Bachelor (Rixton Falls #2)

by Winter Renshaw

  From the doorway, a lean woman with a tan complexion and sandy blonde hair stands with folded arms, watching them. She doesn’t smile the way a mother might smile when she sees her child overwhelmingly happy. The woman only observes, her eyes dead and expressionless.

  Derek moves Haven to his hip and steps toward the front porch, where the woman holds out a packed duffle bag covered in glittery pink ponies. She drops it before he has a chance to reach for it.

  He scoops it up from the ground, shooting her a look when Haven can’t see.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  The woman’s gaze moves to the car, and I watch her expression fall when she sees me. The sound of her nagging voice trails in through the open windows, and she’s pointing, asking questions. Berating him for not telling her about me in advance.

  She pushes past Derek and makes a beeline for the open driver’s side window.

  “Hi.” Her smile is as fake as her breasts. “I’m Kyla. Haven’s mom. Derek’s ex-wife.”

  Obviously.

  “And you are?” she asks, her lashes batting sweetly.

  “I’m a friend of Derek’s,” I say. “A work friend.”

  “You’re an attorney?”

  “Not exactly.” I play it coy. Stay mum. I know how women like her work, and I’m not about to cause trouble for Derek after all he’s done for me.

  Derek stands behind her now, letting Haven slide down his leg before opening the rear passenger door and lifting her into her car seat.

  “Ms. Randall is a client of mine,” Derek says. “She’s staying with me temporarily until she finds a place of her own.”

  If jealousy could walk and talk, it’d look exactly like Kyla. Her eyes squint as her lips purse.

  “Derek, you need to okay this with me. I’m not exactly comfortable with my daughter staying in a home with someone I don’t know.” Kyla pulls on a diamond pendant around her neck before letting the stone get lost between her cleavage.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t know anything about that.” His words are as dry as they are sarcastic. “You’ll get over it, I’m sure. You tend to get over most things quickly. You always were resilient.”

  Kyla scoffs, stepping backward into the lush grass. She’s barefoot, wearing nothing more than a skimpy tank top and short, white shorts, and I wonder if she always dresses this way when she knows she’s going to see her ex-husband.

  “We’ll be at the Carradine Lodge in Beeker Valley,” she says. “I wrote the number down and stuck it in Haven’s bag.”

  A quick glance toward the back tells me Haven’s not the least bit upset about leaving her mother’s house. She’s grinning ear to ear, her legs kicking the front of the car seat as she tells Derek we need to go.

  Our eyes meet. Hers are pure, ice blue. Pale and angelic. She stares, wide-eyed.

  “Bye, my angel!” Kyla kisses her fingertips and waves to Haven.

  Haven doesn’t notice. She’s only looking at me.

  Derek climbs inside. By the time we pull out of the driveway, Kyla’s standing on her front steps, arms crossed and face twisted into a nasty scowl.

  “Don’t mind her,” Derek says under his breath. “She’s a bit of a lost soul.”

  “That’s a nice way of putting it.”

  He glances into his rearview mirror at his giddy daughter, and I get it. He’s protecting her. His love for Haven is bigger than his hatred for his ex-wife.

  Derek Rosewood is a good man.

  “Daddy, who’s the pretty lady in the front seat?” Haven asks.

  “This is my friend, Serena,” he says. “She’s staying at our house for a little while. You’re going to share your bathroom with her, okay?”

  “Okay.” Haven grins, shrugging her shoulders and giggling.

  “Nice to meet you, Haven. Thank you for sharing your space with me,” I say. She blushes.

  “Daddy, I’m hungry!” Haven yells as soon as we hit the interstate.

  “You’re hungry?” He glances at her through the rearview mirror. “It’s seven o’clock. Didn’t your mother feed you dinner?”

  “No,” Haven says, yawning. “She said you were going to feed me. She was too busy packing.”

  Derek mutters something under his breath, shaking his head. His hands clench hard against the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

  “All right, baby,” he says. “We’ll get you some dinner.”

  Derek turns to me.

  “It’s totally fine,” I say.

  “It’s going to be a while before we get home.”

  “I know.” I reach across the console and pat his leg. “Derek, it’s fine. I’m just along for the ride. You do what you need to do.”

  His face is softer now, and he reminds me of the man I met earlier in the week. The serious yet kind man with the benevolent gaze.

  He reaches for the radio, tuning it to some Disney station that manages to elicit a delighted scream from the backseat.

  I settle in for the long drive, out of my element and kind of loving it.

  Chapter 15

  Derek

  “Your hair is really pretty. Like Ariel.”

  I stand outside Haven’s door, where Serena is perched on the side of my daughter’s bed, reading her Green Eggs and Ham before bedtime. Peeking in, I watch Haven run her fingers through Serena’s silky red waves.

  Serena sets the book in her lap and smiles. “Thank you, Haven. You have really pretty hair too.”

  Over the last three hours, the two of them have become fast friends, and I can honestly say I’ve never seen Haven so enamored with anyone. Not even her own mother. Or her doting aunties.

  Haven grins, pressing her cheek against Serena’s arm. “My mommy says pretty hair is important.”

  Serena’s brows lift, and she wastes no time responding. “There are many things that are more important than pretty hair.”

  “Like what?” my daughter asks.

  “Like a pretty heart.”

  “What does a pretty heart look like? Is it pink?”

  “A pretty heart doesn’t look like anything.” Serena places her arm around Haven and gives her a squeeze. “A pretty heart means you’re a nice girl. It means you help others. And you’re kind. And thoughtful.”

  “Oh.” Haven yawns, sinking down under the covers. “I want a pretty heart.”

  Serena climbs off the bed and pulls the covers up to Haven’s chin. “If you want a pretty heart, all you have to do is be kind.”

  “You have a pretty heart, Serena.”

  Serena smiles. “Thank you.”

  “I’m going to be four in two weeks,” Haven states proudly. “Will you come to my party?”

  “Oh?” Serena is caught off-guard. “I’d love to. We can talk to your daddy about it in the morning, okay?”

  Haven rolls over, tucking a stuffed bunny under her arm. “Good night, Serena.”

  “Goodnight, sweetie.”

  Serena jumps, clutching her chest when she tiptoes out of Haven’s room. Shutting the door behind her, she leans in.

  “Where you watching us?” she whispers.

  “Of course. And it was fucking adorable. You’re good with her.”

  Serena lifts her delicate fingers to her collarbone and fights a pleased smile. “Thank you, but I wasn’t trying to impress you. For the record.”

  Right.

  We walk down the hall side by side, Serena sauntering and stretching her arms overhead. All night long, Haven fired question after question at Serena. Wanted to sit by Serena. Talk to her about ponies and Barbies. They were two peas in a very odd little pod, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me look at this spoiled American princess in a completely new light.

  “Do you like kids?” I ask when we reach the kitchen.

  “That’s a random question. And yes.” She grabs her bag and pulls out her phone. “I keep forgetting I can actually use this thing now.”

  I rifle through this morning’s mail, tearing through junk and bills and sorting and s
tacking.

  “Five missed calls.” Her nails click on the screen in quick succession. “And three voicemails . . . all from Eudora.”

  I glance up, watching her expression morph and fade as she listens to the messages. After a minute, she hangs up and places her phone screen-side down on the counter.

  “Well.” She clears her throat. “Eudora was placed on unpaid leave today.”

  “For what?” I never particularly cared for that old bag, but I hate to hear about anyone potentially losing their job.

  “Apparently, Veronica stopped by Belcourt with Dr. Rothbart and was none too pleased about me having moved out.” Serena folds her arms, squinting ahead. “I’ll have to call Eudora tomorrow and see if I can get more out of her.”

  “There’s nothing in the court filings that say you’re required to live at Belcourt.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not Eudora’s fault that you left.”

  “I think Veronica expected Eudora to have more control over me.” Serena runs a palm along the cool, marble counter. “And she kind of did. Until I stopped taking my meds.”

  “When did you stop?”

  “A week ago.” Her bold blue eyes lift. “I couldn’t go another day sucking down unnecessary prescriptions. I was so out of it, Derek. All I did was sleep. I was constantly exhausted. And numb. And out of it. I’m sure those drugs are wonderful for people who need them, but they really messed me up. The ridiculous thing is, I believed I needed them at first. I just wanted to stop feeling everything for a while . . .”

  “Did Dr. Rothbart prescribe those?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s the one you suspect is on Veronica’s payroll?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I push my mail to the side and lean in from across the island. “First thing tomorrow, we’re making you an appointment to see a doctor in Rixton Falls. Once you’re given the all-clear, I’m petitioning for a termination of the conservatorship.”

  Serena’s pink lips inch up, her expression illuminated. “Really?”

  “You’re clearly of sound mind. No one can deny that.”

  “So just like that, it’ll all be over? What about Veronica? And the lies?”

  “That’s a separate issue entirely. For now, let’s focus on dissolving the conservatorship. It’s completely unnecessary, in my opinion, and it was nothing more than a ploy of Veronica’s that backfired.”

  “True. The only reason she petitioned the court in the first place was so she could have control over my finances.” Serena sweeps her red locks off her neck, gathering them in her hands and pulling them over her shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll be out of your hair soon enough, Derek. I appreciate everything you’re doing. I don’t know that any other attorney would’ve gone above and beyond for me like you have.” She rises from her perch on the barstool.

  “Going to bed?”

  “I am.”

  “Are you tired?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither.” My throat is dry, constricted. I know what I’m doing. I know where this leads. And I sure as fuck know better. “You want a drink? I’m about to have a beer, and I wouldn’t want you thinking I have a problem if I’m drinking alone.”

  “Hmm. Manipulative.”

  “Persuasive.” I give her a half-smirk.

  “Same difference.”

  “Apples and oranges.”

  Our gazes lock from across the island, and she sighs.

  “Fine. Give me a beer.” Serena holds her hand out, and I grab a green bottle from the fridge behind me, uncapping it on the edge of the counter before handing it over.

  I take one for myself and nod toward the living room. I have to admit, it hasn’t been entirely tortuous to have company around here lately. A man can grow tired of nothing but the sound of his own thoughts echoing around an empty bachelor pad day in and day out.

  “I’d never had a drop of alcohol until I turned twenty-one.” Serena takes a swig of beer, gracefully lifting and lowering the bottle.

  “You never broke into your father’s liquor cabinet as a rebellious teenager?”

  “Ha. I never had the privilege of enjoying those rebellious teenage years.” Her palm slides down the neck of her bottle. “I attended an all girls boarding school until my senior year in high school, and I attended Wellesley after that. I didn’t have time to do anything rebellious until I was a grown adult living on my own, and then where’s the fun in that? Pathetic, huh?”

  “Not pathetic at all.” I fold a leg wide across the other, angling myself toward her, quickly finding myself lost in a state of fascination. “You’re a rarity. You know that, right?”

  “That’s a nice way of putting it.” She smiles.

  “I wish I could protect Haven like that. Shelter her. Keep her focused on school and away from trouble.” I take a drink. “It’s a father’s dream come true.”

  Serena shakes her head. “It’s the worst thing you could do for her. Believe me. Shelter her too much, and she’ll wind up making bad decisions because she won’t have enough past mistakes to guide her in the right direction.”

  “Speaking from experience?”

  Her eyes close, reopening slowly. “Unfortunately, and the last mistake was the biggest one of them all.”

  “Pathetic,” I say.

  “I know. I wish I hadn’t fallen so quickly. It was all so new and exciting, and he—”

  “Not you. Him. It’s pathetic that a man would walk all over the very woman who loves him.” My voice is a disgusted growl. “He’s not worth your tears.”

  “Who said I cried over him?”

  “I just assumed. That’s what women do, right? They cry. I have three sisters. Believe me, I know what happens when your little sequined hearts get broken.”

  “Little sequined hearts? Please, Derek, go on. I love it when you speak asshole to me.”

  “I was trying to be cute.”

  “Not working. Try harder.” Serena rolls her beautiful eyes and places her beer on a coaster beside her. “Anyway, for the record, counselor, I didn’t cry over Keir. I was hurt. I was angry. I was bitter. I was humiliated. I cried over a lot of things. But I didn’t cry over him.”

  “I stand corrected. Please forgive my assumption, Ms. Randall.” I slip my arm along the back of the sofa, my fingertips inches from her delicate shoulder. The beer is coursing through me already, making me warm and relaxed, comfortable and planted.

  “I cried over the things they were writing about me . . . over lost friendships . . .” She looks away, her hand covering half of her mouth. “Betrayal is . . .”

  “I know all about betrayal.”

  “Then I don’t have to explain anything. You get it.”

  “I do.”

  “Anyway, can we talk about something else?” She blinks rapidly and turns to face me.

  “Why don’t you rattle off another little story about the Queen Mother?”

  Serena laughs. “God, you must’ve thought I was the biggest jerk. And I’m sorry for yelling at you for manhandling the tapestry. It’s a reproduction anyway. No one in their right mind would use an original Auclair to cover a parlor window.”

  “You were having a rough time,” I say. “You’re a saint compared to some of the assholes I deal with on a regular basis.”

  She reaches for her drink, taking three modest sips until it’s gone, and rises, her gaze toward the kitchen.

  “Going for another?” I ask.

  “I’m calling it a night, counselor.”

  A wave of disappointment sweeps through me, and I mentally slap my idiotic monkey brain for giving two shits.

  Serena takes a step my way, attempting to squeeze between my leg and the coffee table, only on her second step, she trips over my foot. Instinctively, I reach for her, cupping my hands under her arms.

  And spilling my beer down her shirt in the process.

  “Ah, shit. I’m sorry.” I rise, my hands still on her, and glance down at her see-
through blouse. Her nipples are pointed, protruding through what appears to be a lace bra, and she wastes little time covering up.

  My cock pulses, but I turn on my heel and retrieve a towel from a kitchen drawer before she has time to notice any bulge. By the time I return, she’s already unbuttoning her top, the fabric clinging to her creamy skin.

  I had her the towel and spot the sopping wet strands of hair hanging down her back.

  “Got your hair too.” I gather her red locks into my hand. “You’re going to need a shower.”

  She eyes the hall that leads to Haven’s area. “I don’t want to wake her.”

  “Use mine.”

  “I thought your area was off limits.” Her head tilts, eyes squinting.

  “I’ll make an exception. Just for tonight. Since I just dumped my Heineken all over your fancy shirt.”

  “Appreciated. You going to do my laundry too?” She steps toward my door, and I follow, imagining the way the beer might taste against her milky white flesh, the way her budding nipples might feel against my tongue.

  My heart races, thundering in my chest as we walk to my room, and I find myself wishing we were making this trek to my room for other reasons.

  I pop the light on inside the master bath and point her toward the tiled shower. Grabbing a towel from the linen closet, I place it on the edge of the counter.

  “Make yourself at home.” I try and duck out quickly. If I stick around too much longer, my mind will need a shower of its own.

  “Wait,” she calls.

  When I turn around, her blouse is at her feet, and she’s standing before me in a sheer lace bra and skin-tight leggings.

  I swear to God, if I said a word right now, it’d come out sounding like some squeaky, prepubescent boy, so instead, I lift my brows.

  “I need a washcloth. And do you have conditioner? I only see shampoo in here.” She chews on her bottom lip. “Sorry. It’s just if I’m going to take a proper shower . . .”