“Good thing that’s the only way I know how to do things,” I say. “All or nothing.”
Julia grins. “I think motherhood just might suit you.”
I keep thinking on my drive home. Like Julia said, I’ll never have definitive answers to some of my questions. I’ll never get the guarantee that I’ll end up happy—that I won’t end up trapped—if I make this choice, or any other choice.
I won’t get the guarantee that if I start to date Ford in earnest, it’ll work out. Yes, maybe we’re on the same page about this issue. But there are a million others that we’ll need to face.
What if I end up missing my old life?
What if the heat and the connection Ford and I share fizzles out?
Most importantly: how the hell are we going to make this relationship work with everything we have going on in our lives right now? How do we successfully combine our two insanely great, insanely full schedules?
I’ve just held on so tightly to everyone and everything my whole life in the hope that I could control every outcome. That I could keep disappointment and failure and unhappiness at bay.
But I’ve experienced all three in spades. And I’ve lived to tell the tale. In fact, I’d say I’m a better person because of the difficult shit I’ve been through.
One thing that doesn’t make me better? Continuing to hold on so tightly that my life is devoid of joy. What if I took Ford’s advice and trusted the universe?
What if I gave parenthood a chance?
What if I closed my eyes and took the leap despite being scared out of my mind?
What if it worked?
My mind is finally made up (!). But I still take a couple days to decompress. Let the idea sink in. Because if I’m going to do this thing, then I’m jumping in with both feet, like Julia said. It’s going to be one hell of a commitment.
Then again, the perfectionist in me is always up for a challenge.
I’m going to give it my all, and be the best damn stepmom to Bryce I can be. Just like Ford is the best daddy. After all he’s done for me, and all the poor guy’s been through, it’s what he deserves.
It’s what Bryce deserves, too.
When Thursday rolls around, I pick up the phone and invite Ford and Bryce over for dinner.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ford
“You said love makes fools of us,” Sophie said, placing the flat of her palm over Edward’s naked chest. “Wherever did you learn that?”
Beneath her hand, she felt his heartbeat begin to race.
“My parents,” he replied after a pause. “Their marriage was a love match. It was in the beginning, anyway. But then their love went sour, and they became bitter. There was some sort of betrayal—on both sides, I think—and neither of them could find it in their hearts to forgive. Instead, they sought vengeance by publicly humiliating each other, and in the end only humiliated our family. Left us all but destitute, too, the two of them driven by drink and dice to burn through a fortune accumulated over generations.” He gently removed her hand from his chest and began to rise. “Forgive me. I must go.”
“No.” Putting her hand back on his chest, she gently pushed him down onto the bed. “You must stay. Is that why you’re afraid? Of love?”
“I never said I was afraid,” he answered gruffly, looking away.
“But you are. Edward, we’re all afraid. But you must know by now that you are not your mother, nor your father. You’re different, same as I’m different from my parents. We’re our own people, free to make our own choices. Forge our own futures. Just because your parents’ love story had a tragic ending doesn’t mean ours will.”
He met her eyes. His throat worked as he swallowed. “You’re in love with me?”
“I am.” Her heart thumped inside her chest.
“Sweet Sophie,” he murmured, taking her face in his enormous, calloused hand. “You should not trust me with your heart.”
“Perhaps. But perhaps I should. I trust you with my body, and you take very good care of that, yes?”
His lips twitched. “I do my utmost to please you, yes.”
“See? You are a good man. You care for me, deeply, same as I care for you. I would never betray you. I think you know that.”
He searched her eyes. “Why? Why do you care for me?”
“Because you allow me to be myself. Because I love the way you touch me. Because you may play the cold Marquess, but beneath the fancy clothes and icy demeanor, you’re full of laughter and heat and humor. And that—all of that—shows me you’re already worlds away from the small, mean people your parents were. Let me love you, Edward. And let yourself love me back.”
Eva made good on her promise and passed on that romance novel she was talking about, along with several others. But I stuck with My Marriage to the Marquess because I’m friends with the author, Olivia. Montgomery Partners was one of the first to fund her boyfriend Elijah Jackson’s restaurant, The Pearl, years ago.
She’s a damn good writer. I didn’t have a ton of time to read before I met Eva, and I have even less now that I’m sorta-kinda dating her. But when I started Olivia’s book a few nights back, I couldn’t put the damn thing down. I need to know what happens with Edward and Sophie, and I need to know now.
Guess they remind me of Eva and I. Their chemistry. Their opposing views on big ideas.
Their willingness to listen and change.
I know I’m changing for the better, thanks to Eva. Reading this book is case in point.
I stay up way too late Wednesday night devouring over half of My Marriage to the Marquess. Getting up on Thursday is tough, but it’s made easier by the fact that I get a call from Eva bright and early. She invites Bryce and I over for dinner at her place Friday night.
For the past couple years, Bryce, Greyson, and I had a set tradition for Friday nights. Greyson brought the food, usually takeout from one of our restaurants. Bryce brought the entertainment, always a Disney movie (I love The Princess and the Frog just as much as anyone, but if I have to watch it one.more.time, I swear to Christ my eyeballs are gonna start bleeding). And I brought the liquor.
But now that Grey has a family of his own, that tradition has gone the way of his growling and perpetually grumpy demeanor.
In other words, it’s disappeared altogether.
One of the five million reasons why it’s so nice that Eva invites us over.
I try not to get my hopes up for what the invitation might mean. Eva and I have texted a bit throughout the week. But we’ve both been crazy busy with work and life and a million other things. Plus, I wanted to give her the space she needed to think things over. We’ve come really far really quickly. Which is exciting, but also scary as hell. We both have a lot on the line. A lot. As much as I want to see her every night, all night, I think a little space apart and time to decompress has benefitted us both.
But not gonna lie—when her call comes through Thursday morning, I legit leap out of my chair to answer it, nearly knocking over my desk in the process.
“Yes,” I say, relieved and hopeful and practically panting at the idea of seeing her. “We’d love to come.”
She laughs. “Wow. You’re really not one to play hard to get, are you?”
“Never was. What time do you want us? And what can I bring?”
“Welp, what time does Bryce go down? Maybe a couple of hours before so we can all hang out?”
My heart skips a beat. I remind myself for the fiftieth time to not get my hopes up.
Good fucking luck. Because I really hope this means what I think it does.
“Gonna be early then. Five o’clock or so.”
“Fine by me. How does Bryce feel about pizza?”
“Loves it. You’ll be glad to know her daddy does, too.”
“Perfect. And Ford—just bring yourselves. I’m excited to see y’all.”
I’m smiling like an idiot, and I don’t care. “We’re excited to see you too. By the way—I’m totally addicted to My
Marriage to the Marquess.”
“Told you!” Eva says, laughing. “So good, right?”
I’m up at 4 a.m. Friday morning to cruise through my crushing to-do list so I can leave work early and make a stop at the florist before heading to Eva’s.
We’re at her door at five ’til. I’m holding a bottle of locally distilled whiskey, and Bryce is holding a bouquet of flowers.
Too much? I hope it’s not too much.
Spearing a hand through my hair, I catch a whiff of something good. Gotta be a smoker on a porch somewhere.
Bet it’s Eva’s porch. I furrow my brow, leaning over the railing to glimpse around. I hope she didn’t go too crazy—I honestly was expecting delivery pizza and maybe a cocktail. Which would be perfect, considering Bryce’s palate is…simple, to say the least.
The door opens and I quickly pull back. Eva is wearing a big smile and tiny jean shorts. Her lips are done up in some kinda yummy looking gloss—yeah, gonna have to kiss that off of her later—and she’s wearing long, dangly earrings.
For a second I can’t breathe. She looks—
“Beautiful,” Bryce breathes, staring up in wonder at the woman I am so far gone for. She holds out the flowers, just like I showed her.
Eva’s smile grows. She crouches down and takes the bouquet, giving the daffodils an exaggerated sniff.
“Thank you so much, Bryce. Daffodils are my favorite kind of flower.” Her eyes flick to meet mine. Daffodils symbolize new beginnings—I looked it up the first time I bought Eva flowers. We’d just started dating our sophomore year, and I wanted her to know just how obsessed with her I was, and how much our new relationship meant to me. “How did you know?”
Bryce just keeps looking at Eva, suddenly shy. She curls an arm around my leg.
“Bryce helped me pick them out at the florist. Isn’t that right?” I say, smoothing Bryce’s hair back from her face.
“I like the pink ones,” she replies.
“I hear you like pizza too,” Eva says. “Are you hungry?”
Bryce nods. Eva stands, the muscles in her legs flexing against her smooth skin, and holds out her hand. “Well come on in, then. I’ve got a pizza with your name on it.”
“Okay,” Bryce says and takes her hand.
Eva leads her inside, tossing me a smile over her shoulder.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
Can’t help it. I lean in for a kiss. Bryce pulls a face—not gonna lie, part of me hopes she stays in this phase forever where she thinks kissing is gross—and I laugh.
“Yucky, right?” I say.
Her grimace morphs into a grin. “So yucky, daddy.”
All this smiling. My face feels like it’s been split in half. I’ve never brought my daughter on a date with me before. Ever. This is new territory for me. I tried not to have high hopes, but…yeah.
Yeah, I definitely did. And they’ve definitely been smashed.
Looking at Eva looking at me, I feel the joy bubbling up inside me take on a sharp edge. I was in love with Eva before, when she was an idealistic kid who loved her food and her whiskey and her books. But now—now I think I’m even more in love with Eva the accomplished entrepreneur, writer, and aquatic exhibitionist.
If this goes sideways, it’ll destroy me.
I shove the thought aside. Things are on the up and up. No use dwelling on what could go wrong. I’m already in, and it appears Eva is, too.
I follow her and Bryce inside. Music is playing; nostalgia grips my heart and won’t let go when I hear it’s Dave Matthews Band. Like any college kids worth their salt in the early 2000s, Eva and I would make out for days to the “Crash” album. Days, y’all, dry humping each other like our lives depended on it. “#41” still gets me, all these years later.
My skin feels a size or two too tight when I think about doing it again. The humping. With Eva. But with Bryce in the picture now, I have to take it slow. Be intentional about how often she sees Eva and in what context. As much as I want Eva in my bed tonight, I can’t run the risk of Bryce seeing her around the house yet. Least of all in the middle of the night or in the morning.
Especially when I don’t know exactly where Eva and I stand. I’m getting a pretty good idea—she wouldn’t have invited us over if she weren’t leaning toward giving us a chance—but it’s still a conversation we need to have.
All kinds of delicious smells crowd the air, and I startle at the spread Eva’s got set up in her kitchen. The butcher block island is covered in a neatly arranged assembly line. There’s a cutting board at one end dotted with plump rounds of dough. Colorful bowls filled with all kinds of toppings sit next to it—three kinds of cheese, sautéed mushrooms, sausage, and what appears to be some kind of pulled pork.
A pot of red sauce bubbles on the stove. Judging from the smell of sautéed garlic and oregano, the sauce is homemade. So is the pulled pork and dough if I had to guess.
“Eva,” I say, stomach dipping. Heart swelling. “This is way too much.”
Guiding Bryce onto a stepping stool at the island, Eva waves me away. “I wanted to cook with y’all. Thought it’d be fun to make our own pizzas. Bryce did ask me to teach her how to cook. Do you remember that, Bryce?”
Bryce is positively glowing getting all this attention. She smiles and nods.
“Daddy says my mommy’s favorite pizza topping was olives. Isn’t that weird?”
Eva grins. “Not so weird. I like olives.”
“I do, too. Daddy says I get it from mommy. But I only like the black ones, not the green ones.”
Eva turns her grin on me. I grin back. One of the many ways I’ve tried to keep Rebecca’s memory alive—sharing these little anecdotes with my daughter.
“I like them all. Here, I think I have a can of black olives we can snack on while we make our pizzas. Does that sound good?” Eva asks.
Bryce’s eyes light up.
“Girl, you are spoiled,” I say, setting the whiskey on the counter beside the sink. “Can I make y’all a cocktail?”
“Cocktails are for adults only,” Bryce says, eyeing the balls of dough.
I uncurl the plastic from around the mouth of the bottle. “That’s absolutely right. What did I tell you the drinking age is?”
Bryce holds her hands up to her face solemnly. “Thirty years old.”
“Same as the dating age. Good girl.”
Eva laughs, busy at the sink unwrapping the flowers and putting them in a mason jar. “Phew. I almost missed the cut off. Ford, I’ve got some cherries and vermouth in the fridge if you wanna stir up some old fashioneds.”
“On it.”
I tackle the drinks while Eva and Bryce don aprons—oh my God, Eva even got one in Bryce’s size, and it’s so fucking cute I can’t even get mad at her for going above and beyond with tonight’s dinner when she should be focusing on her cookbook—and tackle the pizzas.
Predictably, Bryce makes a big freaking mess of herself and the kitchen. By the time I’m stepping outside to help Eva cook the pizzas in her smoker—yep, that’s a thing, and yep, it’s delicious—she’s stained Eva’s shirt with marinara sauce and is smuggling grated cheese in her own shirt and pants, bits of it falling out onto the floor whenever she moves.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, doing my best to pick up after my daughter. “I spend way too much time playing Hansel and Gretel, following a trail of crumbs to wherever this kid is.”
Eva just shakes her head and smiles, sipping her cocktail while she winks at Bryce. “I’m very good at making messes in the kitchen, too.”
Now my skin feels three sizes too tight. Inside my pocket I curl my hand into a fist. Can’t touch her. Not the way I want to.
This just feels…cozy.
Right.
Exactly what I needed after a really long fucking week.
Bryce shyly asks if she can sit on Eva’s lap while we eat. Of course Eva says yes, and of course my daughter only eats half a slice of the “cheesy pizza pie”
that Eva made from freaking scratch.
We have ice cream—yep, Eva thought of that, too—and then I set Bryce in the family room to play with the toys we brought while I help Eva clean up.
I wash the dishes and she dries them, our elbows brushing as we move. The urge to kiss her deep and hot, to undress her slowly right here in the kitchen, pounds inside my skin in time to my thumping heartbeat.
Thank you.
What. The Fuck. Do I Do. Here.
Please. God. Let this. Be real.
“Yes.”
I blink at the word, spoken softly. Wiping down an enormous, scary looking chef’s knife, Eva looks at me. “The answer to the question I asked myself about parenthood. I decided my answer is going to be yes. Well. I’m going to try it on, anyway. But know I’m open to the idea of an ‘us’. As in the three of us.” Her glance cuts to Bryce, who’s closely inspecting her baby doll’s crotch area.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
A wash of warmth radiates from the center of my chest, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Spreading to my arms, my fingers. Legs and feet.
It fills me up.
My hands go still in the sink, wrists resting on its porcelain lip. The sound of the running faucet fills the space between us. I just look at her. And look. Bewildered and excited and terrified, all at once.
“Did you intentionally choose to tell me this while you’re holding Michael Meyer’s knife?” I nod at the weapon in question. “So you could ward me off and/or stab me if and when I tried to jump your bones?”
Eva wags her brows, brandishing the blade as she flips the towel over her shoulder. Pure sexy cookbook author style. “I’ve butchered a cow before. Bet I could butcher you, no problem.”
“So we’re gonna do this. You and me.”
“And Bryce. Yes. We’re going to really do this. Just remember I’m new to the step-parenthood game. I’ve never dated a guy with a kid before. Not seriously, anyway.”
“First rodeo. Right. We’ll give you all the time you need. That being said—and I know I’m biased—but considering how tonight went, I think you’ll be riding the sh—the stuff out of this bull in no time.”
Southern Heartbreaker: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 20
