“Yeah, Aunt Chelsea—can I sleep over at Presley’s?” Riley asks at about the same time.
Because apparently One Direction’s superpower is instant friendship. Someone should ship them to the Middle East so they can get to work on that Israel-Palestine thing.
Stanton gives the go-ahead and Chelsea says it’s fine. And then there’s more screeching—yay—before they charge up the stairs to get Riley’s stuff.
“Where are the other kids?” I ask Chelsea.
“They’re asleep,” she gladly informs me. “Brent tired them all out with flashlight manhunt.”
Brent pats his own back. “I’m the reigning champion.”
When the girls come back down carrying a sleeping bag, pillows, and a duffel bag, Riley stands in front of me, looking genuinely, sparkling happy.
“Thank you, Jake. This was like . . . the best night of my life.”
I could say it was my pleasure . . . but that wouldn’t be true. “Don’t mention it.”
Sofia hands Ronan to Chelsea and she gently lays him down in the small dark green portable crib in the corner. As they get ready to leave, I decide to hang around a little longer. Or a lot longer. Chelsea and I won’t exactly be alone, but minus one child is better than nothing.
Until Brent shoots my plan to shit. “Stanton’s car only seats four, so I need a lift home, Jake.”
Fuckin’ A.
I glance at Chelsea and it’s like she can read my mind. Because she’s smirking at me with humorous disappointment. “Thanks again, Jake. Good night.”
I reach out my hand, brushing her hair back from her face. “Good night.”
Then Brent slips in front of me. He bows slightly, takes Chelsea’s hand, and lifts it to his lips, kissing the back. “Thank you for a lovely evening—you were the hostess with the mostest.”
She giggles, while in the back of my throat, I snarl.
And the idea of breaking his jaw seems even more attractive than it did a few weeks ago.
Chelsea closes the door behind us and we walk toward my car, Brent skipping as best he can. It’s fucking annoying.
“Well . . . ,” he breathes slowly, suggestion strong in his tone, “Chelsea seems nice.”
I say nothing.
“And that ass,” he goes on admiringly, “mmm, mmm, good—I could bounce quarters off that tight—”
My hand lashes out, twisting the front of his shirt, dragging him forward till we’re nose to nose. “Shut up.”
He searches my eyes, his smile slow and knowing. “You like her.”
I drop him like a Hot Pocket straight out of the microwave and brush past him to my car. “Of course I like her. She’s a nice girl.”
Brent sticks close to my side, wagging his finger. “Nooo, you like her—not just in the sense that you want her riding reverse cowgirl on your dick. You like her, like her.”
“What, are you twelve?”
“Age is just a number. Or at least that’s what my uncle said when he married lucky, nineteen-year-old wife number three.” He nudges my shoulder. “But seriously, you’ve got this whole knight-in-shining-armor vibe going on.”
I shake my head. “My armor was tarnished a long time ago, Brent.”
“A knight in tarnished armor is still a knight.”
When I don’t respond, he pushes—because he actually believes I won’t punch his pretty face. “Then let me know when you’re done. I’d like to see if I can hit that.”
I step toward him. “She’s off-fucking-limits to you. Now, during, and after. Don’t even think about it.”
And the son of a bitch looks pleased with himself. He smiles wider. “Yeah—you definitely like her.”
? ? ?
On Tuesday night I’m working late at the office, finishing up a motion for Senator Holten’s domestic abuse trial. I loosen my tie, rub my eyes, and crack my neck. Just as I’m about to dive back in, my cell phone rings.
And Chelsea’s name lights up the screen.
I smile just seeing her name. It’s fucking weird and completely unlike me. I barely smiled when I graduated law school.
I wipe it off my face as soon as I realize I’m doing it. I tap the accept button and bring the phone to my ear. I start to ask the age-old question What are you wearing? But I don’t—thank Christ—because a high-pitched voice pipes up from the speaker.
Rosaleen’s voice.
“Hi, Jake!”
I lean back in my chair. “Hi, Rosaleen.”
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Working. What are you doing?”
“I’m making chicken soup.” There’s pride in her voice.
“That’s nice. Is your aunt around?” I ask, because I have a sneaking suspicion Chelsea doesn’t have a clue about what her niece is up to.
“She’s in the bathroom. She’s sick.”
I frown. “What do you mean, she’s sick?”
“She’s throwing up everywhere. They all are, except me. And Ronan—but he spits up all the time anyway, so he doesn’t count.”
Faintly, the sound of Ronan’s wailing comes through in the background.
I sit up and press the phone harder against my ear. “Is that your brother crying?”