He shrugs. “Four months? Maybe five? I don’t know. But he wasn’t the type to stick to one girl for more than a few weeks, so I knew she meant something to him.”
What about you? I don’t say the words out loud, but I can’t help think them. Sure, he was with Courtney for a year, but there was plenty of time when he wasn’t tied down, and a guy like him—with his looks and his money and his social status—must have had his pick of the prettiest puck bunnies throwing themselves at him after games. I’ve learned all about those, thanks to my brother, who for some reason thinks it’s completely normal to phone up his older sister and fill her in on his college escapades.
I don’t see Brett being the type to bring home a random girl for the night, but I could be way off. It may feel like I know him, but I don’t yet, not really.
I desperately want to, though.
Beside us, Brenna lets out a small snore. Brett shifts his gaze to her for a long moment. Into the lingering silence, he finally says, so softly, “Can I ask you something?”
My stomach tightens with anxiety. “Yeah.”
I feel his eyes on my profile. “Does she ever ask about her dad?”
Somehow, I just knew it would have to do with Brenna’s father. “Sometimes.”
“And what do you tell her?”
I hesitate. “What am I supposed to tell her?”
Brett frowns, shakes his head. “Sorry, I just . . . I was thinking how hard it must have been for you, to be alone and raising a kid so young.”
“It’s always just been her and me. That’s what she knows. That’s what I know.” I study her peaceful face. “And I try to give her double the love to make up for anything she may be missing.”
“Could you get child support from him, at least? Is he still in prison?”
“I’d have to give him rights to her, and there’s no way I’m doing that.” Just the thought of having to share Brenna makes me uneasy.
Brett’s becoming adept at reading me. “You really don’t like talking about it, do you?”
“No.”
The first real uncomfortable silence hangs over us, and suddenly I find myself itching for escape. “The storm doesn’t seem as bad as they made it out to be. We should probably think about going.”
“I don’t want you to leave.” I turn to meet earnest blue eyes. “Take my room. Don will drive you tomorrow.”
“Where will you sleep, then?”
“I’ve been in a spare room since I came home. The stairs are a pain in the ass.”
My gaze wanders from the metal staircase that would be a nightmare with crutches, to Brenna’s sleeping body, to the steady pour of rain against the windowpane—the storm is probably just as bad as they made it out to be—back to Brett, who’s patiently waiting for my answer.
“Look at her. She’s so warm and comfortable. You’re not going to make her sit on a cold leather backseat for hours in a storm, being jolted and bumped, risking her life. She’ll wake up confused and afraid. She might not fall back asleep again for hours.”
Brenna is the easiest car-to-bed transport ever, but I’m not about to tell Brett that because I like that he’s making it so easy for me to say yes for smart, responsible, nonhormonal reasons. I glance down at my outfit. “I didn’t really come prepared.”
“Borrow one of my shirts.”
Sleeping in Brett’s bed and wearing his clothes. With my daughter, I remind myself. But still. Not how I saw tonight going.
A million times better, actually.
“Okay?”
Those dimples settle deeply into his cheeks with his smile. “Okay.”
I nod, suddenly overwhelmed by the very idea of an entire night with him.
“Let me call Don. Can you manage bringing her upstairs? I would but—”
“Don’t be silly.” I chuckle, even as I’m hit with the mental image of my daughter in Brett’s arms and my heart stutters.
“There should be some extra toothbrushes and clean towels in the bathroom. And don’t worry, my dad changed the sheets.”
Is it wrong that I’m disappointed, hearing that?
I feel Brett’s eyes on me as I scoop up Brenna’s tiny hot body. It used to be so easy to move her, but I’m finding it’s getting more and more difficult. My arms are straining by the time I reach the top of the staircase.
Brett’s bedroom is on the small side, and as sleek and neat as the rest of his place, with a view of Philadelphia from two sides, though the curtains are already drawn. I don’t spend too much time there, just long enough to tuck her into the king-size bed and make sure she isn’t going to stir. A loud crack of thunder sounds as I’m sneaking down the staircase, and I cross my fingers that she doesn’t wake in a panic.
Brett’s not in the living room, so I take the time to clean up, collecting and loading the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, and then head for the bathroom.
A low voice from the cracked bedroom door catches my ear, stalling my steps.
“No . . . I don’t care . . . No . . .” Brett’s voice carries that rare edge. “Give them whatever they want to keep them quiet. I don’t want this getting back to her.”
Unease settles into my spine as I replay his words. That can’t be Donovan that he’s speaking to. Who needs to be kept quiet? About what? And what doesn’t he want getting back to “her”?
“No, they’re not getting a fucking dime of this . . . I don’t care . . . Just let me know when it’s done, okay? I’ve gotta go.”
I close the bathroom door quickly, before he catches me eavesdropping.
When I step out a few minutes later, Brett is just emerging from his bedroom. He smiles at me.
I hesitate. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s great. Will she be comfortable up there?” There’s no hint of that edge in his voice anymore.
“Yeah, she’s out cold for now. The storm may wake her up, though, if it gets any louder.” Maybe that conversation had nothing to do with me. But if it didn’t, then who did it have to do with? “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
He brushes a loose strand of hair from my forehead. “As far as you and I are concerned, everything is perfect.”
Another loud crack of thunder answers, and I hold my breath, pausing to listen for a long moment, my eyes on the ceiling above us.
I have to laugh when I realize Brett’s doing the same thing.
“Come here, I have to show you something.” He retreats into his room. I follow with a stir of excitement in the pit of my stomach as I take in the half-made bed. As with every other part of Brett’s condo, this room is sleek but void of personality—white paint, white bedding, nothing but a flat-screen TV hanging on the wall.