by Kate Meader
NINE
The next day Violet still hadn’t shaken off the events of the night before. Bren’s little girl could have died, and Violet’s dreams were filled with Franky’s blue lips and desperate wheezes. What if Harper had taken her purse with her to the restroom? What if she’d forgotten to pack the EpiPen? What if Violet hadn’t known what to do? So many what-ifs standing between happiness and heartbreak.
Violet turned her car onto Hazel Avenue in Highland Park, drove twenty feet, and slammed hard on the brakes. ¡Dios mío! What was that? Eyes frantic, she scanned the sidewalk for the culprit that had just scared the living crap out of her.
Ah, just as she suspected: she had almost killed St. James’s mutt. This family was going to be the death of her!
With clearly no sense of remorse at having aged Violet ten years, Gretzky sniffed at a fire hydrant outside the open gates to Bren’s home. Inhaling a deep breath to calm her nerves, Violet parked her beater and got out. What the hell was he doing out on the road where unsuspecting motorists could mow him down?
“Come here, puppy.”
He lifted his head and wagged his tail, then returned to sniffing the hydrant. Heady stuff, apparently.
“Tu pequeño bastardo, ven aquí.” That seemed to get his attention. Interesting. In fact, he seemed to appreciate her pissy tone as well. Having grown up on the receiving end of Spanish orders, Violet could appreciate its utility for others. Mom shouting at her to do her homework, tidy her room, or eat her dinner always sounded more threatening in the mother tongue.
Gretzky left off from his sniffing, wagged his tail, and then launched himself at Violet with such force she fell back on her ass. “Hey!”
She pulled herself upright and, still shaking slightly, pointed at the house. “¡Entrar en la casa! ¡Ahora!” Yes, she was the domme here. Then she headed that way herself, watching to see if her doggie-sub would follow her. He did, still wagging his tail, still joyfully clueless. Passing through the gates, which were wide open—defeating the purpose of uh, gates—she spotted a woman on the sidewalk in jogging gear so tight it must have cut off all circulation to her extremities. Pink all over, too: headband, tracksuit, sneakers. Probably one of the neighbors.
The woman threw a look at Violet’s crappy car, Violet’s current ensemble—denim skirt, teal leather jacket, and Frye booties—and Violet’s coif, still pink streaked.
“Hey there!” Violet called out with a wave before following Gretzky, who had overtaken her and then stopped to wait for her. Such a gentleman.
She walked up the drive, realizing that she probably could have parked closer to the house, but the damn dog had spooked her. The St. James house was actually one of the smaller ones on this street filled with McMansions and faux colonials. This one had only five bedrooms, whereas all the others had eight or more. But it had character, from the stained glass lintel over the door to the Tuscan slate tiling the kitchen floor. It was the perfect house for raising a family.
No one answered the door, which was not exactly the welcome Violet expected. She was a special guest at Chez St. James after all. Somehow, Bren had gotten ahold of her number, though the text she got this morning was definitely from Franky.
You don’t want to miss out!!! Followed by a photo of a slug in a jar.
¡Mano! How could she resist?
She tried the bell again just as the door flew open. Caitriona stood there, looking like Violet was a slug. Her gaze fell to Gretzky. “He shouldn’t be outside.”
“Yeah, I’m guessing not. He was in the street and I almost ran him over.”
The girl’s eyes flew wide and she hunkered down, hugging the dog so hard Violet swore she heard him squeak. “Oh no. Dad’ll kill me.” She peered up. “I put him outside while we were cooking, but I must have left the side gate open.”
This was the first real emotion Violet had witnessed in the girl. She wouldn’t judge, because everyone handled disruption differently, but she had to admit some small relief that Caitriona wasn’t a complete robot.
Sensing an opening, Violet asked, “How about we forget it happened? Let’s just say you owe me.”
Caitriona nodded. “Okay.” She closed the front door behind them. “Come on through.”
Violet trailed after Cat and Dog, the kitchen their apparent destination, the sound of music getting louder as she approached. As she walked in, the first thought that entered her brain was: wow, that’s a lot of flour.
And it was everywhere. The counters. The floor. Bren’s hair.
Bren’s beard.
That should have been the best part, but it wasn’t. Not even close. Bren St. James, aka Lord of the Puck aka Hell’s Highlander aka the man who might have played a very minor part in Violet’s vibrator-fueled fantasies over the past eight and a half months, was wearing an apron.
A pink, frilly apron with ponies—no, even better, unicorns—and rainbows on it.
With fists on hips, he assessed his youngest daughter’s efforts as she kneaded pastry. Even Violet could tell that stronger, less patient hands were required to get that dough into shape. Big, manly hands like those meaty paws belonging to the Scotsman.
Stop fantasizing about his hands with his children in the room.
Bren kept those patient hands patiently on his hips while he patiently watched Franky push the dough around the counter. Flour rose, plumed, and fell on every nearby horizontal surface.
“Like this, Dad?”
“Just like that, sprite.”
“And Violet likes apple pie?”
“Everyone does.”
What was this? Violet’s pastry needs were being considered here?
Caitriona was on the other side of the island, bobbing her head and mouthing the words to a song, the one everyone knew about Hamilton not throwing away his shot.
“Who was at the door, love?” Bren asked.
“Me.”
Bren and Franky looked up, both surprised.
“You’re early!” Franky said.
“My class was canceled so I came right over. So, you’re baking?”
Bren smiled, and yet again, she was struck at how affected she was by it. She was supposed to get a miniorgasm at Grumpy Scot, but this . . . this was impacting her a couple of feet north of the nether regions. Guys had smiled at her before, so what the hell was this flutter in her tummy about? And since when did she use the word tummy?
“Yeah. The girls had their first lesson today with the new tutor, so we decided to have some fun baking. We’re getting the apple pie done before we start on dinner.”
“I could go if this is a really bad time.”
He looked horrified. “No! Don’t leave me.” Now he looked doubly horrified. “That came out a little unmanly.”
She rolled in her lips. Bren St. James was pretty adorable right now.
“I’m building a slug empire,” Franky said, apropos of nothing, and that was pretty adorable, too.
“This one is a spotted garden slug.”
Sitting on a weathered patio chair overlooking the somewhat overgrown backyard, Violet feigned interest in a mollusk with a particularly slimy trail. She used to fake orgasms, so she figured this couldn’t be worse than some of the guys she’d dated.
Franky sat cross-legged on the patio while she added a few twigs to a glass terrarium, which already had a layer of soil and leaves. An empire couldn’t expand in a jar, after all.
“So, Franks, what was that you were saying earlier about me liking apple pie?”
One of the slugs—out for a walk, Violet liked to think—made slow progress a few inches away from its new digs. Franky switched her focus to it, stroking it with her index finger, and watched its response to the stimulus of touch.
“It’s part of the plan.”
“The plan?”
“I’m not supposed to say.”
Curiouser and curiouser. “So, what do these puppies eat?”
“They’re mollusks, not puppies. And they eat greens. Kale, spinach, le
ttuce. But not iceberg lettuce. It has to be dark green and leafy . . .”
She carried on, talking about slug diets and how you shouldn’t put a bowl of water in the terrarium because they might drown and something about a mister, which Violet realized after about three minutes meant a spray bottle.
“How does pasta sound, sprite?” Bren stood at the door, still floured, still aproned, still adorable.
“Okay,” Franky said absently.
“Hey, Franks, what do you call a fake noodle?” Violet asked, and when Franky looked curious, she went in for the kill. “An impasta!”
“That’s silly.” But she grinned all the same.
“Yeah, I know, but it’s okay to be silly once in a while.”
“You staying for dinner?” her father asked Violet gruffly.
“Sure! When you ask so nicely, how can I refuse?”
He shook his head and returned to the house.
Ten minutes later, Violet was in heaven because Bren St. James made a mean bowl of ziti à la pomodoro. There was garlic bread, too (store-bought, but you couldn’t have everything). About halfway through dinner, he turned to Violet and said, “Sorry I don’t have any wine. I haven’t had guests in a while.”
“Dad emptied all the bottles in the sink last week,” Franky said. “They smelled terrible!”
A look of such discomfort crossed Bren’s face that Violet wanted to hug away his pain. These girls, too. She’d noticed a bottle here and there in the cupboards when she put away the groceries.
“Water’s fine.”
The apple pie sat on the counter, cooling. Gretzky sat in front of it, drooling.
“You’re not worried he’ll try to grab it?”
“I like to torture him,” Bren said, matter-of-factly. “He likes it, too.”
“Speaking of what we like, I’m all in with the apple pie.”
Bren raised his chin. There was still a spot of flour in his beard—several spots of flour—which gave his facial hair a gray-speckled, distinguished quality. Violet longed to stroke her fingers through it, feel that springy growth against her skin.
He slid a glance at Franky, who muttered guiltily, “I didn’t say anything.”
“She won’t agree to it,” Caitriona said, probably the first thing she’d said since they started eating.
Father and daughters exchanged glances, like they were planning a caper and Violet was the target. Or maybe she was the accomplice who needed to be brought into the fold for one last score. She preferred that last interpretation.
“Girls, how about you take Gretzky outside into the garden?” Bren asked. “He’s not getting any younger watching that pie.”
The girls knew a ruse when they heard one, but dutifully did as they were told, leaving Violet alone with Bren.
“Done?” he said, standing and nodding at her empty plate, then taking it when she didn’t answer.
She picked up her glass of water, stood, and leaned against the counter.
“You don’t want me looking after your kids, St. James, last night notwithstanding. That was a fluke, really. Next time, who knows.”
“They like you.”
“Even Caitriona?”
“She doesn’t like anyone right now.”
True, and Violet knew better than to take offense. “What about Ms. Volvo? She’s perfect.”
“I know. And her name is Ms. Ikea.” He sighed. “She didn’t even screw up her nose when the dog farted.”
“That’s a good sign.”
“Is it?”
She wouldn’t argue with him. This was not a reason to choose, or not choose, a qualified nanny.
“I called the agency about her references and . . .” He rubbed his mouth.
“And what?”
“She took another job. I waited too long and now I have to start over.”
For fuck’s sake. “St. James . . .”
“Look, I understand that you have a busy life. You seem to have a lot going on with your improv classes and your flamenco lessons.”
Now he was making her sound like a dilettante. “And don’t forget all I do to support the team. Advising Moretti on acquisitions as long as the players are hotties. Boosting team morale with my pregame pep talks.” She touched her shoulder to his big, beefy bicep. “And how could you ever trust me not to dye their hair and pierce their ears?”
“Maybe you should try some pie.”
“What’s that about, anyway? Franky seems a bit obsessed. In fact, you all do, weird St. James family.”
Bren stroked his beard. “When I wasn’t . . . such a mess, I’d return from away games, and after catching some shut-eye, make an apple pie with the girls. It was this coming home ritual, a way of grounding myself and reconnecting with my sprites. They loved to help me. And then when I was drinking more, I stopped because I had more important things to be doing.”
Like sleeping off a hangover and getting trashed all over again, she supposed. The bitter tinge in his voice said it all: he’d not yet forgiven himself. And was he trying to break her heart with the apple pie story?
Those blue eyes implored her. “I’d need your help for just a few days.”
“Tsk. You’re assuming you’re not going to get past the first round? Nice attitude.”
“Just a realist. What I do know is I’ll play better knowing they’re with someone I trust.”
He trusted her? She walked over to the window and took in the domestic empire she could rule for a brief moment. Caitriona was throwing a probably germ-ridden tennis ball to the end of the yard, but Gretzky couldn’t find it because Caitriona still had it in her hand. This subterfuge apparently didn’t square with Franky’s sense of fair play, as she struggled mightily to pry it from her older sister’s claws.
Violet had always wanted sisters. Don’t get her wrong—she hadn’t grown up lonely, not with her mom and two aunts. There was a lot of love in that cramped apartment in Reno, but she would have enjoyed playing with someone closer to her age.
She wished she’d known Harper and Violet sooner. All that wasted time.
“If only they were cuter,” she muttered.
Bren snort-laughed behind her. Turning would only give him the satisfaction of knowing she’d enjoyed his reaction, so she didn’t move an inch. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. She felt hugely vulnerable about this trust he was placing in her.
“And what about us?”
He was close to her now, his breath a whisper of warmth against her cheek. “Us?”
“You said that me near your kids—near you—would interfere with your sobriety.”
“I realized that the welfare and happiness of my daughters is more important than anything.”
Even his attraction to her, which he didn’t deny. This wasn’t a decision made lightly. Creating a stable environment for his daughters was the prime directive, and whatever existed between him and Violet was barely a blip compared to the well-deep love he had for those girls.
This was good. Today, Bren St. James with his adorable apron and floury beard had struck her as a little too human, a little too viable, no longer just a piece of ass she could tease and taunt. This wasn’t the kind of man she could easily put in her rearview when she took her cut of the franchise and ran. The barrier between them would exist for good reasons all around.
Because she hadn’t answered, he continued making his case. “You can use my SUV while I’m gone, and it doesn’t have to be live-in. We won’t have to spend time together, just the handoff. When I’m here, you don’t have to be.”
But what if I want to be? If she valued her mental health, then she’d best nix that notion. It sounded like the ideal setup, except she would now be responsible for the nearest and dearest people to this man’s heart. This was madness, but apparently she’d gone a little mad herself.
Most important, it felt significant, something to give her purpose.
“Until the end of the play-offs, whichever round that is,” she said.
Hi
s broad shoulders relaxed. “Thank you. Now let’s have some pie.”
TEN
Violet: Hey, Nessie.
Bren: Are the girls okay?
Violet: Yes. Do you think I’d text you while you’re at an away game with “Hey, Nessie” if they weren’t?
Bren: Okay. Can I help you?
Violet: Oh, the answers I could give. LOL.
Bren: . . .
Violet: ;P (that was me sticking out my tongue, spoilsport). So I’m checking in to see how late is too late for them to drink soda.
Bren: What are they telling you?
Violet: That they usually drink it with dinner and then again with their cookie snack at 8 p.m.
Bren: Lies. All of it. No soda or cookies after 6 p.m. Not unless you want to be up all night with them.
Violet: Nessie has spoken!
Fifteen seconds later . . .
Violet: Oh, they don’t like that. But you’re the bad guy, so I’m in the clear.
Violet: Hey, Nessie.
Bren: Is everything okay?
Violet: Uh, we’ve covered this. Yes.
Bren: . . .
Bren: ?
Violet: Sorry, Gretzky was getting a little familiar with the chica parts there. Anyways, we have a problem. The girls have never seen The Princess Bride.
Bren: Of course they have. Everyone has.
Violet: Nope. I was quoting all the best lines and they were clueless. Mawage. Inconceivable. ROUS. Nothing!
Bren: Way to make me feel like a failure as a parent.
Violet: Right, because it’s all about you. Okay for them to watch?
Bren: As you wish.
Violet: Nice. Have fun storming the ice field!
Bren: Rink.
Violet: Whatevs.
Violet: Hey, Nessie.
Bren: Hey.
Violet: So why do bagpipe players walk while they play?
Bren: . . .
Violet: To get away from the noise!
Bren: Ha-ha.
Violet: I know. Classic, right? Sorry about the game last night.
Bren: Thanks. We still have one more shot. How was the movie?
Violet: Didn’t watch it. Figured you might want to see it with them the first time. We watched The Lego Movie instead, and through the power of product placement, you’re now on the hook for all sorts of useless plastic shit.
