and I’m left alone with twenty pounds of drooling baby who has decided that my eyebrows would be better off detached from my face.
“Okay, little dude.” I ease his fingers away from my abused flesh. “Let’s find you something better to play with.”
Scottie’s Upper West Side brownstone is wide enough that there is a central staircase and rooms on either side. They have a family room set up in the back with a wall of windows overlooking a small garden.
Before baby, the place was immaculate—cream couches, pale silk Aubusson rugs, and glass tables. The couches are now charcoal, the rug is still silk but a crimson Persian, and the tables are all sturdy dark woods. Still nice, but way more spot friendly. And messy. Toys litter the floor. Four mugs with various amounts of cold coffee in them are on the table. A few baby blankets are spread out, and there’s some weird-looking jungle-gym thing that seems to be made out of padded plastic with stuffed bugs hanging from it. Bizarre.
“Here, bud. Let’s play with this.” I set Felix down in front of the dangly bugs.
He looks at the sappy bugs, then at me, then back at the bugs. His little chin prunes up. I hear an internal warning alarm blaring, “Danger! Danger! Abort mission! Abort!!”
I jiggle one of the toy bugs. “Fun, yeah?”
No, no it is not. Tears well in Felix’s eyes, and he sucks in a deep breath. It is the scary calm before the storm. His temper breaks with an ungodly wail, his little arms flailing, face bright red. It is horrifying.
“Okay, okay.” I pick him up and start walking around. “It’s okay. Those bugs are creepy anyway.”
Felix does his best to blow my eardrums out. Considering I’ve made a career of dialing the sound up to eleven, his vocals are impressive.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I try to jiggle him like Sophie does but it’s a no-go. Little Dude is not having it. His back arches as he screams his fury, and I have to clutch him closer for fear of dropping him. “Jesus, I thought I was emotional. What about this little …” I look at the gray stuffed thing I’ve picked up. I have no fucking idea what it is. “Monkey? You want your monkey?”
Gray lumpy monkey goes flying with one indignant swat.
“Right. Monkeys suck. Noted.”
Felix has murder in his eyes and the freaking lungs of Robert Plant.
Scottie strides into the room with a harried expression. “You put him down, didn’t you?”
“I thought he might want to play! I mean, what the fuck, dude?”
Scottie takes his son, grabs a pacifier, and holds it up to Felix’s mouth. “Here’s your dummy, love.”
The little stinker immediately sucks it in and then rests his head on Scottie’s shoulder with a shuddering sigh like he’s just been through a long, hard battle. Clearly, one I lost.
“Plug up the hole.” I slap my forehead. “I should have known.”
Scottie and Felix shoot me twin glares.
My nerves are officially shot, and I swear I need a drink or to run this adrenaline out. “Holy hell, mate, how do you even know what to do?”
“Trial by fire.” Scottie smiles thinly. “Only the strong survive.”
I take back every dad joke I’ve made about Scottie. He deserves a medal.
“Put me down as a ‘thank you but no’ when it comes to babysitting duty.”
Scottie snorts. “Mate, none of you clowns are getting anywhere near my progeny. He’d end up in leather pants and likely develop an unfortunate attachment to drums.”
I can’t help but smile. “That would be kind of cool. I’m going to look into leather baby pants. Maybe have some made. You’ll have to ask Whip for the drums.”
Sophie strolls in looking tired but amused. “Someone set the baby down.”
I turn and give her a kiss on the cheek. “You two have a tiny dictator in your midst. Throw down some tough love and say no once in a while.”
Sophie and Scottie burst out laughing. They keep laughing until Felix smiles around the edges of his dummy, and Sophie wipes a tear from her eye. “Oh, that was good. I needed that.”
“Har.” But I’m smiling too.
“Can you say it again?” Scottie pulls out his phone. “I want to record it for future use on the off chance you decide to have kids.”
That sobers me right up. My future happiness is why I’m here. “Maybe later.” I grimace. “Look, I need to find Stella.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop a few degrees. Scottie adopts his business face, which is basically a wall of “I know nothing.” Sophie’s eyes narrow like she’s considering pulling Felix’s dummy free and siccing him on me.
“Sorry,” Scottie says, “but she isn’t here.”
Nice evasion. I step closer. “That isn’t what I asked.”
“Actually, you didn’t ask anything.”
He’s going to play it like that? I smile thinly. “Scottie, old boy, would you happen to know the whereabouts of Ms. Stella Grey?”
He glances at Sophie, who glances at me, then back to Scottie. It’s like some bad reenactment of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly standoff.
“Hey,” I cut in, “I’m just trying to find my girl.”
“Your girl?” Sophie snorts. “You lost the right to call her that when you kicked her out.”
“Sophie,” Scottie says softly.
She glares at him. “He hurt her.”
God, that gets me. I know it’s true. But it still slices through the gut. “I need to apologize and try to make it better, Soph. But I can’t if I can’t find her.”
Stubborn as hell, Sophie lifts her chin and refuses to talk. I sigh and turn to Scottie. There was a point in my life where I’d laughed at the idea of laying my heart on the line. He was there to witness it. We both know this well, but I’m not afraid to beg now.
I know Scottie sees this in my expression. I don’t have to say a word before his shoulders slump and he sighs. His eyes cut to Sophie, who glares.
“You are not telling him.”
“Darling,” he begins.
Sophie crosses her arms under her breasts in a huff. “So it’s bros before hoes, huh?”
Scottie’s lips twitch. “I would never call a woman a ho. And it isn’t our place to intervene.”
“Just think,” I say, “if Scottie’s bros hadn’t stepped in when we found him unshaven, surrounded by an utter mess, and pitifully moaning over your loss, you’d still in Australia.”
Her eyes go wide and a small smile blooms over her face. “You were moaning?” she asks a disgruntled Scottie.
He makes a face. “I was not moaning.”
“Whimpering,” I correct, earning a glare. But really, I’m doing the guy a favor—Sophie’s already across the room and giving him a kiss on the cheek.
“That’s so sweet, Sunshine.”
“Glad you think so.” Scottie kisses the tip of her nose before telling me, “Stella is staying with Brenna.”
“Shit.”
“Mmm,” he agrees. “I don’t know how you’ll get past her. Brenna has become extremely protective of Stella.”
Still clinging to Scottie, Sophie smirks. “You think I’m a hard-ass? Good luck with all that.”
Strangely, the fact that the other women in my life are looking out for Stella makes me happy and grateful. Stella has always wanted friends, a family. I can give her that. I glance at little Felix who is drooling all over Scottie’s shirt and giving me the stink eye, and I shudder. Well, maybe not the full-on family thing just yet. One hurdle at a time.
I need to get my act together, and I need to plan this carefully. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes to win back her trust. And it doesn’t scare me.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Stella
I’m not sure what I expected of John. Maybe a text, a phone call, or maybe nothi
ng. But I sure as hell didn’t expect a delivery. It comes three weeks after our implosion.
“What the hell?” Brenna asks, seeing me lug a big square box into her kitchen after signing for it.
“I don’t know,” I say, grabbing scissors out of the catchall drawer. “It’s for me, but that’s all it says.”
Her ponytail sways as she hurries over to help. “It’s gotta be Jax.”
I suppress a grimace. “We don’t know that. How would he even know I’m here?”
Her brow furrows with a frown. “Scottie must have ratted you out. He’s the only one of the guys who knows you’re here, and he’s a total closet romantic.”
“Really?” I can’t imagine stone-faced Scottie being sentimental.
“Believe it. Now that he has a family, he wants us all happily settled.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” I ask, amused at her sour expression.
“It’s an annoying thing.” Brenna quirks a brow. “Enough about matchmaker Scottie. Do you know anyone else who would have something hand delivered? Besides, the courier was Darren. He works for us. My money is on Jax sending this.”
I stare at the box, hesitant to open it. Whatever John sent isn’t small. The box is about twenty inches square.
“If he sent a human head,” Brenna says darkly, “I’m going to be really upset.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “What the hell, Brenn? You are sick.”
She shrugs. “Got you to smile, didn’t I? Stop looking at the box like it’s a bomb and open it already.”
“Sneaky cheeks.” A couple of slices from the scissor blade to open it, and we both peer in.
“Well,” she says, “it’s not a head.”
“Nope.” Bottles rattle as I pull a six-pack of beer free from the box.
“Jax is so fucking weird.”
A smile threatens, and my lips wobble before I force them flat. “It’s one of his best qualities.” God, I’m going to cry. Over this strange-ass gift of beer.
Brenna roots through the box, but it’s empty. “What the hell does it mean?”
“I honestly have no idea. It’s not like I’m a huge beer enthusiast.”
“How could he not leave a note?” Brenna scowls at the beer. “His first contact and it’s to send random beer?”
Suppressing a sigh, I put the beer in the fridge. “I’m done trying to figure him out.”
Words are shallow, though; the beer haunts me as I walk away. What the hell is John trying to say? Hey, let’s have a few beers and laugh this all away? Sorry, I broke your heart, have a drink on me? Whatever it is, I find myself getting more and more pissed.
It builds as I try to lounge in Brenna’s living room, and I end up tossing the copy of Vogue back onto the coffee table with so much force, it slides right off and lands with a thump on the floor.
“You know,” Brenna says, not looking up from her magazine, “only Rye could annoy someone more than Jax. Be grateful you didn’t fall for him.”
“Tell me,” I murmur. “How much of a pain is it to fall for Rye?”
She opens her mouth, then pauses to glare at me, clearly expecting a different question from me and caught off guard. Her brows lower. “Har. You think I’m into Rye?”
My lips twitch. “Everyone thinks you are into each other.”
Brenna snorts, her attention suddenly on her ice-blue nails. “Please. He’s an asshole.”
I get up and go to the fridge for some of John’s damn beer. If we’re going to talk men, I need a drink. It’s cold enough, and Brenna accepts a bottle with a wry look before taking a long sip.
“Is he, though?” I ask, curling back up on the couch. “Admittedly, he has a pretty juvenile sense of humor, and he’s blunt, but he seems like a nice man. He clearly cares about all of you guys.”
A disgruntled sound escapes her, then she sighs and rests her head against the soft couch back. “He does care. And he is a good guy. He’s only an asshole to me.”
“He seems more like he’s pulling your ponytail for attention.”
She slides me a sidelong look.
“Not to condone such behavior,” I amend. “Bullyboy tactics should die a swift death.”
Her mouth twists with a smile. “Admittedly, I’m just as bad. I know this. It’s our personalities, I guess. We’re always rubbing each other the wrong way.”
“I wondered if it was some bad blood that never healed.”
“Oh, it’s that too,” she says with a scowl. “Incidents here and there. Nothing I want to talk about now. I’ll be in a mood all day if I do.”
“Fair enough.” I pull at the damp label on my beer. “I’m brooding enough for both of us.”
Brenna and the girls pulled me through the worst of it. For the first time in my life, I was the one who had friends force me out of the house, take me to salons for massages and facials. We’d gone to the movies, stayed in and watched movies, indulged in cocktails and ice cream—not mint chocolate chip. That was banned from the house. We’d done every clichéd thing we could think of.
And it was fun. Well, as fun as something can be while I’m walking around with what feels like a massive hole in chest. I press my hand to that spot now, surprised my skin isn’t ice cold. I’m cold all the time now. Another new and unfortunate development. If this is what love does to a person, love can go suck it.
Brenna grabs her phone and answers a few emails before tossing it down and giving me an overly bright smile. “We should order pizza to go with this random beer your man sent us.”
“He’s not my man anymore,” I mumble.
The door buzzer stops Brenna from responding. She gives me an excited look that has me flinching inside. Yep, love and hope can definitely suck it. I don’t bother turning my head to watch her open the door.
“Another delivery,” she calls from the hall.
“Seriously?” I get up. “If he sent me more beer, I’m going over there and dumping it on his fat head.”
“Maybe that’s the idea.” She frowns at the box. “But, no, this one is lighter and longer.”
Together, we open it, Brenna muttering about heads under her breath. Inside, there’s another box, this one much nicer. I lift the lid and root through the perfectly folded tissue paper and find a length of pale pink fabric. I take it out and it unfurls.
“It’s a dress,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Hot damn.” Brenna runs a reverent finger along the satin. “It’s Stella McCartney couture.”
It’s a knee-length sheath with a sort of box ’40s-style neckline and a cutout back.
“He bought me a dress? What the ever-loving hell?”
“Maybe it’s a message?” She doesn’t look convinced. “Maybe, let’s have a beer out on the town?”
With a noise of annoyance, I toss the dress back into the box.
“Hey,” Brenna protests, “don’t take it out on the dress. She’s innocent in all this.”
“She?” I laugh.
“Well, I’m not referring to dresses as ‘he.’” She sniffs, lifting her chin. “They deserve better than that indignity.”
I’m still smiling when the door buzzes again. Brenna makes a little squeeing noise, but I hold up a hand. “I’m getting this.” Irritation has me stomping to the door and flinging it open.
Poor Darren, holding a smaller box, gapes at me in all my glaring wrath. “Ah, delivery for you, Ms. Grey.”
“This is ridiculous. Take it back and tell him I’m not interested in games.”
Darren’s mouth opens wider as he struggles for words. “Thing is, I’ll get in trouble if I don’t deliver it.”
“Oh, hell.” I take the box from him. “I’m sorry for yelling. It’s Jax who’s the pest, not you.”
The tips of Darren’s ears pink. “Right. Well, have a good day!”
“Right.” I tear into the box.
“What is it this time?” Brenna asks. “A necklace?”
“No.” I shoot her a bemused glance. “A DVD.
A Streetcar Named Desire.”
She frowns. “So … Is he trying to ask for a date?”
My finger runs over the plastic edge of the DVD case. Young Marlon Brando, muscle-bound and handsome, his shirt dirty and torn, screams up at me from a small insert picture. A smile tugs at my mouth. “Oh, for crying out loud.”
“What?” Brenna’s eyes dart from the case to my face, her expression eager. “What did he do?”
Putting the DVD down, I stride over to the living room and grab my beer and hold it aloft. “The beer is Stella Artois.”
Her frown smooths out. “And the dress is a Stella McCartney. He’s sending you Stella things?”
A snort escapes me as I look at Marlon Brando again. “Worse. I think he’s calling out to me. You know … ‘Stella! Hey, Stella!’”
She snickers. “God, he’s so weird. Cute, but weird.”
My vision blurs and I blink rapidly. “Yeah.” He is weird and wonderful and damaged. And I love him. I do. But loving someone isn’t enough. Clearly, he’s trying to reach out and make some sort of amends in his own bumbling fashion. But I don’t feel any better. In truth, I feel worse.
When the buzzer rings yet again, I just sigh and trudge to the door. “Look, this has gone—”
“Hey, Stella,” John says softly. He stands there, his hair mussed, a white T-shirt stretching over his chest, the short sleeves rolled up over his hard biceps, and slouchy worker’s pants hanging off his narrow hips. After two weeks of not seeing him, he takes my breath away, and I can only gape, drink him in. God, he is pretty. He will always be my ideal for sheer sex appeal.
And it will always hurt just a little too much to look at him.
“Were you out here the whole time?” I snap, because I can’t think of anything else to say.
He gives me his crooked smile, the one that crinkles around his eyes and wings up one corner of his expressive mouth. I hate that smile. “Only since Darren delivered the DVD.”
“Poor Darren.”
Fall Page 38
