by Whitley Cox
The cop on the phone had said that this was matter for family law, and as promised, her mystery texter had sent her a list of five lawyers he highly recommended. She’d called three of them and only came up discouraged, as their fees were financially debilitating. They also said—when she got her free thirty-minute discovery call—that because Forest was considered property in a “committed intimate relationship” that Carlyle had just as much legal right to him as she did. She could end up losing full custody of him if she pursued this and lost.
The thought of losing her dog made every inch of her turn ice cold. But did she have any other option than to fight? No. She didn’t have her dog now, but at least she had a shot at getting him back. Not fighting for him would mean she gave up before she even tried. Not fight for him would mean Carlyle and Blaire won without there even being a battle.
And her parents had not raised a quitter. They had not raised a woman who ran in the other direction with her tail between her legs, only to curl up in the nearest corner afraid to stand up for herself and those she loved.
The serial killer documentary wasn’t a very good one, and soon her yawns were becoming more frequent. With heavy eyelids, she stared at her phone, waiting for his response, wishing that even just for a moment she could hear his voice and not feel so utterly alone in all of this.
Just a quick thirty-second power nap.
Her eyelids drooped, and the room went dark.
Not even thirty seconds, and she was jolting upright on the couch as her phone began to ring in her hand.
Wide-awake now, she glanced at the number.
Oh my God.
It was him.
Had she sleep-texted him and asked him to call her?
She glanced at their text messages. No, no sleep text of desperation.
The phone was still ringing.
Shit.
She hit the call button.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
A tingle raced through her body from her ear to her toes. His voice was deep. Like sexy deep and kind of raspy. Was he a smoker? Or just blessed with the gritty bass of a Hollywood A-lister?
“You there?” Damn, that voice. It also sounded oddly familiar, and yet she couldn’t place how it sounded familiar. A throat cleared in her ear. “Hello?”
Crap! She’d been so busy swooning and trying to place her mystery man, she forgot how to have a proper conversation with someone. “Yes, sorry. I’m here. Hi.”
“Hi. I hope it’s okay that I called you.”
“I-it’s fine.”
It’s better than fine.
“This isn’t a very good documentary.”
“I agree.”
“Do you have a picture of Forest?”
All over her house.
But he meant on her phone.
“Hold on,” she murmured, pulling her phone away and putting it on speakerphone before she began sifting through her photos. She found a sweet one of her beloved Forest lying on his bed at home, his head cocked to the side, eyes wide. She’d been talking to him and he’d been listening to her intently, adorably tilting his head side to side. She’d snapped a few photos of him acting all cute like that.
Her chest tightened to the point of pain and her heart stuttered. For a brief moment there was this falling, spinning-down feeling as she stared at Forest. Would she ever get him back? She sent the photo to …
Hmm, could she ask him his name now that they were speaking on the phone and not just texting?
“He’s a nice-looking dog,” he said.
The lump in her throat swelled. He was a beautiful dog. Unique and wonderful in every way. “Do you have a dog?” Her voice was hoarse from restraining her emotions.
“I don’t. I don’t have time for a dog what with the kids and work. It would not be fair to the dog. I would love one though.” The longing for a furry companion came through in his voice, along with regret at how demanding his life was to not be able to accommodate a pet.
“Um … What’s your name?”
There was silence on the other end.
Oh no! Had she overstepped? Was that going against the rules of … whatever this was?
No, it couldn’t be. There were no “rules” for whatever it was they were doing because they were making up the rules as they went. There was no instruction manual for this bizarre meeting and pseudo friendship they’d started.
“You really want to exchange names?” he asked, his voice sounding even deeper than before.
“Only if you want to. I mean … Are we friends or … ?”
“Or?”
“I don’t know … Jeez, if you don’t want to tell me your name, then don’t.” His evasiveness was beginning to piss her off. What was so wrong about telling her his name? She just wanted a name, not his first, middle, last and social security number.
“My name is unique and easily recognizable,” he breathed out. “I’d rather keep that under wraps for a bit longer, if you don’t mind?”
She rolled her eyes. But she also understood. They didn’t know each other from Adam, and even though she was who she said she was, he might not be who he said he was. Maybe he was a celebrity or a politician and revealing his name could prove detrimental to his career and those around him.
Then why not give a fake name?
“I take it by your quiet that you do mind,” he said. “Maybe this phone call was a bad idea. We can go back to texting if you’d prefer, or I can leave you alone altogether.”
“No!” Damn it. She blurted that out far too loudly. What must he think of her now?
His chuckle rumbled in her ear; her panties were noticeably damp. “Well, I’m glad you want to keep talking to me, because I want to keep talking to you. How about we make a compromise? I’ll tell you my middle name, and you tell me yours. We’ll go by those names instead? At least for now.”
At least for now. What did that mean? Did he want this to turn into something bigger than what it was? Whatever it was.
But the longer she thought about it, the more she didn’t mind that idea. It was better than nothing, and after all, would this thing ever even amount to something? Probably not. Did it matter that she knew his real name? As long as she had something to call him, that’s all that mattered.
“You can call me Marie,” she said.
“Marie.” The way he purred her name made her toes curl in her slippers and heat bloom in her chest. Not too many men had a deep, raspy purr like that. She sipped her wine to soften her suddenly parched tongue. “You can call me David.”
“All right … David. It’s nice to finally meet you … kind of.”
“Nice to meet you, Marie.”
8
Monday morning brought forth a war like Atlas had never seen before. Aria woke up on the most obvious wrong side of the bed, despite the two of them having had a very pleasant Sunday, complete with Mickey Mouse blueberry pancakes for breakfast and several hours at the park.
Maybe she woke up on the wrong side of the bed because she hadn’t spent enough time sleeping in that bed and was still tired from their busy Sunday. Or maybe a demon had broken into the house and possessed his child. His money was on the latter, because whatever it was, he did not recognize the little blonde tornado that was screaming and ripping around his house in need of an exorcism. He could not say or do anything right. Everything set her off.
“Good morning, sweetie” was apparently the worst way to greet someone when they awake and trudge sleepy-eyed and pillow-creased out of bed. And never ever should one ask their child if they would like whipped cream on their pancakes because you might as well just tell them there was no Santa Claus. Same freaking thing.
Who was this small human, and where did the angelic, curly-haired little darling he brought home from the hospital in a butterfly-covered sleeper go?
By the time he pulled up to the office building where Aria’s art therapy was held, he could not wait to toss his child at the hippie teacher and her f
inger paints and scram for an hour. Jenny had Cecily at home, so he planned to go for a run around the park. He hadn’t worked out in ages, so he’d probably die two miles in, but he needed the fucking stress release if he had any intention of ever going back to work.
“Daddy?” Aria started after he helped her hop out of her car seat and down onto the road.
“Yes, sweetie?” He took her hand and led her up to the sidewalk, locking his vehicle with his fob in the pocket of his black Sugoi running shorts.
“I don’t like Cecily.”
He sucked in a big breath through his nose. “Well, sweetie, I hope that changes. She is your cousin, and she’s here to stay with us. Maybe you can talk to Tessa about your feelings. Tell her why you don’t like Cecily.”
“I’m telling you.”
Damn, she was smart. “Yes, you are, and you can. You can tell me anything, but you’re going to Tessa so that she can help you show your feelings in new ways. Through drawings and painting and things. I wish you did like Cecily, but it’s okay if you don’t. However, the way you treat her is not kind, and like her or not, we need to show each other kindness.”
His child growled as he held the door open for her and she walked beneath his arm into the lobby and toward the elevator. “But she is so loud and she doesn’t listen and she always takes you away from me.” She stomped her foot before reaching out and pressing the button for the elevator. “I want a whale to come up out from the ocean and carry her away.”
Well, at least she didn’t wish for the whale to eat Cecily. At least he could take solace in his daughter not being a sadist and simply a little girl going through typical sibling rivalry and what Adam and Mitch had aptly called “a threenager.”
“Where would you like this whale to take Cecily?” he asked, hiding his smirk of mirth as they stepped onto the elevator.
Aria shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t care. Maybe … ” She toed at a scuff on the floor. “Hawaii? Jayda and Mira brought me back a shell from Hawaii. Cecily can play with shells there.”
Damn, he loved the way kids’ brains worked. In no time, they were up and off the elevator and walking down the hallway toward Tessa’s studio. It was nearly one o’clock, and he hoped that since he’d just fed Aria a big lunch of PB and J, apple slices, cheese cubes and yogurt, that her full belly would mean a pleasant demeanor. The last thing he needed was to come back after an hour to his daughter either losing her shit again and screaming or, worse, giving Tessa her threenager attitude and sass.
They reached the door and it was open, so Aria released his hand and headed inside, beelining for her drawer of unfinished art.
At first, he didn’t see Tessa anywhere in the room and thought maybe she’d stepped out for lunch, but then it was difficult to not see her.
A blonde vision stood in front of the window with the light of the afternoon behind her, illuminating her hair like spun gold. She was standing off in the corner behind an easel, humming softly to herself, eyes focused on what was in front of her.
He was mesmerized. Transfixed.
“Tessa?” Aria called out, having not noticed her therapist when she entered the room. “Where are you?”
Tessa’s blue eyes unfocused from the canvas in front of her, and she shook her head, blinking a few times before she peered around the easel at Aria. “Hey, Aria. I’m right here. How’s it going?”
Aria nodded without answering, taking her unfinished artwork to the green triangle table.
Atlas wandered into the studio toward the easel, his curiosity drawing him forward before he knew what he was doing. Tessa was rinsing brushes in the sink, and Aria was already fast at work with felts and paper.
The easel was set up right in front of the window along with many others, and although he knew nothing of art or lighting, he could tell that where she was painting probably allowed her the best natural light in the entire room.
Making sure her back was to him, he turned to glance at the canvas.
“Oh my God.” Much like his feet had moved him forward involuntarily, the words fled from his mouth before he could stop them. It was … intriguing and complex. Evocative and thought-provoking. But above all else, it was beautiful.
A brain painted in a melee of colors, more colors than he dared to count, more colors than he knew the names of. There were layers of paint too and then scraped away, along with geometric shapes and color blocks in the background behind the brain. Gold leaf was placed thoughtfully throughout, and straight lines both vertical and horizontal were drawn in the background over everything.
He really had no eye for art—it had never interested him—but this … this painting did. He wasn’t sure he’d go so far as to say it “spoke” to him, but it did evoke thoughts, feelings and emotions from him unlike any other piece of art ever had.
“It’s not finished,” Tessa said, rushing over to him and the easel. She attempted to turn it away from him, but he reached for her hand and stopped her.
“Don’t.”
“It’s not done,” she said insistently, wrenching her hand free of his. She turned the painting away from him. “I don’t show anybody my work before it’s done. And sometimes not even then. It’s private.” She turned the easel away from him, a glare in her pretty blue eyes.
“I apologize,” he said, stepping back. “It’s very nice, though. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Her eyes thinned into slits, and she slid a side-eye his way. “Thank you?”
He grunted and retreated toward his daughter. “I’m going to go, sweetie, okay? See you in an hour.”
Aria barely acknowledged him, only replying with a grunt of her own.
He pecked her on the top of the head and then left the studio, the image of Tessa’s eyes and the fire in her glare making him feel all kinds of weird things. He needed to put some space between himself and the attractive therapist.
His nose wrinkled as he paused on the threshold of the office. “What’s that smell?” he called back into the room. Tessa was now sitting with Aria, and they were chatting, both of them coloring with smiles on their faces.
“Lemongrass,” she said, not lifting her head to look at him. “Too bohemian for you?” Finally, she lifted her gaze to his, the challenge in her eyes visible from across the room.
He shook his head and grunted. “No.” Then he left.
The woman rattled him, frustrated him and intrigued him to no end.
When he hit the pavement outside the office, he grabbed his earbuds from his pocket, shoved them in his ears and tuned his phone to a radio station that played good running music. Then he set off at a steady lope toward the park half a mile away. If he ran hard enough, fast enough, maybe, just maybe he could shake the pull that Tessa had on him. Not to mention the pull of Marie.
What the hell had possessed him to call her?
Because you wanted to hear her voice.
He had. He’d wanted to hear her voice terribly and was calling her before he could think twice, think smart and stop himself. Though he was awfully glad he had called her. They’d ended up talking for nearly an hour. About this, that and everything, but always keeping the topics fairly superficial and innocuous, like books, movies, food and other harmless things. She hadn’t probed him about himself at all, and he hadn’t asked anything about her either. Not that he wasn’t dead curious, but if he asked, then that gave her the right to ask him, and he just wasn’t ready for that.
He wasn’t ready for what he was doing or what he was feeling for either woman, and yet there he was, having the feelings. And not just about one woman, but two. What the hell had he gotten himself into?
He entered the park and ran hard along the woodchip trail, the music thumping in his ears and the thoughts rattling around his brain like marbles in a jar. Thoughts about Tessa, thoughts about Marie. Though the fact that he was lusting after two different women meant his jar was obviously short a few marbles. He had no time to date. He had no time for a relationship. He shouldn�
�t be having these feeling about anybody, let alone one woman he’d never met and the other his daughter’s therapist. His days of loving someone besides his children were over. Samantha had been the one. The only. Never could he love another the way he loved her. Never could he feel for another woman the things he felt for her.
And yet, for the past week, he’d been unable to get either woman off of his mind. They were both so different and yet equally intriguing, equally beguiling.
For a while he was able to push the thoughts of both women out of his head and just focus on his running. It felt good to exhaust his muscles again. It’d been far too long since he’d gone for a good jog, and the sweat was pouring off his forehead by the time he turned around and headed back toward the professional building. His light gray shirt would undoubtedly be dark gray by the time he picked up Aria, but he’d damn near bathed in deodorant before he left, so hopefully he didn’t Pepé le Pew his way down the hall.
Maybe he needed to just cold-turkey stop talking to Marie? He’d given her some lawyer recommendations, and she said that if Carlyle wasn’t agreeable when she went to see him Monday, then she’d call back one of the lawyers she received a free discovery call from.
That left Tessa.
Beautiful, sweet, motorcycle-riding Tessa. He hardly knew her, but she’d already burrowed beneath his skin and occupied far too many of his thoughts. The way she’d stood up to him when he was an assuming jackass and made it sound like she was a hippie who shouldn’t be riding a motorcycle was surprising. She was totally right, and although he hadn’t had the balls to admit it or say more than his token grunt and few words, he was impressed with her confidence. And totally impressed—and turned on—that she rode a crotch rocket.
He had judged her as some hippie-dippie whacko hack who wore bangles and skirts, burned patchouli and probably danced under the full moon in neon body paint to appease the sun gods. But even if she did do all those things, she was no hippie-dippie whacko hack. He’d been wrong to judge her so quickly.
With his chest heaving and music blaring in his ears, he yanked open the office building door and headed for the stairs. No sense stinking up the elevator if he was gross. He was at the studio door in no time. He turned the music off on his phone and removed his earbuds, only to hear a different kind of music playing from a small but powerful speaker box on the table. Aria was standing on the short stage, wearing a tie around her neck, an oversize suit blazer, and she was carrying a briefcase.
