Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover)

by Winter Renshaw

  Wren snickers.

  “It’s not funny,” I say.

  “It’s hilarious.”

  Enzo chuckles too, though I’m not sure he knows what he’s laughing at. Wren licks her pointer finger and flicks to a new page in one of the seven hundred wedding magazines on her lap.

  “But whatever, it was fine,” I say. “He invited me up. I made us omelets and then we went for a walk.”

  My sister glances up at me, one eye squinted. “You went on a walk? That’s . . . cute.”

  “He called it a walk and talk.”

  “Even cuter.” She turns to another page. “Did he bring up Topaz? And the date?”

  I pick at a loose thread on the arm of the sofa. “Nope. I don’t think he has any desire to date me. Matter of fact, I don’t think he knows what to think of me.”

  “Ha.” Wren looks up. “I don’t even know what to think of you half the time and I’ve known you your whole life.”

  “Anyway. It’s okay. Who has time to date, right?” I rise, stretching my arms over my head.

  “Yeah, dating and relationships are for total losers who have no life.” Wren clucks her tongue, winking at me and flashing the glittering cushion-cut diamond on her left ring finger.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Leaning down, I ruffle the top of Enzo’s messy hair. “Okay, I’m going to return some emails and relax for a bit.” I turn to Wren, “And please, please, please stop emailing me links to dresses. If you need my opinion, you know where to find me. Seems like every time I clear an email lately, five more pop up and they’re all from you.”

  “I’m in full wedding planning mode,” she says. “Welcome to your life for the next six months.”

  I chuckle, pleased to see my sister finally embracing this whole bride thing. Chauncey’s a great guy, and he’s more perfect for her and Enzo than she realizes. When I return to my room, I grab the notebook and flip to a random page.

  I need a distraction from the fact that six months from now, all our lives are going to change. Not just Wren’s and Enzo’s, but mine as well.

  We’ve talked about expanding Glam2Go, offering it in other cities besides New York. L.A. has always been next on our list, and I suppose it makes the best sense anyway. With all those production companies and actors and actresses and reality show housewives, a good makeup artist could have a pretty good thing going out there.

  Lying on my stomach, I prop my head in my hand and scan the ink on the page in front of me.

  Tonight we were almost caught. Again. The first time was just after we’d made love on the bearskin rug at the lake house as he slept, passed out, in the next room. The second time was in the guestroom of their apartment. Tonight I fucked her on his bed, seconds from coming inside her until the sound of his footsteps carried from down the hall. It was terrifying and exhilarating, my hand clamped over her mouth, my cock wet with her arousal, both of us breathless as we sought a place to hide in the back of the master closet.

  Perhaps I’m a selfish man, but I almost wish we’d been caught. He would hate her if he caught us. He’d hate me too. But it would finally put an end to all this nonsense, and she would finally be with the man who loves her most. The man most deserving.

  I don’t want to sneak around with her. I want to wear her on my arm. I want to be free to love her openly. Proudly. I want to show her off. I want to marry her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her.

  And I can’t do that until he lets go of her once and for all.

  Chapter 18

  Ace

  Aidy’s been on my mind all day.

  Actually, she has been for the last three days, since she rang my doorbell with an armful of groceries Sunday morning like some crazy person.

  I’m seated at some sidewalk café in the Lower East Side. I’ve never been here before, but coffee sounded good. The server reminds me of Aidy. Her hair, at least. She doesn’t smile as much and she doesn’t make much eye contact. Her shoulders are covered, and for some insane reason that makes me miss Aidy’s shoulders.

  Shit.

  Never thought I’d see a day when shoulders made me hard as a rock, but damn that Aidy Kincaid and her repertoire of shoulder-baring blouses. Guess when you haven’t been laid in over a year, it doesn’t take much to get stirred.

  Thumbing through the contacts in my phone, I stop when I find hers at the top.

  I could text her.

  But I know myself. I’d sit here, staring at the screen, waiting for the notification that my message has been read, and then I’ll stare at the bouncing dots, anxiously awaiting her response like some lonely, pathetic loser.

  Manning up, I pick up the phone and call her. If she doesn’t answer, fine. I won’t leave a message, and she’ll never know what I wanted unless she calls me back. I’ll take that over the chance that she might read and subsequently ignore my text.

  I don’t want to feel like a schmuck.

  “Hello,” she answers on the second ring.

  I clear my throat. “Aidy.”

  Aidy laughs. “You sound surprised that I answered.”

  I am.

  “No, no,” I say. “Just calling to see if you wanted to maybe meet for coffee.”

  She’s quiet.

  My breath suspends.

  “Oh, um . . . yeah. When?”

  “Now.”

  She pauses for an endless couple of seconds.

  “Where?” she asks.

  “Arcadia Steam,” I say. “It’s just off-”

  “I know where it is. Give me fifteen, okay?”

  Easy enough.

  “Hey.” Her voice greets me before she does, and I turn in my chair, eyes honing in on her shoulders, which are tragically covered on this unusually cool late June afternoon. Aidy grabs the seat across from me and dives for the menu. “Love this place. Great neighborhood actually. Topaz and I do lunch around here all the time.”

  “This is my first time.”

  She flips a page in the menu. “What brings you all the way down here?”

  “I had a photo shoot earlier.”

  Aidy stops, her wide eyes glancing across the table and settling in mine. “Oh, really? What for?”

  “American Athlete magazine.” I say it like it’s no big deal, and it probably isn’t a big deal to someone like Aidy, but every red-blooded American athlete in this country would give their right arm to be on the cover of American Athlete.

  “That’s cool. Are they doing a story about you?”

  “My old agent’s trying to get me back out there. He’s the one who talked me into co-hosting Smack Talk. He thinks I can make some kind of comeback, and he still thinks I’m in therapy. Hate to tell him this thing’s useless.”

  I cup my hand over my lame shoulder.

  “Never going to get that range of motion back,” I say. “Just finished ten months of intense physical therapy and it hardly made a damn bit of difference as far as pitching goes.”

  “That’s depressing.” She slumps forward.

  I nod.

  “So what kind of comeback does this Lou guy think you’re going to make?” she asks.

  Shaking my head, I chuff. “Who knows. He gets these crazy ideas sometimes. Hate to tell him he’s been praying for a miracle that’s never going to happen.”

  “Never know.”

  “Least I can do is let my fans know I’m still here.” I take a sip of my coffee and spot our waitress returning from the corner of my eye. She takes Aidy’s order, a hot tea with milk and sugar, and shuffles away. “Not a coffee drinker?”

  “Not unless I have to work late,” she says, running her hands along her thighs, like she’s cold. She’s in long sleeves, a sweater that’s gray and nearly see-through, and jeans that hug her every curve. “Can you believe how cold it is? It’s June. We’re supposed to be melting, and I can’t stop shivering.”

  Yesterday was hot. Today is cold. This month can’t decide what it wants to do, and I can sympathize with that.r />
  “We can move inside,” I offer.

  “No, I’ll be fine once my tea gets here.” Her teeth chatter, and she wraps her arms around her sides.

  “Don’t be a martyr. Come on.” I stand, taking my coffee cup in one hand and offering my other hand to Aidy.

  She hesitates at first, and then she slips hers in mine. For a second, I can’t breathe. It’s like I’d completely forgotten how good it feels to touch someone. To hold their hand. To revel in that brief, heart-stopping “what if.”

  I lead her inside and we take up residence at a small table for two in the corner, away from the door.

  “Thank you,” she says when we sit down.

  There’s a flickering candle between us and a single pink carnation in a white vase. It’s almost romantic in here.

  “There you are.” Our server returns, balancing Aidy’s tea and a side of milk and sugar on a small tray.

  “Can you believe this weather we’re having?” Aidy says to the two of us. “Hope it’s not going to be like this all weekend.”

  “I think it’s supposed to warm up.” Our server slips the tray beneath her arm. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “We’re good, thanks.” Aidy smiles.

  “Why? What are you doing this weekend?” I ask.

  “It’s the Fourth of July,” she says.

  It had completely slipped my mind. Living a life with no set schedule, the days and weeks tend to blur together, and with no family around, holidays are like every other endless fucking day.

  “That’s right,” I say. “Got any plans?”

  Aidy mixes her tea, pouring little drips of milk on top and stirring until it turns a creamy shade of caramel. Adding just a sprinkle of sugar, she stirs it again and takes a sip. The whole concept of milk and tea together has never sat right with me, but it looks good the way she’s mixing it.

  “Normally Wren and Enzo and I sit on the roof of our building and watch the fireworks from there. But this year, Enzo’s going to his dad’s and Wren’s going to Chauncey’s building and watching them with Chauncey’s parents.” She palms the white tea cup, blowing across the steamy liquid. “She invited me, but I don’t want to be the third wheel, you know? This is going to be her new family. They need time to bond and all that.”

  “Who’s Chauncey?”

  “Wren’s fiancé. They’re getting married in six months,” she says. “He owns that pizza place, Finnegan’s.”

  “No shit? That’s one of my favorites. Their corned beef and cabbage pizza is-”

  “Disgusting,” she interrupts. “Love Chauncey, but some of that stuff on his menu isn’t meant for human consumption. Cabbage roll pizza? Lamb stew on pizza? Who thinks of this stuff?”

  “What do you eat there?”

  “Cheese, usually. Sometimes pepperoni. He lets me order off the kids’ menu.”

  Aidy takes another drink, glancing around the small café. It’s beginning to fill up the closer we get to dinnertime.

  “So what are you doing this weekend?” I ask. “Since Wren and Enzo are going to be gone?”

  She sits up straight, staring down and to the side. “I don’t know. Guess I hadn’t thought about it. Working maybe?”

  “I’m going to my lake house,” I say, and before I can talk myself out of it, I invite her. “You should come.”

  Her blue eyes widen, her lips fighting a smile. “What? Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure?” Her head tilts.

  Chuckling modestly, I nod. “Yeah. I was going to go alone, but if you don’t have plans, you should come.”

  “What do you do there? Where is it?”

  “It’s in Rixton Falls,” I tell her. “Upstate. And I just relax. I fish. I canoe. Watch the fireworks over the waterfalls.”

  Aidy’s full lips press together, widening into a timid grin. There’s a crease above her cupid’s bow when she smiles, and I’m not sure how I’d never noticed it before, but it’s halfway between her top lip and her nose and it’s fucking adorable.

  “You want to come?” I ask. “I can pick you up Friday. Bring you back Sunday.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I’d love to.”

  Chapter 19

  Aidy

  “How are you guys getting there again?” Wren stands in my doorway Friday afternoon, just before two.

  “He’s renting a truck.” I pull the zipper tight around my oversized suitcase. It’s meant for a seven or eight day trip, and I know I’m only going to be gone for two days, but I like to be prepared . . . especially when I don’t know what to expect.

  “Where is this Rixton Falls place again?”

  “A couple hours north. Upstate.”

  I sit on top of my luggage, smooshing down the contents so I can pull the zipper the rest of the way around. No part of me believes this is actually happening, and I don’t think it’ll feel real until we’re cruising down the interstate wondering what the ratio of fun to awkwardness will be this weekend.

  I’ve never traveled anywhere with someone I hardly know. For all intents and purposes, we’re still halfway between friends and strangers. At least he’s a public figure, which means I’m ninety-nine point nine percent sure he’s not some secret serial killer planning to hack me up and feed me to the catfish.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be able to cover my appointments this weekend? I have six,” I say. “Four of them are regulars. Two are brand new.”

  Wren’s eyes glint and she leans against my doorway, arms folded. “I’ve got this. Just go to Ricksville Falls with your super sexy baseball player boyfriend and have a great time.”

  “Rixton Falls,” I correct her. “And he’s not my boyfriend. As far as I know, we’re sleeping in separate bedrooms and I’m accompanying him as a friend.”

  “Ha.” Wren slaps her leg. “Right. You’re accompanying him as a ‘friend’ because he’d much rather go fishing with some random girl he met a week ago than one of his old baseball buddies.”

  She has a point, so I zip my lip.

  Still, my expectations are zeroed out.

  I’m simply going because he invited me and because it sounds like a good time.

  Growing up, we used to have a lake house in the Ozarks. Every summer, about this time, I get nostalgic for that place.

  “Remember the house on Prairie Rose Drive?” I ask Wren.

  She stands straight, eyes wistful. “How could I forget?”

  “Mom, someone’s knocking at the door.” Enzo squeezes from behind my sister.

  Shit.

  I didn’t know he was coming up here.

  And he’s early.

  Wren studies me, looking slightly amused at the fact that I’m panicking over probably nothing, and then she slips her arm around Enzo’s shoulder.

  “Are you all packed for your dad’s, buddy?” she asks.

  “Not yet. Sorry, Mom,” Enzo says. “I’ll do it now.”

  He hates packing, but he loves to see his dad. Lorenzo may have his issues and he may have been a shitty partner to my sister, but Enzo lives and breathes for his weekends with his father.

  They head down the hall, each splitting off in separate directions, and I take a minute for myself, breathing deep and replacing all my worries with pure excitement.

  This is going to be a good weekend.

  I have a feeling.

  Wheeling my suitcase down the hall, my heart races, reverberating in my ears, and I feel a hot flush sprint through my body when I round the corner and see Ace standing at my door, his hands buried in the pockets of his low-slung jeans and his tanned, muscled arms playing off his white V-neck t-shirt.

  “Hi,” I say, wondering why the hell I’m acting shy all of a sudden.

  “Hey.” There’s something lighter in his eyes today. I noticed it Wednesday, too, at the café. “You ready?”

  His gaze falls to my suitcase and he reaches for it, stopping halfway through.

  “What are you bringing? You kno
w it’s only two days, right?” He takes the handle and pulls it toward him, curling it like a dumbbell. “Jesus. This has got to weigh at least . . . seventy, eighty pounds?”

  “Stop.” I wave him off.

  “I told her she over-packed.” Wren shoots me a look, making her way toward Ace with her right hand extended, and I realize I haven’t properly introduced them yet. God, she acts like our mother sometimes. And right now, she looks like her too. “Hi, I’m Wren. Aidy’s sister.”

  Ace shakes her hand. “Good to meet you, Wren.”

  I check the time on my phone. “Should we get going? I’m sure there’s some kind rush hour we’re trying to avoid. I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I’ve actually driven anywhere.”

  Enzo appears from behind Wren, stepping out of the shadows of the hallway. His round eyes are wide and locked on Ace, and he uses his mother as a sort of shield. Gone is his excitement and enthusiasm. Wren was wrong. He hasn’t forgotten, and he probably never will.

  “Hey,” Ace says, crouching down and making eye contact with Enzo. He reaches around and pulls something out of his back pocket. “Was hoping I’d run into you.”

  Enzo looks at Wren before glancing back at Ace. My sister nods, and he takes a step closer.

  Ace flicks a baseball card between two fingers and holds it out. “Signed it for you.”

  My nephew’s face lights in a way I’ve never seen before, and his mouth curls into a wide grin as he snatches it from Ace’s hand, examining both sides.

  “Thank you!” he says, pressing the card against his chest before checking it out another time. “Thank you, Ace!”

  He rises, towering over Enzo. “You’re welcome. Sorry about the other night.”

  “It’s okay.” Enzo’s eyes are locked on the card. He traces his fingers along Ace’s signature.

  “Pretty cool, huh, buddy?” I ask, shooting Wren a look that hopefully conveys the fact that I had no idea Ace planned on doing this.

  “All right, you two have fun,” Wren says. “Call me when you get there.”

  We leave, and Ace lugs my suitcase to his truck, which is parked illegally in an alley beside our building. I tell him he’s a rebel, and that I like that about him, and he almost smiles.