Now, it’s a chore. But I manage to find me some nice things in shops where they will box everything up with pretty bows and have them delivered to you. And I find some cute clothes for Adley too, but I take those pretty bags with me onto the bus as we finally make our way home in the late afternoon.
But when I get to the lobby on the ground floor of the loft building, and call the elevator by punching in my code, it doesn’t come. I can hear people inside. Loud people. Laughing people. So I know it’s working. But someone must be moving in, because I also hear a lot of swearing, and grunting, and banging.
So I unlatch Adley’s baby seat, fold the stroller, and lug everything up the stairs. Someone peeks out on the fourth floor, a man about my age, who sees me struggling and says, “Need some help?”
Normally I’d say no. But… “Yes, thank you,” I say through my heavy breathing. “Someone has the elevator for moving, I guess.”
He takes the stroller and the packages, which leaves me with just Adley’s carrier, and we trudge up the stairs to my loft.
That’s when I realize, with blushing cheeks, that the person who is hogging the elevator is me.
Well, not me.
But Bric.
Chapter Fifteen - Bric
The alarm beeps as the door leading to the stairs opens and Rochelle appears with a man.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
I could ask her the same thing. “The furniture came in,” I say, eyeing the man. “What’s going on with you?” It comes out… challenging. Which surprises me. Almost… jealous. Even more surprising.
“Oh.” Rochelle laughs and turns towards the guy. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” the guy says, and then disappears back into the stairwell.
“I was coming…” She stops, then starts again. “I went shopping. Got some new clothes.” She holds up some pretty bags as her proof.
Was she going to say, I was coming home? And then felt conflicted on whether or not this place was home?
“The shops are going to deliver the rest of my stuff on Monday. This is just Adley’s things. What furniture?” she asks.
I look over my shoulder at the team of people—all busy inside Adley’s bedroom. “The crib, remember? There was just the floor model left. Well, it came in yesterday afternoon so I hired people to pick it up and put it together. So she can stop sleeping in that travel thing.”
Rochelle leaves all her things in the front sitting area and brings Adley’s baby carrier over to the couches and sets it on the coffee table so she can unbuckle her. “She likes the travel thing, Bric. You shouldn’t overspend on a crib.”
“How do you know I overspent?” I ask, sitting on the couch across from her. “You haven’t even seen it yet.”
Rochelle is making a silly face at smiling Adley, but she pauses to shoot me a look. “Because I know you well, Elias Bricman. Subtle isn’t in your DNA.”
I consider this. She does know me. I know her. We know each other. Three years—even three years of two-days-a-week game playing—is a long time in the relationship world. If Rochelle was an illegal immigrant looking for a green-card marriage, we could pass that investigation thing they do. That one where they ask you your partner’s favorite color and stuff. Their favorite movie. Do they cry at weddings? Do they like burgers with onions?
Purple. The Blues Brothers. Yes. And no.
In fact, I might know more about Rochelle Bastille than any other woman on this planet, including my mother and Marcella Walcott.
“You like antique stores and old things that smell weird,” I say.
Rochelle bursts out laughing as she slips a pink sock off Adley’s foot. “What?”
“I know what you like,” I say. “Velvet and lace. Especially if the lace has that little yellowing edge to it. And long flowing skirts that someone found in their grandma’s closet after she passed away and decided to donate to the unfortunate. You really shouldn’t take clothes from the unfortunate, Rochelle.”
Adley is laughing at her mommy, who is laughing at me. I stand up and walk around the large square coffee table and sit down next to them, reaching for Adley at the same time.
She comes to me happily, her wide blue eyes staring up into my dark ones. “I read somewhere that all babies have blue eyes,” I say.
“I don’t think that’s true. Not entirely, anyway. But I asked her doctor if she thinks her eyes will change color. She said she didn’t know.”
“Whose eyes will you have, baby?” I ask Adley. I hold her up in front of me like a prize. Trying to see her future. Wondering if she has anything of me inside her. She sticks her chubby little foot in my mouth in response.
“Well, you like five-thousand-dollar suits, Mr. Bricman. And that’s an excessive use of money if ever there was one. You could feed an entire village in India for that kind of money.”
“Not true,” I say, setting Adley down on my knee. “Smith and I actually support an entire village in India and that shit is expensive.”
Rochelle chuckles as she leans back into the couch arm, resting her feet right up next to my leg. “I forgot, you’re a habitual do-gooder. Never mind. Wear your damn suits if you want. Now tell me—what’s really going on in that bedroom?”
I look over at the bedroom. There’s a lot going on in there. But right now, I’m distracted by this woman and her baby. The surprise I planned is not even in the top ten things on my mind. Plus, Rochelle has kicked off her shoes and is pressing her socked toes into my thigh. I look over at her with… well, a look.
She smiles and shakes her head at me. As if to say, Sorry, you horny man. I have a tired baby and you have half a dozen workers in our house.
Our house. Is this our house?
“Jesus Christ,” Rochelle says. “What are you thinking so hard about? You have smoke coming out your ears.”
Adley laughs and slaps my face with her little fist.
“I know a lot about you,” I say.
“Do you?” Rochelle says. And when I look at her, her face has gone serious.
“I think so,” I say.
“Aside from where I like to shop—and I’d just like to say I spent a fortune on brand-new clothes down on the mall this afternoon, so your assessment is no longer valid—what do you know?”
“I know you like holidays. You even put up an Easter tree one year and decorated with pastel pictures you cut out of vintage magazines.”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“And I know you’re kind. You don’t like to argue. And you will avoid a fight at all costs.”
“Does that make me meek?” she asks.
“Meek?” I laugh. “No. It makes you sweet.”
“Aww. Elias has a soft side.”
I shrug. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Holy shit, you’re like—serious right now, aren’t you?”
I nod and look at Adley. “Yeah,” I say. “I am. I didn’t realize how much I missed you until this week.”
“Do you love me, Elias?”
“Yes,” I say. “I love you, Rochelle. Probably not the same way that Quin loves you, but in my Bricman way, I do.”