See? All it took to control your feelings was a little discipline.
“So was it any better the second time?” From her end of the couch, Emme looked at me hopefully before eating the last olive from her martini off the stainless steel cocktail pick. Her shoes were off, her denim-clad legs were tucked underneath her, and she’d taken her hair down. It spilled down over her shoulders, long and blond and wavy.
“You mean the third time?” As the credits rolled, I tossed back a little more bourbon, hoping it would take the edge off that uneasy feeling I’d had all day. I’d hoped putting out the fire in Emme’s kitchen would make it go away, but it had lingered. “I’ve watched this for you before. And no, it wasn’t.”
She stretched out one leg and nudged me with her bare foot. Her toes were painted pink, of course. Not a soft pink like her velvet sofa, but a deep vibrant hue, more like a raspberry. “You just don’t like Craig because he shows more vulnerability than Connery. He’s more human. And you know he’s a better actor.”
“I don’t know any such thing. And I don’t need to see vulnerability in Bond because he’s not a real person. Not that I think exhibiting vulnerability is an asset to real people, anyway, at least not usually. And definitely not men.”
She made a disgusted noise at the back of her throat and poked me with her toes again. “Real men can be vulnerable, Nate.”
“But they shouldn’t show it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a weakness, and weakness undermines power and authority and control.” But I couldn’t stop looking at her toes. What the fuck?
A sigh escaped her as she swirled the last few sips of her martini. “Well, I prefer men who aren’t afraid to show weakness sometimes. That’s what makes them real to me.”
“But Bond is a fantasy, Emme. A fantasy.” I got up off the couch, taking my empty glass with me. Partly it was to get a short refill, and partly it was to put a little distance between my thigh and her foot. It was disturbing how close to my dick it was. And why was I thinking about putting her toes in my mouth? I wasn’t even a foot man. Must be the dry spell.
I went into the kitchen and reached for the bourbon bottle, pouring myself only a couple more swallows since I wanted to be at the gym first thing in the morning, and working out with a hangover was never a good time.
Emme followed me into the kitchen and kept arguing. “He’s not a fantasy. A fantasy is a thing, a dream. Bond is a character—a human character.”
“Fine, he’s a character—the ultimate alpha male. No wife and kids, no honey-I’m-home. He eats and drinks what he wants when he wants, drives a cool car, sleeps with beautiful women, and kills bad people. No feelings involved.”
Emme rolled her eyes before she finished her drink and placed her empty glass in the sink. Our dinner dishes were already in the dishwasher, the leftovers put away in the fridge. “And this is what you aspire to?”
“Why not?”
She gestured dramatically. “Because it’s a cold and lonely life! You’re going to die alone!”
I laughed. We had some variation of this argument all the time. I have no idea why she was so hell-bent on my having feelings, but she was. “I’m never cold, and I enjoy my alone time. As for dying, why not die alone? I’m going to spare a bunch of people a lot of grief and regret.”
“That’s sad. I’m sad for you.”
“Of course you are.”
“You know, even an alpha male can have feelings occasionally.”
“Oh?”
She crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter, giving me the evil eye. “Yes. He doesn’t have to be hard as granite all the way through, all the time.”
Don’t think about being hard. Don’t think about being hard. Don’t think about being hard. I leaned back against the opposite counter and sort of held my glass in front of my crotch. “Why are you even concerned with alpha males? You’re never attracted to them.”
“What? Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.” I knew her type well. “You’re always saying how you don’t want to be rescued, you want someone willing to show affection and talk about feelings, you don’t like arrogant or competitive guys or guys who always have to win, you like guys who get along with everyone—”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. But that’s not an alpha male.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “But look at Bond. Who is he so worried about protecting? Why is he so driven to kill the bad guys? There must be people he cares about more than himself to put himself in harm’s way so often.”
“Maybe he just likes the thrill of the chase.”
“Maybe he’s more selfless than you think.”
“In this case, I think we’re going to have to disagree.”
She sighed heavily, and I knew I had disappointed her by ending the argument in a draw instead of winning or losing it. Any other night, I might have kept it going, but there was something odd going on with me, something that had me wanting to close the distance between us, set her up on the counter, slip my hands beneath that fuzzy white sweater she had on, see what her legs felt like wrapped around my hips. But I knew better.
Get her out of here before you do something stupid.
“Hey, you got fortune cookies? I didn’t see those.” She reached for the little cellophane bag.
“I forgot about them.”
“Can I have one?”
“You can have them both.”
She took one out and cracked it open. “A ship in harbor is safe, but that’s not why ships are built.”
“Very deep.”
She ignored me and went on to the next one. “You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens.” Her lips pursed. “Hm. I don’t want a dangerous ship or a broken heart.”
I laughed at the anguish in her tone and expression.
“It’s not funny,” she said, shoving pieces of cookie in her mouth. “It means I’m doomed to be unhappy. And then I’m going to die in a shipwreck.”
“It means you take things way too seriously.” I tipped back the last of the bourbon in my glass, and set it in the sink. “Well, I’ve got an early morning at the gym tomorrow.”
She popped the rest of one cookie in her mouth and brushed off her hands. “I’m going. What time is it anyway?”
I checked the digital clock on the microwave. “It’s 11:11.”
Her face lit up. “Ooh! Make a wish!”
“What?”
“It’s 11:11, you have to make a wish.” She closed her eyes for a couple seconds, her lips moving as if saying a silent prayer. Then she opened them. “Did you do it?”
I laughed. “No.”
“Nate! Hurry up! Make a wish.” She glanced at the clock and flapped her hands agitatedly.
“I don’t have a wish to make.”
“So make one for me, then. And do it fast, before it’s 11:12.”
This time it was my turn to roll my eyes, but secretly I wished that the next guy she fell in love with would love her back the way she deserved, and she’d be happy. But I didn’t close my eyes, and I didn’t move my lips, so she had no idea whether I’d made a wish or not.
“Did you do it?” She looked concerned.
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth fell open for a second. “What was it? What did you wish for me?”
I started to laugh as I left the kitchen. “Nice try, Calamity. Even I know you don’t tell a wish if you want it to come true.” The credits were still rolling on the television, and I picked up the remote to turn everything off.
“Oh, now you believe in wishes?” She sat down on the couch and tugged on her fluffy boots.
No, I wanted to tell her. I don’t, because I learned a long time ago that wishes and prayers and hopes don’t mean anything. No one is listening. But I didn’t tell her that, not only because she was looking up at me with my favorite expression of hers, the one dari
ng me to fight back, but because at that very moment, I heard a noise in the hall.
A strange and oddly terrifying noise.
I looked over my shoulder toward the door, thinking I must have imagined the sound.
Then I heard it again—the unmistakable, ball-shrinking, cringe-inducing sound of a baby’s wail.
I looked at Emme, who had paused mid-task, one foot off the ground. “Did you hear that?” I asked her.
“Yeah,” she said, pulling the boot on and dropping her foot. “Was that a baby?”
“It couldn’t be. Who’s baby would it be?” Emme and I had the only two apartments at the end of this hall.
“Maybe someone’s watching a movie really loud,” she suggested.
But then we heard it again, and this time it wasn’t an isolated cry but a plaintive howling that didn’t stop.
Emme stood up. “We better go look.”
I knew she was right, but I had a horrible, sick feeling in my stomach. That unease from earlier had grown into a bowling ball-sized bucket of dread.
Emme went to the door and opened it. Then she gasped. “Oh my God.”
Paralyzed with fear, I didn’t move. “What is it?”
“Come here.”
Reluctantly, I walked to the door and peered over her shoulder at the screaming baby that had apparently been abandoned at my doorstep. “Oh my God. What the fuck?”
“Shh. It can hear you.” Emme moved into the hall and stared down at the baby, which was red-faced and furious, its tiny fists waving in the air, a pink fleece hat slipping down over its eyes. It was covered with blankets and lying in some sort of contraption with a plastic base, a reclining seat, and a handlebar across the top. Next to it was a bag overflowing with items I didn’t recognize. White things and pink things and fluffy things and plastic things.
I thought I might vomit.
“My God.” Emme knelt down next to it and made shushing noises, removing the hat and smoothing its crazy tufts of dark hair back from its face. “It’s a baby.”
“I can see that.” I braced myself in the doorway with a hand on either side of the frame. “But what’s it doing here?”
“I don’t know.” On her knees, Emme looked up and down the hallway, but there was no one around. Getting to her feet again, she picked up the contraption by the handle, groaning as if it were heavy, although the baby didn’t look as if it could weigh more than a bottle of whiskey. She set it down again, frowning as she studied the handle. Then she clicked some sort of lever or button, and the seat detached from the base. “Aha. Okay, grab the bag and the base to the car seat and bring it in.”
“Why?” I stayed exactly where I was, with my hands bracketed on either side of the doorjamb, as if I wanted to block her entrance. Which, of course, I did. This baby was a harbinger of evil. I could feel it.
Emme gaped at me, struggling to get a better grip on the car seat using two hands. The baby continued to yowl, a shrill, ear-piercing sound. “What do you mean why? Because there is a baby in the hallway outside your apartment that appears to have been left on purpose. We can’t just leave it here.”
“Maybe it was left outside of your apartment. Why can’t we take it there?”
Emme rolled her eyes. “Give me a break, Nate. It’s not going to bite you or give you cooties or whatever it is you’re afraid of.”
“How do we even know it’s a real baby? It could be a bomb. Is it ticking?”
Emme stared at me. “Are you insane? It’s not a bomb; it’s a baby. Now get out of my way so I can come in. This thing is heavy.”
She came at me and I had no choice but to step aside. Once she was in, I stepped out into the hall and walked all the way to one end. Opening the stairwell door, I went into it and looked up and down. “Hello?” I called, my voice echoing into the dark. I saw no one and heard nothing. I came out of the stairwell and walked toward the elevators, again seeing no one and hearing nothing. Scratching my head, I went back to my door and stared down at the overstuffed canvas bag and plastic car seat base. My heart was hammering in my chest, and not in a good way.
Stop being ridiculous, Pearson. It’s just a baby. And it’s probably a complete coincidence that it was left at your door. Maybe even a mistake. But I still felt nervous as I picked up the bag and the base and brought them inside.
Emme had taken the baby from the seat and was cradling it in her arms as she paced back and forth in front of the couch, bouncing it gently and shushing it with soft, soothing sounds.
“We should call the police,” I said, trying to sound authoritative as I set the bag and base on the floor. “We need to find out who this baby belongs to.”
Emme stopped moving and looked up at me. “Brace yourself, Nate. I think she might belong to you.”
“Me? That’s impossible!”
Emme started the pace-and-bounce routine again, focusing her attention on the baby’s face. “There’s a letter in the car seat with your name on it.”
I didn’t want to see it. God help me, I didn’t want to. If it were any other day, maybe I wouldn’t have been so scared. But all day long, my gut had been trying to warn me about something.
Swallowing hard, I went over to the car seat and saw the white envelope at the bottom of it. My name was written on the front in black ink. Cursive letters. A feminine slant. I reached down, picked it up, and pulled out the handwritten letter inside.
Dear Nate,
I’m sorry. I should have told you about her. Trust me when I say she was just as much of a surprise to me as I’m sure she is to you. I thought I would give her up, but found I couldn’t. I thought I could do it on my own, but find I can’t. I just need a break, okay? Some air. I’ll come back for her, I promise. She is healthy, has had all her shots, and eats well, about four ounces every three hours. Her formula and a couple bottles are in the diaper bag, along with some diapers, wipes, some clothes, and a couple toys. She can sleep in her car seat, although she is not a good sleeper.
She is eight weeks old.
Her name is Paisley.
Sincerely,
Rachel
I read the letter once, twice, five times, ten times, twenty. I wanted it to be lies. I wanted to deny I’d ever known a Rachel. I wanted to pretend I didn’t remember the boozy weekend we’d spent in her downtown hotel room after blowing off the boring tax law seminar we were supposed to attend.
But I couldn’t.
My vision clouded.
I have a daughter.
She’s eight weeks old.
Her name is Paisley.
I swayed forward.
Is Paisley even a name?
I thought it was a tie pattern.
I prefer stripes.
Something was wrong with my legs.
“Well?”
I looked up from the letter to find Emme staring at me intently. “Is it true? Is the baby yours?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice cracking, my world cracking. “I think she is.”
And then I fucking fainted.
Three
Emme
“Oh my God! Nate!”
His eyes had rolled back in his head, his knees had buckled, and he’d dropped forward in a heap, his upper body slumped over the car seat. I hurried over to him and knelt by his side.
“Nate. Hey, wake up.” Hitching the baby over to one arm, I slapped his face a few times, not too hard, but not too gently either.
He moaned and his eyes fluttered open.
“Nate, can you hear me?”
“Yeah.” He blinked a few times and sat back on his heels. “What happened?”
“You fainted.”
He looked distressed. “No, I didn’t.”
I bit my tongue—he had so fainted—and took his hand, helping him to his feet and then leading him over to the couch. “Here, sit down. Do you need some water?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” He scratched his head, which left a few pieces sticking up in the back. His eyes were still dazed, and he was
sitting in a way I had never seen him sit before, sort of slouched over, defeated. He looked like he’d been hit by a bus.
“I’ll get you some water,” I said, heading for the kitchen. The baby was finally quiet in my arms, as if distracted by the show. I found a glass in a cupboard, threw a few ice cubes in it, and filled it from the water dispenser in the freezer door.
Part of me simply couldn’t believe it. Nate didn’t seem like the kind of guy this could happen to—he was too clever, too together, too lucky. Another part of me wondered if, when you had as much casual sex as Nate did, your luck was bound to run out at some point.
I looked down at the baby in my arms. Her expression seemed to mirror Nate’s—a mix of befuddlement, anger, and fear. I searched for a resemblance and thought I found one in the shape of her big gray-blue eyes. Holy shit, maybe she really was his daughter.
Back in the living room, I handed him the water and watched as he downed the entire glass without taking a breath. Then he lowered it to his lap and stared at the baby, blinking repeatedly as if he thought maybe he’d imagined the whole thing and she simply wouldn’t be there when he opened his eyes.
“Are you okay?” I perched at the other end of the couch, but as soon as I sat still the baby started to fuss, so I stood up again and started twisting at the waist from side to side—one of my old nanny tricks for calming a fussy baby.
“I’m fine,” Nate said, but it came out as more of a whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m fine.”
“Okay. But you should stay seated. Sometimes after you faint, you—”
His brow furrowed. “I didn’t faint. I tripped, that’s all. On that thing.” He gestured toward the car seat.
Again, I bit my tongue. “So what did the letter say?”
But Nate didn’t answer. Instead he stared straight ahead, murmuring something that sounded like this can’t be happening to me. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to tell me anything, I went over to where the note had slipped from his hand when he’d “tripped” and scooped it up off the floor, which wasn’t easy while holding a baby in my arms. Planting my feet wide, I had to do sort of a grande plié, keeping my back upright and blindly reaching for it with my free hand. I made a mental note to thank Maren for dragging me with her to ballet class all those years.
Only You Page 3
