Days go by and bleed into weeks. I keep my commitments to the kids. Sometimes I’m there when they get off the bus from school, nearby during Rosaleen’s piano practices. Once in a while I take Regan and Ronan back to fucking Mommy and Me, and I go to Rory’s Little League games, cheering louder than any father there. Things between Chelsea and me are . . . civil. Perfectly polite. I almost wish she’d curse at me, yell, tell me I’m a dick. It’d be so much better than the impersonal, tightly measured exchanges we have. She talks to me the same way the Judge does on the days when he has no goddamn idea who I am.
Like I’m a stranger.
Two weeks after the custody hearing, Brent strolls into my office. “Dude, tonight—me, Lucy Patterson, you, and her friend, we’re going to grab a bite to eat after work.”
“I don’t think so,” I answer, not bothering to look up from my laptop.
“And therein lies your problem, Jake. Too much thinking. It’s time to get back on that horse, little camper. And ride her.” He fiddles with a pen on my desk. “I’ve taken Lucy out a few times already—we’re chugging full steam ahead. She says her friend likes you, has been asking about you.”
I rub my eyes. “What was her friend’s name again?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter—you’re going. I won’t take no for an answer.”
When he gets an idea into his head, Brent can be as tenacious as Sofia’s Rottweiler’s jaws—he just won’t let go. So, in an effort to get back to work as quickly as possible, I give in.
“Fine.”
“Sweet.” He smiles. “We’re meeting them at six.”
- • •
Dinner with Brent, Lucy, and her friend with the tight ass, whose name I still don’t know, is once again casual. Easy. And forgettable. We meet up at a sports bar, have hot sandwiches, then move to the adjoining room to shoot some pool. The friend flirts with me, tries to get me to teach her how to hold the cue. But I’m just not into it. It’s an effort not to be rude.
After what seems like forever but is in actuality only two hours, we call it a night. The four of us walk out the door of the bar onto the sidewalk.
I turn to the right, and find myself staring into stunning, crystal-blue eyes.
“Jake!” Chelsea says, as surprised as I am.
“Chelsea . . . hey.”
The kids flank her on all sides. Raymond is pushing Ronan in his stroller on her left, Riley holds Rosaleen’s hand on her right, Regan is held in Chelsea’s arms.
“Jake!” Regan shouts, using her new favorite word.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Chelsea’s expression goes from surprised to awkward as she takes in Brent, the blond Lucy, and the brunette at my side. She pales slightly, looking . . . wounded.
Not to be outdone, Rosaleen bounces and says, “Hey, Jake!”
I smile at her as the brunette crouches down. “You are sooo cute! My sister is going to have a baby soon and I hope she looks just like you.” She taps Rosaleen’s nose—which scrunches distastefully.
“Who are you?” Rosaleen asks with all kinds of attitude.
“Come on, Rosaleen.” Riley tugs at her sister’s hand, giving me the cold shoulder and an even colder glare. “Raymond, let’s keep walking. Aunt Chelsea, we’ll catch up with you down the block.”
The three of them walk around us while I’m still staring at Chelsea.
“What . . . what are you doing here?”
“Rory’s therapist had to push back his session. He’s in there now and I promised the kids ice cream while we wait, so that’s what I’m doing. We’re heading that way”—she points over my shoulder—“to get ice cream.”
As an afterthought, she glances at Brent. “Hi, Brent—it’s nice to see you.”
“You too, Chelsea,” he answers softly.
She hoists Regan higher on her hip and pushes hair behind her ear. “Well . . . I should get going. Have . . . have a good night.”
She walks around me. But she only gets a few steps.
“Chelsea!” I call, her name sounding like it’s been torn from the deepest part of my lung. I step quickly, moving in front of her. “I can explain. This isn’t—”
“Jake, you don’t have to explain,” she tells me gently, shaking her head. “You don’t owe me anything.”
And I know that’s true—so why does it feel like I’ve been kicked in the nuts?
We stand that way for a few seconds. Then I reach for Regan. “Let me help you get the kids ice cream.”
But Chelsea steps back. Out of my reach. “No. It’s okay.” Her smile is so soft. So sad. “I can do it on my own.”
She walks away. Leaving me standing on the sidewalk. Alone.
- • •
A few days later I’m in the office; Stanton’s at his desk. “Are you and Sofia coming over to watch the game tonight?” I ask him.
“Ah . . . no. Change of plans.”
“What are you guys doing?”
Sofia brushes into the office, timing as impeccable as ever. “We’re watching the kids for Chelsea.”
I lean back in my chair, my work totally forgotten.
“Why? I mean . . . why didn’t she ask me?”
Sofia hands Stanton a folder. “Probably because she has a date and didn’t want things to be uncomfortable.”
“A date?”
My first thought is she’s doing it to get back at me, because she caught me out on my own stupid double date. But Chelsea’s not like that. She’s not petty. Which means she’s going out on a date because she’s moving on. Just like I told her to.
Fuck.
“Do you . . . did she tell you who she’s going out with?”
Sofia’s hazel gaze regards me with no sympathy whatsoever. “She did actually—Tom Caldwell.”
“Tom Caldwell? Get the hell out of here! How did that happen?”
“Apparently, Chelsea ran into Tom at the grocery store. They started talking, he asked if she was available . . . then he asked her out.”
Motherfucker.
“And how do you know this?” I ask harshly.
Sofia shrugs. “Chelsea and I talk. We’re friends—she doesn’t have a lot of friends here, Jake.”
I know. With six kids to look after she doesn’t have a lot of time for friends. But—bitterness stings sour on my tongue—I guess she’s making time for good old fucking Tom.
“I’ll watch the kids.” I don’t leave any room for discussion in my tone.
That doesn’t mean Sofia won’t try to discuss it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
She points to my fists, which are clenched tightly on the desk. And she doesn’t really have to say anything else.
I force them to loosen, shaking them out. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I just want to make sure he knows not to mess with her.”
“Stanton and I are fully capable of putting the fear of God into him. Not that he really needs it—Tom is a nice guy.”
I scowl at her. “I want to watch the kids.”
“I don’t—”
Luckily, Stanton has my back. “I think Jake should watch the kids, Soph. If he and Chelsea are going to be strictly friends, he’s gonna have to deal with her dating. If he thinks he’s up for it, I think we should let him have at it.”
And he smirks at her. The smirk gets her every time.
“O-kay.” She looks at me hard. “But don’t be an asshole, Jake.”
I look right back at her. “Who, me?”
- • •
That night, I knock on Chelsea’s front door. It’s locked—and she finally removed the key from under the mat. The door opens, and it feels like déjà vu—like the first time I saw her in this doorway. And just like that time, the breath is knocked out of me.
Her dress is dark green, simple and understated. Utterly stunning. Her long, delicate arms peek out from tiny cap sleeves, a shiny belt shows off her trim waist, and her legs—Jesus—they look fucking endless beneath the short, slightly flaring skirt.
Chelsea’s eyes go round with surprise and I’m guessing Sofia didn’t give her the heads-up about the babysitting switch.
“Hi.”
“Jake—hi. What are you—”
“Something came up with Stanton and Sofia . . .” Which would be me. “So . . . I’m going to watch the kids—if that’s okay with you.”
She recovers from her shock and opens the door wider. “Of course it’s okay. Come on in.”
The kids are in the den. “Hey, guys.”
“Cool—you’re watching us?” Rory exclaims. “You owe me a Halo rematch.”
Chelsea says she has to fill Ronan’s bottles and heads to the kitchen. After greeting the rest of the rug rats, I follow her. She’s at the counter, staring harder than necessary as she fills the bottle in her hands. Silently, I move to stand beside her. Just inches away.
Close enough to touch her.
“You look beautiful.”
She glances at me quickly, smiling self-consciously. “Oh . . . thank you.” She tightens the cap on the bottle, places it on the counter, and turns to face me. “This is weird, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s totally weird, Jake. You know what I look like naked—”
Do I ever. The image is seared into my brain. My favorite memory.
“—and now you’re here watching the kids while I go out on a date with another man. That’s, like, the definition of weirdness.”
I chuckle. “It doesn’t have to be. We’re adults. We’re friends. This is what . . . friends do.”
She looks up into my eyes, her cheeks flushed, her expression so much more than friendly.
The dog goes nuts barking at a knock from the front door. With another quick smile, Chelsea goes to answer it. I make my way back out to the den just as Chelsea leads Tom Caldwell in, introducing him to the kids, his white teeth gleaming like shiny pearls as he smiles at each one of them.
Then, under his breath, I hear him whisper to Chelsea, “You look ravishing.”
Who says that? Who the hell uses the word ravishing?
Douchebags—that’s who.
“I just have to grab my bag and then we’ll go.” She blows a kiss at the kids. “Be good, guys. I’ll be home in a little while.” Then she leaves the room.
And I make my move. “Caldwell.”
“Becker.” He grins, holding out his hand. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
I grip his hand hard when I shake it. “You shouldn’t be. I’m here a lot. I’m watching the kids for Chelsea.”
“That’s nice of you.”
Yep—that’s me. Fucking nice.
I guide him toward the front door, needing a moment alone. In the foyer, my voice drops low and menacing. “I just want to make a few things clear. If you treat Chelsea with anything less than perfect respect . . . if you ever think about doing something that will in any way hurt these kids . . . when I’m finished with you, there won’t be enough left to bury.”
My stare is unwavering.
He leans back. “Are you threatening me, Jake?”
“I thought that was pretty fucking obvious.”
Then he chuckles, smacking my back like we’re old friends. “Message received. You have nothing to worry about with me.”
Chelsea comes down the stairs and Caldwell opens the front door for her. He salutes me as he walks out. “Have fun babysitting, Becker.”
I stand there for a few moments after they leave, glaring at the closed door. Rory comes up next to me, looking in the same direction.
“He seems like a douchebag.”
“You’re an excellent judge of character, you know that, kid?”
Rory nods. And I tap his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go play Halo. I feel like annihilating something.”
- • •
It’s about eleven when Chelsea comes home. Blessedly alone. She walks through the front door and into the den—where we’re waiting for her.
All of us.
She kicks off her shoes. “Wow, hey—you guys are still up.”
I sit in the middle of the couch, Regan on my lap, Rory and Raymond on either side, Riley leaning against the back.
“The kids wanted to talk to you about something,” I explain.
Her gaze flickers to each of them. “What’s up?
“We don’t like him,” Rory says.
It takes a moment for Chelsea to understand. “Him?” Her thumb points over her shoulder. “Tom?”
“He’s a douche,” Rory confirms.
“He doesn’t seem very smart,” Raymond adds.
“He’s booooring,” Rosaleen chimes in.
“He’s cute,” Riley says. “But you could do better.”
And Regan ties it all together. “No!”
God, she’s eloquent.
Chelsea laughs. “All right. Well, thank you for sharing your thoughts. Your feelings are duly noted. Now”—she sweeps her hand to the stairs—“go to bed.”
When the predictable groans and complaints begin, I back her up. “Go on, guys, just make it easy on yourselves. Rory, help Regan brush her teeth.”
“I’ll be up to tuck you in in a minute,” she tells them as they file past her like baby ducks in a row. Then her eyes fall on me, locked and loaded. “Can I speak with you outside? Now.”
And her tone means business. Guess her panties are twisted, but that’s fine with me—’cause my panties are pretty goddamn twisted at the moment too.
Okay, that didn’t come out right . . . but you know what I fucking mean. If she wants a fight, I’m more than happy to give her one. Or more than one.
Multiple.
Long, sweaty, bed-breaking . . . shit! What the hell is wrong with me?
Once the kids are upstairs, I follow her out the back door, my stiff strides matching her stomping ones, onto the dark patio. The French door slams with a bang and she doesn’t waste any time whirling around to face me.
“This isn’t fair! You can’t do this!”
“What exactly do you think I’m doing, Chelsea?”
“Turning the kids against any man I go out with. My love life is not up for a vote!”
The only words I process from that statement are love life. What the fuck is up with that?
“You have a love life?” I ask, horrified. The popcorn I ate during the movie with the kids turns to lead in my stomach.
She pokes my chest. “I have the right to be happy!”
Poke.
“Believe it or not, Tom actually finds me attractive!”
Poke.
“He likes talking to me, spending time with me!”
Poke.
“He wants me . . . even if you don’t!”
I catch her hand, spin her around, and press her back against the wall of the house. She glares up at me, chin raised, fearless and daring, her ice-blue eyes cold with fury.
Thinking straight went out the window when she started talking about other men. Weighing the consequences of my actions came to a halt the second she said I didn’t want her.
As if that was even fucking possible.
Now it’s all just mindless instinct. Pure emotion, fire, need. The need for my touch to be the last one she feels tonight. My lips her goodnight kiss. Not. Fucking. Tom’s.
“Wanting you was never the issue, Chelsea.”
I lean against her, feel her breasts achingly soft against my chest, my knee between her thighs, where she’s warm and heavenly. My face so close to hers, we breathe the same air.
She pulls against my grip, bucks. “It is!” she hisses. “That’s what you said. This—me—isn’t what you wanted.”
That awful night is a blur. A vague memory of foreign nervousness, regret, and stumbling words. I don’t know what the hell I actually told her.
“Did I?” I press even closer, letting her feel exactly how hard she’s wanted. “Then I’m an idiot.” My eyes drink her in, every inch—her panting lips, flushed cheeks, the throbbing pulse in her neck that tells me she wants me too. “And even worse—I’m a liar, too.”
My mouth covers hers and I taste her moan—it’s long and desperately relieved. She whimpers as I release her wrists, just so I can touch her, and she wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer. I suck on her bottom lip before delving back into the slick sweetness of her mouth.
It’s been so long. Too long.
She arches against me and all I want to do is grab her, lift her, and fuck her against the wall.
It’s that thought that brings sanity roaring back.
Shit, what am I doing? I told her this had to stop, and then . . . Fuck, I’m a caveman.
Gently, I grip her arms and force myself to step back, separating us. I stare down at the stone patio, so I don’t have to look at her. “Chelsea, I’m . . . This was a mistake. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t say anything at first. But I can feel her. Feel the confusion and then the anger—it radiates from her in thick, weighted waves. When I finally look at her face, her mouth is more of a snarl than a frown. Her brows are drawn together and her eyes shoot blue sparks.
And sick bastard that I am, it turns me on even more.
Until she speaks. “You know, Jake, I always knew you were capable of being an asshole, when you wanted to be. But I never, ever, thought you’d be a coward.”
And she walks away. Opens the French door and slips back into the house.
And I feel like fucking dirt. Like the kind that gets trapped under Cousin It’s claws. That’s me—a speck of filth under the tiny nail of a small goddamn dog.
