Текст книги "ARROGANT PLAYBOY"

Автор книги: Winter Renshaw

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 43 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Four

ODESSA

One last pair of flats goes into my suitcase before I yank the zipper tight. It’s almost nine o’clock, and the flight leaves in fourteen hours from LaGuardia. I texted Beckham earlier to let him know I’d meet him there around nine, but I never heard back.

He stormed out of the office after lunch today, and I never heard from him after that.

Washing up for bed and slipping into pajama pants and a tank, I climb under my cool sheets and pull my tablet from my nightstand for some late night reading. I read until my eyelids grow heavy and the e-ink words jumble together on the dimly lit screen.

The buzzing on my nightstand interrupts my gentle lull and pulls me back into the moment – into my cold, dark room. Eyes squinting, I grab the phone and answer immediately when I see who’s calling.

“Beckham,” I say, voice groggy. “What’s up?”

“What are you doing?” His voice is dialed down, low. Almost seductive.

“Sleeping. Which is what you should be doing too. We fly out tomorrow morning.”

“I need you to come over.”

My lips twist, peeling into a wide smile I can only hope to conceal in my tone. “You’re shameless. And no. The answer is no. I’m in bed. I’m staying here. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

“Odessa.” My name in his mouth is heavier this time, causing my heart to hammer. “I mean it. Come over. Now.”

“The desperation isn’t doing you any favors. Goodnight, okay?”

A weird noise comes from his end. It sounds like a squawking bird, high pitched and shrill at first until it grows louder and closer. And then I realize it’s a baby.

***

The penthouse elevator doors part, and there stands Beckham, a wailing newborn cradled in his arms. I’d forgotten how small babies are when they’re brand new. I haven’t held a newborn since my oldest sister had her last, and it’s been years.

“I can’t get her to take a bottle.” Beckham’s hair is combed every which way, his eyes squinty and his posture exhausted. A small bottle rests in the palm of his hand. Navy sweats are cinched low around his hips, and a white t-shirt reveals a hint of the ‘v’ that leads to familiar territory. I’ve seen him dressed up. I’ve seen him naked. But seeing him so casual with a baby in his arm almost feels like an illusion.

“May I?” I scoop the crying baby from his arms. He hands me the bottle which is tepid at best. “This is cold, Beckham. Let’s get her a fresh one. Do you have any frozen breast milk?

“She’s on formula.”

“Where’s Eva?” I ask.

“Obviously not here.”

I carry the unsettled baby into the kitchen, Beckham following. An open canister of Similac rests next to a diaper bag. Pulling out a fresh bottle, I heat some sterile water and mix two ounces with a scoop of powder.

Testing it on my inner wrist, I run the nipple across her mouth until she opens up. She latches on immediately, as if she was starving.

“Why will she let you give her a bottle and not me?” He watches like I’m performing some kind of magic.

“Babies are fickle,” I say. “She’s still figuring out the world around her. Sometimes they like to be held a certain way or they want their milk a certain temperature. You’ll get to know her eventually. Crying is the only way they can communicate right now.”

I carry her into the living room, lowering us into a cushy leather chair. I prop my legs on a nearby ottoman and settle in with the dark haired beauty.

“She looks like you.” I gently pull the bottle from her lips and hoist her over my shoulder, patting her back until she gives me the tiniest burp.

Beckham takes the seat across from me, not looking away for one second. Either he’s amazed by this interaction or he’s overprotective of his daughter.

“You’re good with her,” he says.

She sucks down the final ounce, and I place her over my shoulder once more. “I have six nieces and nephews. Lots of practice.”

He looks down for a second, his elbows resting on his knees. “You want kids, Odessa?”

“Someday,” I say. “Not in a rush or anything. My family’s as close as we are big. I’m the only Russo out of five not married with kids. The pressure is intense. I’m sure it’ll happen exactly when it’s supposed to. I’m not worried.”

“Try being one of fifty-six.” His hand hooks the back of his neck and he leans back.

I’m sure he’s exaggerating.

“So you have experience with babies then? Being from a big family?”

His terse lips harden. “Men didn’t do that in my family. She’s the first baby I’ve ever held.”

“What’s her name?” I watch her eyelids flutter and feel her relax in my arms as she settles in the white blanket that envelops her.

“Baby.” His eyes are still closed. “That’s her name. Baby.”

“You need some sleep, Beckham. You’re not making any sense tonight.” I stand up slow, not wanting to wake her. “Where’s her crib?”

The only indication that a baby lives in his penthouse is the stuffed diaper bag sitting on the counter next to the can of formula.

“There’s a bassinette in my room.” He points toward the hall.

I whisk her down the hallway, check her diaper, and deposit her in her bassinette like she’s made of glass and china. When I return to the living room, Beckham is passed out. Yanking a faux-fur throw from behind the sofa, I cover him up.

I suppose he’s right. We’re sort of friends now.

Attempting to be quiet in a penthouse with wood floors and eleven foot ceilings is almost impossible.

“You’re leaving?” He sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“We’re flying out tomorrow,” I say. “Wait. What’s your plan? Is Eva going to stay with the baby?”

He rises, tossing the throw off and rubbing his temples. “The baby’s temporarily in my custody. Eva’s going through some things. She’s not able to care for her. I have a nanny coming during the day, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go to Vermont this week. Can we reschedule?”

I ignore the sinking feeling my heart makes.

“You know what?” I swat at the air. “I’ll handle it. I’ll do the interview and the town hall meeting. I have everything scripted out. I can tell them you’ve had a family emergency. If I show a picture of the baby, they’ll understand. Everyone loves a baby.”

He’s quiet for a minute. “You’d do that for me?”

“It’s kind of what I’m good at…”

His hand flies to his hip and our eyes meet. “Yeah. Fine. I appreciate that.”

I check the time, mentally calculating how much sleep I’ll get tonight if I leave now. Beckham studies me, holding me in place with a single sharp stare.

“Do you need anything else before I take off?” I point toward the elevator. The thought of him being alone with a newborn tonight, with no one else, makes me feel sorry for him. A week ago he was just a guy with a big ego making the best of his sexually decadent lifestyle. Then shit got real. “You going to be okay tonight? Alone?”

His jaw sets. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Just remember, you’re her father. You know what’s best for her. Don’t get frustrated if she won’t take a bottle or if she cries. It’s normal. She’ll eat if she’s hungry enough and the crying won’t last forever.”

I get a quick nod out of him, though I can’t help but feel he’s not ready for me to leave yet.

“Call me if you need anything.” I head toward the elevator. “And Google is your friend.”

Beckham’s fingertips slip into the waistband of his sweats, a hint of his taut stomach peeking out. He half-smirks, still locked in place.

“Thanks for coming out,” he says.

“We’re friends now, right? That’s what friends do.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

BECKHAM

Elizabeth arrives right on time, and I bolt out the door going on three cups of coffee and four total hours of sleep. I don’t know how people do this single parent thing.

At work I text the nanny every hour, asking for updates. Elizabeth responds by telling me how many ounces Baby took at her last feeding, if she’s sleeping now or if she’s content being held.

I respond to emails. Make some phone calls. Schedule some meetings.

Odessa should be landing in Vermont any minute now. According to the itinerary she emailed me earlier, she’ll spend the day with the Charity Falls Register journalist and meet with the townsfolk around seven tonight. She’ll spend all of tomorrow networking and meeting local businesses, and Friday she’ll fly home.

Just before lunch, I place a call to Dr. Brentwood to check on Eva. The judge at the emergency hearing yesterday had no qualms about placing the baby in my custody temporarily, though the petition for paternity testing has yet to be delivered to Eva. They won’t serve her if she’s sitting in the mental health unit of a hospital.

“Beckham,” Dr. Brentwood says.

“Any updates?”

“She’s experiencing a bout of postpartum psychosis,” he says, confirming Elizabeth’s assumption. “It’s rare, usually occurring after one or two percent of all pregnancies, but given her history of anxiety and bipolar disorder, she was more susceptible to experiencing this.”

“How long will it last?”

“We’re trying to get her meds adjusted,” he says. “She’s been off of most of them because of the pregnancy. It could take anywhere from six to twelve weeks for her most severe symptoms to subside, and it could take six months to a year for the condition to resolve.”

“Six months to a year?” This can’t be happening. “So what does that mean for…? What do I do with the…?”

Dr. Brentwood sighs. “I can’t tell you what to do, Beckham. Legally and otherwise. I can say, however, that being a single parent isn’t easy. To do so successfully, you’re going to need to ask for help.”

I hate asking for help.

“You know that saying it takes a village?” he asks. “It’s true. I hope you have some friends and family around to help, and not the kind money can buy.”

I hang up with him and stare at my phone. Dane hasn’t been updated yet, and I’m not sure what he’s going to make of all this. Not exactly in the mood for one of his lectures either.

Pulling in a deep breath, I dial my brother’s office phone and brace myself.

Ten minutes later, I’ve filled him in on everything having to do with Eva, the court appointed guardianship, the paternity test in limbo, and the fact that I have absolutely no clue what the fuck I’m doing.

His end is quiet.

“You’re doing the right thing,” he says.

I release the breath I’d been holding. “Really?”

“Fuck, Beckham, I don’t know.” Dane sighs into the phone. “Does it feel like the right thing to do?”

Picturing the baby’s face, I fight the warm fuzziness that threaten to dissolve every edge I have.

“Taking it one day at a time,” I tell my brother. “I couldn’t send her off to live with strangers. She didn’t ask to be born. It’s not her fault Eva did what she did. Even if she’s not mine, someone has to care about her.”

“Never thought I’d see a day when you put someone else’s needs before your own,” Dane chuckles.

My eyes roll.

“Odessa came over last night,” I say, squeezing my eyes. “I mean Sam. She’s really good with the baby.”

“She’s a good person,” Dane says. “I don’t say that about many people.”

“And a week from Friday, she’ll be gone.”

“Why don’t you offer her a full-time spot? Obviously not at her going rate, but I’m sure we can offer her a reasonable compensation package.”

“Do we need a full-time PR person?”

“She doesn’t have to be strictly PR,” Dane says. “I can think of a whole laundry list of things she’d excel at if we tasked her with them. Plus we’d been tossing around the idea of adding a VP of Public Affairs and Marketing.”

“She’s not going to leave Manhattan for Salt Lake City,” I scoff.

“There’s no reason the position can’t be based out of New York. In fact, that would make more sense, don’t you think?”

I glance at the clock. It’s been an hour since I last checked on the baby.

“Yeah,” I say. “All right. When she gets back, I’ll mention it to her.”

Dane lets me go, and I send a quick text to Elizabeth who promptly responds with a picture of the baby sleeping in her bassinet.

She’s going to need a name. A real name. If she’s going to be with me for the next several months to a year, I’m going to have to slice open my heart a little bit and let her in.

The soft, yet painful sensation that chokes me when I see her picture is a foreign sensation. Or maybe it’s an allergic reaction. All these years I’d joked that I was allergic to love and commitment and anything that caused a man to feel too many things at the same time.

And now here I am, feeling it all and not having a choice in the matter.

***

For the first time in my adult life, I’m dashing out the door at five o’clock, rushing home. Right now, there’s no place I’d rather be.

I stride across my foyer and head past the kitchen and living room in search of Elizabeth and the baby. Pausing in the doorway of my room, I arrive in time to see the nanny lay her down in her bed.

She sweeps around, her hand flying to her chest. “You startled me. She just finished a bottle. Three ounces. She’ll sleep at least a couple of hours for you.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth.”

I pad lightly across the carpet, peering over the side of the white-lace bassinet at my Sadie.

That’s her name.

Sadie Grace King.

Because the daughter of a King should have a name that means princess.

Chapter Twenty-Six

ODESSA

Charity Falls is a sweet town. The residents? Not so much. Beckham owes me. The locals threw pointed questions and chucked false accusations at me like pitchers hurling curveballs. It wasn’t just a PR quick-fix, it was a strategic game of chess.

I’m happy to report that I won the match. An exit poll after the meeting showed a sixty-forty split on the issue, whereas when I went in, we were at eighty-twenty.

We made progress. That’s all that matters. And the baby picture helped. And all the flattering things I said about Beckham, painting him as a hardworking family man. I guess he sort of is now, even if it wasn’t his choice.

I smirk to myself, wheeling my suitcase down my hall Friday afternoon. The faint scent of my favorite boutique candles wafts from under my door. It smells good to be home.

“Hello?” I call out the second my door swings open. A pair of Jeremiah’s shoes rest by the door. We’d talked about spending time together when I got back. After six years together, I’d think he’d remember how much I loathe surprises. Once in a while is fine. I can’t handle every single week. “Jer?”

I wheel my suitcase to the bedroom, flinging it on the bed and unzipping the monster. It weighs much more coming home than it did leaving on Wednesday.

“Hey, babe.” Jeremiah stands in the door, shirtless and smiling. He steps toward me, wrapping me in his arms and kissing the top of my head. I hate to break it to him, but acting like we’re back together doesn’t mean we’re back together. “Have a good trip?”

Flipping the lid of the suitcase, a pale pink baby blanket rests on top of it all.

“What’s this?” He lifts it up, stretching it out. “Princess?”

“That’s for Beckham’s daughter,” I say, yanking it from his hands. “I saw it in a little boutique in Charity Falls.”

He leans in and grabs a bag from under a pile of pajamas. “And all this?”

Pulling out a silver rattle, a squeaky giraffe, and a stuffed elephant, he dumps the rest of the contents on the bed. Teething rings. Plastic rattles. Pacifiers.

“He doesn’t have anything.” I grab it all and shove it back in the bag. “I’m helping him.”

Jeremiah’s blue eyes flash dark for a moment, his jaw tensing and releasing over and over. I remember that look from the Kappa Theta Phi house five years ago.

I harbor a breath, waiting for him to explode. I knew the gallant Jeremiah from several days ago was nothing but an act.

“You have baby fever or something?” The dark expression on his face morphs into a smile as he reaches for my belly. He palms my lower stomach, leaving it a minute too long. “’Cause if that’s the case, you know we’re on the same page...”

I lean away, and his hand drags off my stomach. “Stop. He’s a friend. These are necessities not gifts.”

“I thought he was just a guy you met at a bar?” Jeremiah folds his arms tight across his chest, punching it out as he rocks back on his heels. He peers down his nose at me like I’m under investigation.

“You said you weren’t going to judge me for what I did after you left me,” I remind him.

“I’m not, Sam. I just don’t want to be taken for a ride.”

“I’m the last person who would ever take you for a ride. You know that.” I sort my clothes, the dirty ones going in the hamper and the clean ones going back into my closet. Only then do I realize I packed a little black dress on my “work” trip.

Jeremiah is oblivious. He keeps staring at the bag of baby things like he’s decoding some kind of cereal box puzzle.

“You’re done there next week, right?” he asks, raking his hand under his chin and gaze still transfixed.

“Yes. Next Friday. Why?”

“Just making sure.”

“Making sure of what?”

“That your focus will be on me, on us, after this job.”

I love his mother, but sometimes I silently curse the fact that she babied the hell out of her youngest son. Part of me thinks she was so tired of raising a slew of rambunctious boys that by the time she got to Jeremiah, her baby, she went soft on him. The world revolved around him growing up. Apparently in his mind, it still does.

“I can work and focus on us.” I fold a sweater and shove it in a drawer before realizing it’s dirty. Yanking it out, I chuck it into a hamper on the other side of the room. I can hardly concentrate on what I’m doing and navigate this conversation at the same time.

“See?” Jeremiah chuckles.

“Not a valid comparison.” Exiting my room, I head toward the kitchen and grab a bottled water from the fridge. Flying always dehydrates me, and I feel a headache coming on. Jeremiah follows, and only then do I realize all I want is some good, old-fashioned space.

“I told Mama we were getting back together,” he says.

Uncapping my drink, I turn to face him. “Why would you say that?”

“She wouldn’t stop asking me about you,” he says. “Every single day she calls. ‘Did Sam decide yet?’ She goes to church almost every night and prays we’ll get back together.”

I glance at the calendar hanging on the side of the fridge by two palm tree magnets we picked up last year on vacation in San Diego. The date we picked is a little over five months from now.

“The deposit is due next month,” I say. “For the caterer.”

“Actually I thought some of my interns could handle the catering. We’ve got a lot of talent there, and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. I figured I could pick the menu. Surprise you? Take the load off so you can focus on fun things?”

I choke down my frigid water and roll my eyes. “What fun things? The seating chart?”

“Nah.” He steps toward me, brushing the hair from my face before slinking his hands around my waist. “Like gettin’ all dolled up.”

Words escape me. Is that all he thinks of me as? Some vapid bride-to-be?

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves.” My palm presses into his chest, and I back away. “Way ahead of ourselves.”

“God, Samantha. I’m trying here. I’m trying to be the man you want, and all I get from you is resistance. Where’s the girl who’s face used to light up when I came into the room?”

Maybe you should get a puppy?

I shrug, shaking my head. My eyes land on his feet. “I don’t have that answer for you.”

“What changed, Sam?”

I glance up when I hear the sharp tinge of panic in his tone. For a moment, all I see is Jeremiah Crawford, Celebrity Chef. And all I feel like is Samantha Russo, ex-fiancé of Jeremiah Crawford, Celebrity Chef. Maybe somebody will write about me someday on his Wikipedia page. The idea that Jeremiah’s role in my life might someday be a bleep on my timeline is both terrifying and exhilarating.

For the first time, not knowing what the future holds excites me. Half of my heart is running toward the altar, bouquet of flowers clutched tight in my hands and wearing nothing but a white dress and a smile. The other half of me is galloping away on a white horse a-la Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride. No destination in mind. No goals besides pursuing everything that makes me feel alive.

“I love you, Sam,” Jeremiah says. My wrists are squeezed in his hands, his fingers digging into my bones. “Tell me how to fix this. Tell me what you want.”

He wants me to tell him I still want him. And part of me does. But I can’t say it. Not until I know for sure.

“Are you scared, babe?” His tone is softer, comforting. “I was scared too. But imagining standing at that altar watching you walk down the aisle makes all those worries go away.”

“It’s not that simple.” Making decisions based on an idyllic daydream fantasy isn’t the brightest. “And let me remind you that you wanted a break from me. Kind of rattles my confidence in us for the long-term. It’s forced me to look at things from a different angle.”

“What about your father?”

My skin heats. I can’t believe he’s going there.

My bottom lip trembles, my eyes burning as they refuse to meet his gaze. Jeremiah releases my wrists and cups my chin. He lifts my eyes to his.

“Not talking about it won’t change anything.” His words slice open the scabbed wound I only pick at in my darkest hours. “He’s in poor health, Sam. He’s not getting any better. He wants to walk his youngest daughter down the aisle. He wants to make sure he leaves you in good hands before he goes.”

“Don’t.” I don’t want to hear what I already know. Inhaling a lungful of thick air, I push past Jeremiah and grab my keys and bag. Stepping into my shoes and blinking away tears, I know if I say another word it’ll come out as a string of nonsensical sobs.

“Sam, where’re you going?”

I shake my head, my shoulders shaking as I turn to face him. “Do not use my father’s health to guilt trip me into marrying you, Jeremiah.”

My eyes close and in that moment, I’m transported to the top of the stairs of my parents’ house. An assortment of photos in every size and frame available covers the wall in perfect harmony. My sisters and brothers are all married off, all of their wedding photos hanging happily side by side. The spot on the end is saved for me, I’ve been told. But the possibility of my wedding photo not including my father is as real as it’s ever been. The man can hardly breathe thanks to his emphysema. The doctor’s keep threatening to amputate his feet if he doesn’t get his diabetes under control. He’s a good man with heart of gold. All he ever did was live his life to the fullest.

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

Jeremiah comes toward me, but I place my hand up to stop him. “I’m going for a walk.”

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know.” I slip out the door, craving the cool night air on my face.

When I return two hours later, Jeremiah’s gone.