Three Little Words (#dirtysexygeeks Book 4)

by Melissa Blue

  Now he couldn’t because he needed to be the father his couldn’t be.

  Myka + H.G. Wells

  Iris leaned against the railing, watching Victor and Porter bring in boxes of junk into the living room from the car. She muttered to Ashley, “This is so typically male.”

  “Men lifting heavy stuff to show off?”

  Iris snorted. “No. He left with a bunch of stuff that he wasn’t even using and he comes back with twice as much junk.”

  “I have the opposite problem with Vic. I send him out with the list. He gets everything in under five minutes flat. I usually have to send him back out because I forgot something.”

  “That’s so...domestic, Ashley.”

  “Isn’t it? I’m amazed at it. We fit.” Ashley pursed her lips and then blinked. Took Iris a moment to realize her friend was trying to look innocent.

  Iris laughed. “What?”

  “Are you and my brother...fitting?”

  Too much. “Why are you ‘shipping us? That’s the question.”

  “Everyone is.”

  “What?” she said loud enough the men glanced up at them.

  “The Goon Squad has a bet going on. Well, more like a game.”

  This time she just blinked at her friend.

  Ashley flailed her arms as though that explained it all. “Okay. We watched you guys at the barbecue and Wade said you and Porter were like Scully and Mulder.”

  Iris tilted her head, trying to see that—no trying to wrap her head around the fact his friends were talking about their fucked up relationship like it was a part of a fandom.

  “I know,” Ashley said, “we’re horrible people.”

  She let the thought settle on her. “Not horrible. It’s inconsiderate. A little bit. This is my life. Our life.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll take my wager off the table.”

  They went quiet and then curiosity got the better of Iris. “Who did you pick?”

  “Really, Iris? That’s where you go after I tell you I’m betting on your life?”

  “Hey, I’m touchy but nosy as hell. That hasn’t changed.”

  “Spuffy, obviously. You started out hating him, despising him, and then you let him take you to the dark side.”

  Despite herself, Iris laughed. “Yeah. I’m decided. That is a horrible bet.”

  Ashley looked down at the men. “Come on, let’s go into Porter’s room so you can give me the dirt in private.”

  “No need. There’s no dirt. I’m here for the next few days. My doctor won’t see me until the week is up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because even though she looks like a cherub baby, she’s a hardass.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “I’m not bleeding anymore. I called to get out of bed rest. She told me I could start again if I didn’t take it easy and then it could be worse.”

  “Is she right?”

  She sighed. “Yes.”

  “Then why are you trying to leave?”

  “Because I’m living with Porter and have nowhere else to go.”

  “I take offense.”

  As she suspected her friend would. “I couldn’t ask you to cook me enough food to last me a week and check in on me at least twice a day.”

  Ashley put a hand on her hip and glared at Iris. “Victor has a few days off. He would have pitched in. Hell, he is pitching in. Porter called him in the middle of the night and sent out a distress flare.”

  Iris’s gaze drew to Porter who was laughing at something Victor had said. “He did?”

  “He wanted Vic to help him with the yard, but that’s Porter-speak for help.”

  Iris leaned forward on the railing. That morning and afternoon he’d seemed pensive, but how could she know what he normally looked like? For years she’d seen him from afar. She knew of him through a biased source—his sister, and usually things that pissed Ashley off.

  Siblings.

  Once again, curiosity got the better of Iris. “What is he like? Really like with his friends, with people he doesn’t know?”

  “Porter’s...” Ashley frowned. “He’s playful. He takes calculated risks. He’s smart, loving, and a bit of an asshole when he gets riled up. He’s been the bane of my existence often, but I love him.”

  “Huh.” She kept watching him, trying see that side of him, well, again. She’d seen that man after the wedding. It’s why she’d thought of him often afterward. It’s why it hurt to know even a small part of him relied on using ugly words to control people he loved.

  She wasn’t a saint, by no means, but he had fucked her, aware in some dark region of his mind that too might hurt Ashley.

  She asked the one question that mattered, “Was he always angry? Controlling?”

  “No. My dad did that to him. What my father did to my mom, it turned a piece of Porter sour. I had hoped he’d shake it. He hasn’t. It makes me sad for him and pissed at my dad.”

  She made eye contact with her friend. The pain was clear on her face. “Have you heard from him?”

  “No, and good riddance. He hasn’t been there for us when we needed him. He shouldn’t get to be here when our lives are good.”

  Iris dropped a hand to her stomach. Her child would never know her mother, his grandmother, and he’d never know Porter’s father. She dropped her hand and blocked that snippet of the future out. Her friend was here, and that would keep her mind off worry.

  “You’ve got that face,” Ashley said. “Let’s paint your toes, since I figure that’s going to be my job the next few months anyway. Might as well get some practice in now.”

  Iris chuckled. “You’re going to give me pedis?”

  “I love you and I can’t let you walk around with Flintstone feet.”

  Iris rolled her eyes. “I love you, too.”

  ******

  Hours later, Porter came back into the house smelling like earth and sweat. Iris’s heart sped up as his scent dug into her bones. He leaned against his bedroom’s doorway, his glance falling on her and then his sister. She sat on the edge of the bed, her foot propped on Ashley’s lap as she’d stolen one of Porter’s office chairs.

  “I remember this smell,” he said.

  Ashley laughed. “Remember that time I talked you guys into letting me paint your nails?”

  Porter lifted his brow. “Nope. Don’t recall that.”

  Ashley twirled the chair in her brother’s direction. “Don’t tell that lie. Victor was the only one who went unscathed. You had a nice manicure.” She glanced at Iris. “He went for clear polish. A classic. Wade had summer passion peach. Oliver had black.”

  Porter stole a look at Iris and shook his head. “Remember that time at Monterrey Bay you—”

  “Look at the time.” Ashley popped out of the chair. “As in time for me to go…”

  Iris laughed too amused at the exchange. “What happened at Monterrey Bay?”

  “Ashley—”

  “Do it and I’ll tell her about the summer of ninety-nine.”

  Porter put up his hands. “Victor said he’s ready to leave.”

  “If he smells like you, I might make him walk home.” But Ashley pushed the chair to the corner. “Iris, call me. Text me. Anytime.”

  She blew her an air kiss. “Will do.”

  Porter moved to the side of the door so his sister could leave. When she was gone, he crossed his arms and took Iris in. “You look happy.”

  She was. For an hour or two she got to be her old self. “Did you get everything you wanted finished?”

  “Yes and no. I’m going to have to put down some grass seeds. It looks patchy right now after we dug up half of the crab grass. You got the energy to get started on the room again?”

  “What?”

  Porter frowned. “You didn’t look inside the boxes after I put them in Junior’s room?”

  “No.”

  “Come on.” He pushed from the door and she followed him back down to the junk room. The view...was nice. He’d pulled
off his t-shirt, and that left him in a black tank top. The tattoos on his shoulder blades peeked from the narrow edges. Sweat glistened down his arms. He looked lickable.

  She welcomed the punch of lust. It was better than the uncertainty or the tension that had held her stiff for the past two days.

  The view got better once he cleared the threshold of the room and bent over to open up a box. Unfortunately he took that moment to look at her.

  She raised her brows and tried to look like she hadn’t been imagining biting his left ass cheek. He chuckled. “Are you zero or sixty right now?”

  “Forty-five,” she answered honestly. “What’s in the box?”

  “I don’t want to touch it. My hands are still dirty.”

  She moved closer to peek inside. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, her heart melting. How could it not? “Look at the onesies. They are so small and cute.”

  His face lit up from his laugh. “You got the cute-puppy voice.”

  “The what?”

  “At any age, a girl uses that voice when they see a puppy and think it’s adorable.”

  She swatted him aside and dived into the box. Most of the clothes in it were in shades of soft greens and softer yellows, but there were onesies, nightgowns, mittens, and socks. Everything was all so very small and adorable.

  The items looked too new to be a thrift store run. “Where did you get this stuff?”

  “Grady’s junk room. It’s all clean though. They boxed it up and had planned to donate it.”

  She looked back at him. “You and your friend definitely have something in common. I’m grateful, though. I’m going to have to call Eva and squee at her.”

  “You like it?”

  “I love it. I haven’t started shopping, at all.”

  He gestured with his chin to the other boxes along the wall. “There are bottles, pacifiers at the bottom of that. The second one has decorations we can put up on the wall. Truck stickers and shit.”

  She pulled out a nightgown, placing the soft material to her chest. Her throat tightened, and her eyes started to burn. “Say something to piss me off.”

  His expression turned dubious. “Why?”

  “In about five seconds I’m going to start crying and it’s not going to be pretty. So piss me off.”

  He backed up, closer to the door. “How about I shower off this dirt and you do what you need to do?”

  She sniffed. “It’s the hormones, and the baby clothes smelling like baby.”

  Porter took another step back. “Iris, you’re already crying.”

  “I know.” She put her face into the nightgown, and started to sob.

  His sigh exploded in the room and then his hand was on her back, rubbing it in small circles.

  She said through the clothes, “We’re really having a baby.”

  “We are.”

  “I’m so damn scared.”

  His fingers climbed up and wrapped around her nape. Then he pulled her in so her face was between the nightgown and his chest. In that moment, he felt so solid. And warm. So warm. She rubbed her face against him and swallowed down the rest of the tears.

  “I’m okay.” She tried to straighten, but his hand remained on the back of her neck.

  He forced her head up to make her look at him. His eyes were dark and so serious. “We’re going to be fine, Iris. I promise.”

  “You can’t promise something like that.”

  “With this, yes, I can.”

  She wanted to believe him, but how could he look ahead and not imagine all the shit that could go wrong? How could he be remotely sure their kid grew up healthy and happy? There was too much out of their control.

  He dropped his hand. “I’m going to wash up,” he murmured, like he knew she was still fragile and raising his voice another octave would break her. “We’ll decorate together.”

  She grabbed hold to the old her, the woman with a smart mouth and who would laugh before she ever let herself cry, “No movie montage of you painting the walls?”

  “The one where your stomach gets bigger until we’re standing around a crib?”

  She laughed, loving the fact he jumped on the joke. “Yeah. That one.”

  “I think we can be a little more creative than that.”

  She breathed and breathed him in. Earth, man, and sex. And warm. So damn warm. “At least not for another week.”

  He brushed his mouth along her forehead. “You’re feeling better.”

  He stood before she could tell him to never kiss her like that again. She swallowed the words and watched him leave as her throat got tight again.

  *****

  Porter glared at the trucks that lined the left border of Junior’s room. It had to be well past midnight. Yet he had tried and given up on getting comfortable on the small ass futon. No matter how many times he shifted he could feel every metal bar along his back and limbs.

  He kicked off the thin blanket, snatched his pillow and moved to the door. He stopped at the threshold. A corner of his mouth twitched. Iris was halfway down the stairs, doing her best to creep. He waited and watched and chuckled when she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

  He followed her footsteps, pausing long enough to throw his pillow on the couch. Once she was in view again, he leaned against the wall between the living room and the kitchen. The glow of the fridge’s light slanted over her face.

  “Need some help?” he asked.

  She jumped and fell back into the door. Her hands had gone to her stomach protectively. “Jesus, would you walk loudly?”

  “Craving something, or just hungry?”

  “Both? I seem to always be both, but you’re not cooking for me.”

  He raised a brow at that. “You were on your feet a lot today.”

  She tilted her head back. “No more than twenty minutes at a time, and no more than three hours in a day. Believe me, I know, and I’ve adhered to those rules.” She added in a grump, “I’m hungry.”

  “Were you going to go back upstairs after you ate?”

  “I was going to sleep on the couch.” Her gaze shifted left.

  “Iris, you’re a shit liar. Just FYI.”

  “I feel fine. I’m also getting twitchy with all this sitting down.”

  He pushed off the wall and picked up one of his stools on the way to the island. “Sit.”

  “I’m not a dog.”

  “No. Just a stubborn ass woman. You’re not sitting for you, but for him.”

  “I know,” she snapped then took a deep breath. This time her tone was softer. “I’m not used to this. I work even when I’m sick.”

  “Think of it as a vacation. Instead of sitting by the pool, soaking in the sun, you’re...” He had no comparison.

  She dragged her feet but eventually sat down on the stool. “Yeah, and you’re my cabana boy.”

  He opened the fridge door wider. “I am shirtless.” He stole a glance at her. She had rested her elbows on the island and propped her face with the palms of her hands.

  “What were you craving?” he asked.

  “This is going to sound weird, but go with it.”

  “Shoot.”

  “First I want a salad. Mix together romaine lettuce and fresh spinach. Cover it with parmesan.”

  “And then?”

  “If I’m still hungry after that, chicken Alfredo. Do know I’m happy with you using the leftover fried chicken.”

  He waited. “That’s it?”

  “For the moment, since you don’t have strawberries. I’d kill for a strawberry shortcake right now too.”

  “Coming up.”

  “Thank you. I know this is—”

  “It’s not a problem. I wasn’t asleep anyway.”

  “The futon of revenge?”

  He snorted at the apt description. “To think, in college, that’s all I really needed to get a good eight hours.”

  She fell silent. He took out everything he was going to need. She was worrying her bottom lip, and he knew, once a
gain, she was going to pry into his past, ask him a question that would put him on edge.

  The thing was, he didn’t mind. It was like letting out bits of poison he’d stored up over the years.

  “What is it?”

  “You stayed for your mom? Because of what your dad did?”

  “I stayed for Ashley, too.”

  Silence then, “Is that why her hooking up with Victor pissed you off? You’d stayed for her, too? And I don’t know...expected her fall in line on your say-so?”

  He grabbed the spinach and lettuce to take it to the sink. It wouldn’t hurt to tell her when he didn’t have to face her. “I was mad at her about Victor because my sister is a lot like our father. As much as I was worried about Victor having a flashback and hurting her, I didn’t want her to get a few years in a relationship then fuck him over.”

  “That’s not your sister.”

  “She’s proving me wrong, that’s for sure.”

  “She loves him.”

  He pushed his shoulders back, turning to the sink. “My father loved me and my sister.”

  Since there was nothing to say to that, he gave the vegetables a good washing and handed them over to Iris. He got her a knife.

  She lifted her brows. “You’re going to let me do something?”

  “It’ll keep you busy.” He got a bowl and finally scrounged up the parmesan. She could eat that while he prepped the pasta.

  Of course when his back was turned, she asked, “Are you like your father?”

  “If you had asked me that a year ago, I would have said fuck no. Now, I don’t know.” He faced her. “I take that back. Right now, today, I sure as fuck am not like my father. I’m going wake up every day and make sure that statement remains true.”

  She ripped off enough leaves to make two salads.

  He crossed his arms then asked the question that had been burning in the back of his mind, “Have you talked to your father since the barbecue?”

  The knife came down hard on the island. “No. I don’t know if he’ll talk to me, either. He’s...My father is...”

  Porter swallowed down all the adjectives he could fill in on her behalf, but he waited.

  She transferred the salad to the bowl. “My father has a set way of thinking, and growing up, I tried to live up to that.”