by Skye Jordan
He stood at the open French doors, taking in the scene. Mommy Central was right. When he’d been a kid, parents didn’t stick around for birthday parties, but it was obvious times had changed. There were as many adult women here as there were little girls, all talking in small groups. And as soon as he stepped outside, every adult gaze turned toward him.
“Hey, Wyatt.” One of the women lifted her hand in greeting.
Either Wyatt hadn’t met her or he’d forgotten he’d met her, because he had no idea who she was. Had no idea who any of the women were. But he waved in return. “Hey, y’all.”
Every kid was dressed up as one princess or another, and they either ran between what looked like various crafting and game tables or spilled in or out of a huge castle bounce house.
A blue-and-yellow balloon arch stretched over the yard from fence to fence, and a buffet table of food filled one side of the patio. He found his mom and dad watching the festivities from a couple of lounge chairs beneath an awning.
“Hey there, son.” His dad waved him over.
Wyatt had visited them every day since he got home, but he still gave his mom a kiss before sitting beside her. “Hey, Mama. Are you two all packed?”
He’d given them a cruise for their thirtieth wedding anniversary—ten days touring Alaska, followed by ten days touring the Hawaiian Islands. They flew to Los Angeles tomorrow to meet the ship.
“I’ve been packed for two weeks,” she said, cutting a grin at his dad. “Your father, on the other hand…”
Wyatt barely had a chance to relax into the chair before Belle ran over and grabbed his hand. “Uncle Wyatt, it’s a princess party.”
“I can see that. Your mom put together quite a carnival out here.”
“What princess are you going to be?”
“Yes, son,” his mom said, grinning. “What princess are you going to be?”
“Oh, I don’t think I’m princess material—”
“I’m Belle, of course, from Beauty and the Beast. Kaylee is Cinderella.” She pointed out the girls as she spoke. “Ashley is Snow White. Scarlett is Elsa.”
She kept talking, but Wyatt’s brain went numb somewhere after Elsa.
“Come over to the makeup table,” Belle said, dragging him toward the throng. “I’ll make you beautiful.”
Wyatt cut a help-me look at his parents. “Guys? Little help here.”
His father laughed, and his mother just grinned, legs crossed, one foot swinging. “It’s Belle’s day.”
Wyatt exhaled heavily, allowing Belle to drag him toward a table with makeup covering the top. And every adult female had their cell phone out.
The best way to make this day all about Belle was to focus all his attention on Belle. One thing he’d sworn to himself the day Brody died was that no one else in his family would ever disappear in his shadow.
Wyatt sat on a chair with his knees up to his chin and let Belle do whatever she wanted with his face. As soon as his publicist checked social media, his phone would blow up.
Four eternal hours later, Wyatt sat sideways in one of the lounge chairs his parents had vacated when they’d left to finish packing for their trip. He was still wearing the tiara Belle had christened him with right after she’d applied his makeup.
Thank God that was over. He slung one leg over the arm of the chair and twisted the top off his first beer today. Finally.
The last little girl and her mother had left ten minutes ago, and Belle had instantly passed out on the living room sofa.
The yard looked like a Disney bomb had exploded, spitting balloons and streamers and wrapping paper all over the damn place. Wyatt wanted a shower in the worst way. The lipstick Belle used to paint his lips and cheeks had to be made out of some high-tech spreadable plastic, because nothing he’d done so far had gotten rid of it, and the glitter from the fuchsia eyeshadow Belle caked on his lids kept getting in his goddamned eye.
It was nearing suppertime, and the sun hung low. He needed to head to Gypsy’s soon, and sliding back into a familiar environment while chatting with Gypsy for the rest of the night sounded like heaven.
He finished half the beer and dragged his phone from his pocket to check for a call or message from Francie, but there was still nothing. A thread of unease trickled across his neck. He dialed her number and listened to it ring, then go to voicemail, just like the last five times he’d tried her.
She’d never returned from her ice cream run. Wyatt assumed she’d taken a detour to find a quiet spot to think. Cry. Grieve. This was a hard day for all of them. He’d assumed she’d be back in time to say goodbye to everyone, and now he was getting worried. He was also exhausted, more mentally than physically. Twenty five-year-old girls running around screaming was enough to wear anyone out. Add in serving cake, jumping in the blow-up house trying not to crush any five-year-old and playing “princess” while juggling twenty flirty moms…
He was one messed-up motherfucker.
He finished his beer and pushed from the chair. Hands on hips, he looked around the yard, then inside the house. And shook his head. “No. No, no, no.”
He wasn’t cleaning up this mess, and he wasn’t going to leave it for Francie either.
Wyatt sat back down and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through cleaning services and, after about twelve phone calls, found one he could pay a ludicrous fee to come over in the next hour to get the job done.
He left his tiara on the table and went inside to check on Belle. She was out cold, so he went into the bathroom and scrubbed his face. When he looked in the mirror, water dripping off his chin, he shook his head. “I’m going to need to get a chemical peel to get this shit off.”
He wandered into the living room and stretched out on the sofa opposite Belle.
He woke to the doorbell chime with a start. It took him several long moments to place himself. He rushed to the door, praying it was Francie who’d forgotten her key. It might not have been logical, but it was the first thought that popped to mind.
Wyatt swung the door wide and found himself staring at three twenty-something women, all carrying cleaning equipment.
He exhaled and rubbed his eyes before stepping aside. “Come in.” He looked in on Belle, who was still sleeping, then asked the crew, “Would you mind starting outside?”
They agreed and exited through the sliders, attacking the backyard with big black trash bags.
Wyatt tried calling and texting Francie again. But after ten minutes with no answer, he moved out onto the front porch and called his parents.
“Hey, sweetie,” his mom answered. “Is the party over? I’m still nagging your father to organize his things. He treats a suitcase like a duffel bag, just tossing things in.”
“Uh, yeah, about the party…” He wasn’t sure how to go at this. “Francie never came back from her ice-cream run. It’s been hours, and I can’t get ahold of her. I’m starting to worry.”
“Oh.” His mother drew out the word, sadness filtering through her voice. “I knew she was stressed at the party. She must have needed some mommy time.”
“What in the hell is mommy time?”
“She’s got a lot on her shoulders. Sometimes she needs to take some time for herself. She’s done this a few times since…” His mother’s voice dipped with pain, clearly about to say “Brody’s death.” “She usually comes back within a day or two.”
Wyatt’s jaw hit the deck. “Day or two? Are you serious?” He looked through the front window and checked on Belle, who was still sound asleep. “I believe that would be considered abandonment.”
“Now don’t you go judging her. She’s had it rough.”
“Rough?” Wyatt wanted to scream. He hardly qualified getting a beautiful house, a new car, and a generous monthly allowance from him as rough. “How hard is it to show up for your kid’s special day?”
“Being a single parent is hard, Wyatt. And she still hasn’t gotten over losing Brody.”
“I know, it’s just… I have a gi
g tonight.”
“You also have your niece,” she said with a stern get-your-priorities-straight tone. “I suggest you turn on Beauty and the Beast and both of you turn in early.”
Wyatt closed his eyes, dropped his head back, and exhaled.
“We would take Belle,” his mother said, “but it really would be a little too much for us the night before we travel. Maybe we should cancel—”
“No.” He opened his eyes. “No, don’t do that. I’ll figure it out. Have a great trip.”
Wyatt disconnected and braced his hands on the porch railing. He thought of canceling on Gypsy, and imagined the it-figures look in her eyes. “Fuck.”
“That’s a bad word.”
He spun toward Belle’s voice and found her leaning against the doorjamb, rubbing her eyes.
“Hey, sweetie.”
“Where’s Mommy?”
He took a deep breath and lied. “Mommy’s taking the night off so you and I can chill together. I’m thinking of having pizza and going to a friend’s…” Bar? Was he really considering taking a five-year-old to a bar? “Place.”
Belle dropped her hand and just looked at him, clearly not quite awake. “I’m not hungry. I think all the sugar hurt my tummy. Can I wear my Belle dress to your friend’s place? Mommy said I get to be a princess all day.”
“You sure can.” Wyatt took her hand and started inside. “Let’s pack your pajamas. You’re sleeping over at my house tonight.”
3
It fucking figured Wyatt would no-show after making a big deal out of playing tonight.
Gypsy couldn’t remember the last time she was this angry. If one more person asked when Wyatt was going on stage, she was going to strangle someone. Savage Justice was playing, but word of Wyatt’s impromptu appearance here tonight had scattered around social media, the bar was bursting at the seams, and the customers were getting restless.
“Excuse me.” A pretty twenty-something pushed her way to the front of the bar. “When will Wyatt Jackson—”
“Sorry,” Gypsy told her. “I can honestly say I have no idea.”
“Pardon me, honey.” Wyatt’s voice drew Gypsy’s gaze.
The twenty-something was clearly a tourist, because she squealed like a two-year-old and asked for his autograph. Wyatt gave her an absent smile, took the girl’s pen, and signed her arm.
Gypsy glared at him while she put two glasses under the taps and pulled.
As soon as the girl went to show her friends, Wyatt turned frantically apologetic eyes on Gypsy. He had his guitar slung over his shoulder, and he looked like hell. “I am so sorry—”
“Save it.” She exchanged the beers for payment and started on three Moscow mules. “You show up late to all your gigs? Or just the ones that don’t matter to you?”
“I got held up at a party—”
“I don’t want to hear about your women problems.” She tossed ice into the brass cups and poured the liquor. “You stood on this fucking bar and professed to all my customers you were opening for Savage Justice, which was two hours ago. Didn’t you think that kind of news would get around? Do you see how busy it is? They’re all here to see you, and then you don’t show up? I’ve busted my ass to make this place amazing, which does not include bailing on a promise.”
“Mules,” she called, took payment and pointed to another customer. “You.”
“Two dirty martinis,” the guy yelled.
She reached overhead and slid two martini glasses from the rack. “The least you could have done was give me a heads-up. I can’t believe I thought you might really be a good guy.”
“I am a good guy, and this is important to me. I didn’t forget, and my problems aren’t women problems. They’re more like…princess problems.”
“I don’t even care what that means.”
“I’ll show you.” He retreated through the crowd, and Gypsy lost sight of him.
She finished the martinis and took the next order. She’d been on a hamster wheel since she’d gotten here. Make a drink, take money. Make a drink, take money. Sure, it was great for her bottom line, but there was a point at which the bottom line mattered less than sanity.
She needed a manager, like yesterday. But she couldn’t even find time to hire one.
An ear-piercing whistle cut through the noise. Savage Justice stopped playing. All the customers quieted and turned toward the main doors.
“Announcing,” Wyatt yelled above the twittering customers, “the fair princess, Belle of Franklin Briar.”
Gypsy braced both hands against the bar. “What in the hell?”
Customers parted like the Red Sea, making way for a little girl in a bright yellow floor-length dress who could only be Belle. Princess problems.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Gypsy muttered.
Her head bartender, Violet, came up beside Gypsy, her eyes wide, mouth agape. “Is that a child in your bar?”
Wyatt followed in her wake, his guilty see-my-problem expression on Gypsy.
All the customers oohed and ahhed over her and clapped as she progressed into the bar.
At the stools, Wyatt lifted Belle to a seat and yelled, “Merriment may commence.”
The crowd cheered, Savage Justice started another song, and customers returned to their conversations. Only now, everyone knew Wyatt was here. If he didn’t play, it wouldn’t be considered an unfounded rumor, it would be an unmet promise.
“Gypsy,” he said, clearly braced for her fury. “This is my niece, Belle.”
Belle leaned toward Wyatt and whispered, “Princess Belle.”
Wyatt exhaled and his eyes closed with an expression she’d never seen on his face before, but she could clearly see he was about to lose his shit. “Pardon me, my lady.” To Gypsy, he said, “This is my niece, Princess Belle.”
“Of Franklin Briar,” Belle whispered again.
If Gypsy wasn’t so frazzled, she would have laughed her ass off. She would have dropped to the floor, clutched her stomach, and laughed until she cried at the way this little waif had reduced her powerful uncle to an unhinged page boy.
“Of Franklin Briar,” Gypsy said with a smirk. Belle was adorable, with long dark curls, the face of an angel, and Wyatt’s big blue eyes. “I’m charmed, your highness.”
Belle grinned, and dimples poked into both cheeks as she offered her hand. “Charmed as well.”
Gypsy shook the girl’s hand with a laugh bubbling up her throat. She pressed her lips together until the laugh settled down. “Would you mind if I spoke with your uncle for a minute?”
“Not at all,” she said, overly formal.
“Violet,” Gypsy called over her shoulder, “would you get Princess Belle a Shirley Temple?”
“Sure thing.”
Gypsy moved to the swinging door, and Wyatt leaned in, murmuring to Belle, “Don’t even think about moving from that stool, or I’ll send the guards after you.”
Belle giggled. “I won’t.”
Gypsy pushed out from behind the bar through the swinging door and stalked to the hallway leading to the stockroom. There, she spun to face Wyatt, hands on hips. “You brought a five-year-old into my bar? Giving the bar a bad reputation isn’t enough for you? You want to shut me down?”
He was all wide-eyed innocence. “You bring Cooper in all the time.”
“Not when it’s open for business. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Look, I’m sorry.” He put his hands up, as if that would calm her. “But I can’t find her mother.”
Gypsy frowned and lifted her hands, unable to understand what he was trying to say.
“Today is Belle’s birthday. She had a party at her house. When I got there, her mother said she had to run out and get some more ice cream, but she didn’t come back.”
“What?”
“She isn’t answering my calls or texts. When I told my mom about it, she said that Francie sometimes needs mommy-time.” He air-quoted the last words.
“Mommy-
time? What is mommy-time? And where the hell can I get some?”
“My mom says sometimes Francie leaves Belle with them and goes away for a couple of days without telling them.”
Gypsy’s mouth dropped open. A fist gripped her gut. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t know anything about this until she vanished in the middle of Belle’s fucking birthday party, leaving me with twenty five-year-old girls and twenty mothers.” He rubbed at sweat collecting on his forehead. She’d never seen him look so lost and frantic. “My parents leave tomorrow on a cruise for three weeks, so I couldn’t leave her with them. I didn’t know what to do with her. I couldn’t just leave her home alone.”
“Then you get a babysitter. You don’t bring her into a bar.”
“The only person in town I’d trust her with is you.”
“Don’t even. I’m completely immune to your charm.”
“It’s only fair. That little thing has been buttering me up all day.” He ran all ten fingers through his hair. “I’m ready to buy her a pony. A fuckin’ real one.”
Gypsy crossed her arms. She’d spent years cleaning up other people’s messes. When she’d been faced with raising Cooper on her own, she’d vowed to let others take care of themselves. Now, Cooper always came first. No question. Which was why she was interviewing for a manager, so she’d have more time with her boy.
But this didn’t involve Cooper. At least not directly. And it was the first time since she’d made those vows that she was tempted to let them slide. Not for Wyatt, but for Belle.
“If you could just watch her while I play,” Wyatt said, “the customers will be happy, Belle will be happy. It’ll all be good.”
“Good for you. I can’t keep Belle in the main bar, and if I go to the back room with her, there is no way the current bartenders can handle the crush.” Gypsy exhaled hard. “Does Belle know her mom bailed?”
