by S. A. Wolfe
Barefoot, Carson plops down on the massive couch and fiddles with a remote that rolls down a full-size theater screen from the ceiling. Cooper and Leo take over another side of the sectional while Dylan heads into the kitchen to get the food he’s prepared. The guy can cook just as well as any of the trained chefs I’ve worked with, and he shares the same territorial behavior as Talia and Bash about his knives and food.
“Don’t fuck with my stuff,” he snapped at me once when I made the mistake of picking up one of his paring knives. Chefs and their fucking knives. That immediately makes me think of Talia.
After some major explosion happens on the movie screen, I make my way to the kitchen, where all the women are gabbing over platters of sandwiches and appetizers that Dylan is arranging.
“Hey, help me carry this stuff out there. Those bastards started the movie without me, and I can’t listen to these hens clucking and gossiping anymore.”
That gets him a nice, hard jab in the ribs from his wife, Emma.
“Sorry.” He smiles at her.
We take the food out to the living room, and the platters are swarmed by the hungry dudes before they’re even set down on the oversize coffee table.
Still anxious, I can’t sit down to watch the movie or eat. I don’t know if I want a beer or if I should head home to try to sleep.
I walk back into the kitchen for a bottle of mineral water. I pull it out of the fridge and guzzle all twenty-five ounces without stopping.
“A little tense?” Imogene asks as I toss the empty bottle into the recycling bin underneath the sink. “Worried about tomorrow?”
“Maybe.” I shrug and run my hand through my hair. Christ, did I forget to take a shower after my run today? I can’t remember half of what I’m doing unless it’s directly related to the restaurant. I spent the last few days fixing every crisis that popped up, and they seemed to happen every hour.
The work distractions have been good. They keep me on a nonstop schedule, preventing me from saying something stupid to Talia when I run into her.
The urge to spend more time with her and the discipline I use to stay away from her are making me fucking irritable. There were a few times when I thought I could smell her perfume, or maybe it was her natural scent, as if she had just left the space. It drives me insane. This instinct to search for her and sniff the air makes me feel like a fucking wolf.
Maybe I just need to get laid. In that case, I should call Flora and have her stay with me for a few days for friend sex. That would go over really well. The image of her causing me bodily harm—castration comes to mind—leaves me tense all over again.
Talia is bouncing Jess’s baby, Scotty, on her hip while she gently holds the back of his head and talks to him in a soft voice. The baby smiles, then begins wailing, surprising Talia, who thought she had the infant under her soothing spell.
“I think he needs to be burped,” Jess says. “He just ate like one of those guys who wins hot dog eating contests.”
“Yuck, and ouch,” Imogene says.
“You’re telling me.” Jess looks frazzled, the right side of her shirt covered in spit-up. Not to mention, two enormous wet spots are blooming across her chest where she’s leaking.
I remember when Greer was going through the nursing stage with the twins. The sleep-deprived mother with that glassy-eyed stare of both amazement and frustration that her body had a new purpose, one controlled by two fifteen-pound babies.
I love all my nieces and nephews, and playing with them can be a hoot, but I have no interest in tying myself down to a family and staying in one place, living each day by the same routine.
“Burp him,” Lauren directs at Talia. Lauren’s own toddler is asleep on her shoulder, making parenting look easy.
Talia pats Scotty’s back firmly, but the chubby little man won’t give it up. He’s wailing now, and Talia looks a little petrified.
I cross the room to her and reach for Scotty. “Give him to me.” She lets me take him and looks up at me, curious if I know what I’m doing.
“The MacKenzies are pros,” Imogene adds, patting Talia’s shoulder, then taking a swig from her wineglass.
Jess looks on wearily as I lay her son facedown against my forearm and rub his back. “It’s the football hold,” I explain. “It pushes the gas out quicker.”
Scotty calms down immediately and, within seconds, small burps are followed by a loud belch. The baby smiles and closes his eyes, enjoying the back rub.
Jess tilts her head in wonder. “Football hold? Why didn’t Carson tell me about this? He loves football.”
Talia lets out a husky laugh. “How many babies has Carson held?”
“Other than Maisie and Scotty, none,” Jess says. “Look at him. My baby is happier in Peyton’s arms than mine.”
“No, you just don’t know anything about football and burps,” Talia tells Jess. “He loves his mama more than anyone.”
“You’re his food supply,” Imogene snorts.
“Here.” I hand Jess’s sleeping baby back, and she takes him in her arms with a weepy desperation.
I need to get away from these women and their baby conversation. It’s making me edgy, as if Flora will show up any moment and scream, “Ah-ha! You can do this, so why were you making my ovaries wait!” Thinking of that last blowout with Flora makes me shudder.
“Stay away from our women,” Cooper says half-jokingly as he enters the kitchen, clamping his hand on my shoulder and giving me his big brother don’t fuck up my life look.
“I was only burping a kid.”
Cooper grunts and moves on to get more drinks for the guys.
I pull my phone out to check if there are any emergency messages from Zander or Bash, who are both at the restaurant doing final checks. Nothing terrible yet, just a lot of group texts from them talking about things to buy or do before tomorrow night’s opening.
I back myself against the far end of the kitchen to get some space from the women and give myself a chance to think.
The chatter and energy of the women surges when Aleska arrives.
“So? How was Adam Knight?” Imogene asks Talia enthusiastically while winking at Aleska. “Did you see that magazine cover he’s on? I saw a copy at Jess’s house and, oh my God, the man is awesome!”
I’ve heard about Adam Knight, the CEO who bought one of Carson’s expensive homes. He’s a few years older than me, but he’s got the Wall Street job and Ivy League education that husband-hunting women want. Fine by me. I don’t want to be a husband, not when I’ve got my time committed to my businesses.
Fuck all, then why do you keep trying to get Talia’s attention?
“He’s arrogant in a funny way, but nice, too,” Talia says to the women. “I only got to see him on my first delivery to his place. Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve had to set up his dinners before he gets home, so I haven’t seen him.
“The Garcia family put in a special request for my last time slot. Every night for the past ten days, I showed up and put the kids’ favorite foods out, and their dad chased after the toddlers and got them to the table so his wife could sit and nurse the baby at the table. The kids were having a really difficult time adjusting to the new baby in the house, and dinnertime had become a screaming match, but after four days of me asking the kids to help set the table—I call it decorating so they’re more interested—the kids stopped screaming. And now they’re happy to help with plates and napkins, and they sit right down and eat. I think I’m pretty good at it, and the two families I’ve done this for seem grateful.”
“You can charge more for that!” Imogene says. “Do you have any idea how many families around here with little kids have the same problem with dinners from hell?”
“No, I don’t,” Talia says, sounding concerned.
“Neither do I,” Imogene adds. “But there has to be buckets of money to be made from some of these rich families.”
“I like working with the parents and kids, but I’ll be happy to put Ad
am back in my last time slot.” Then she breaks into a smile and says in a low voice, “He is very attractive.”
The way she says this makes me feel a sliver of contempt toward Adam Knight. I don’t know the guy or have anything against him, and I certainly don’t have any claim on Talia, or plan to be caught up in this small-town soap opera, but something about this rubs me the wrong way.
Talia isn’t a naïve, innocent girl. She’s a very capable woman, at least from what I’ve seen and from what I remember at my brother’s wedding. I have no doubt she can handle herself, but I’m also pretty sure that a man like Adam Knight has the practiced skills of getting what he wants. He’s got to be tempted by a beautiful woman like Talia coming into his home, cooking for him, doting on him like a pretend wife. Knight’s a Manhattan guy, and he probably would love to get a little, pretty country ass on the side, especially since she’s conveniently showing up on a regular basis.
“And Adam has slightly wavy, brown hair. But it’s short, the way Talia likes. A clean-cut man,” Aleska explains to the others.
I don’t know how I went from not giving a shit to reading too much into this, but suddenly my fist is squeezing my cell phone.
Talia
I PERK UP WHEN Aleska starts talking about Adam. But as the women circle in closer to hear more about Hera’s new resident, I notice Peyton leaning against the far wall, his expression intense as he reads his phone, and have a momentary lapse, forgetting about Adam. Instead, I observe Peyton, his tall, brooding form gripping his phone as though it is life and death, his dark hair falling forward, covering part of his face. I can see how his staff finds him intimidating. The truth is, under that dangerous-looking facade is a fair-minded man who spends an inordinate amount of time helping others. I’ve watched him—okay, spied on him—when his sister’s young children visit Swill and Peyton fills in for their absentee father. He isn’t only protective of family members; he treats his employees with remarkable concern.
In the restaurant business, there’s a high turnover of staff. Everyone seems to be expendable because it’s not a business where people aspire to be food servers or dishwashers for a lifetime. Peyton seems to think he can beat those odds by making his restaurant a desirable place to work. I’ve seen countless restaurant owners attempt the same thing, but they don’t have Peyton’s appeal. It’s Peyton’s job to make the environment exciting and a place you want to come work at, and he makes it his business to know all of his employees, their work needs, and schedule issues. I admire him for that.
I even catch myself admiring him, his rugged handsomeness. No wonder the younger waitresses flitter around him, hanging on his every word. A few years ago, I would have, too, but I know his type. All work and too much careless play. Career ambition is the name of the game, and Peyton seems to be set in that area, with a girlfriend who is a successful attorney in the city, someone who also works long hours and is just as driven as him.
I’m not putting Adam Knight in the same category. He’s already shown the first step of being different than guys like Peyton by buying a big house in the country. You don’t do that unless you’re looking for something beyond your work life, like putting down roots and having a family.
It doesn’t necessarily stop me from thinking about Peyton. Despite his ambitious goals to rise to celebrity ranks in some type of restaurant conglomerate, the man possesses a special, deep bond with his family and the people who work for him. It’s appealing, and I wonder if it will be hard for him when he eventually leaves Hera and all his new friends behind.
As if he senses I’m thinking about him, he looks up from his phone and shoves it in his jeans pocket. He smiles at me, all cocky and gorgeous as he makes his way over.
His self-assurance makes me roll my eyes. I’ve met so many men like Peyton.
His eyes lock on mine, and he’s about to say something when Scotty suddenly wails in Jess’s arms.
“Oh no,” Jess moans. “Why doesn’t my son sleep?”
“I thought newborns slept all the time, well, that and poop and eat.” Imogene’s comment makes Jess grimace. I can tell she’s insecure about her parenting, especially when Lauren and her baby make it look effortless.
“You have a special baby, my friend,” I say. “Someday his energy and stamina will evolve into something unique. It’s going to pay off in a big way because he has your brains and Carson’s brawn.” I hope I’ve delivered a compliment, but it’s hard to tell with Peyton’s chuckling.
“You have a bionic baby, pure and simple,” he says. “They eat and rule. Wait until he’s a teenager.”
“Great. Now I’m terrified,” Jess says.
Scotty grabs Jess’s damp T-shirt and stretches it with his meaty fist as he lets out a growl.
“He is the cutest brute I’ve ever seen,” I say, and Jess looks at me with pleading eyes. “Oh, give him back to me. You go change your shirt, take a shower—anything. I can handle this tough guy for a while.”
“I really thought this not-sleeping business would settle down after two months. At this rate, Carson and I are going to go stark raving mad from lack of sleep. I don’t know how to do this,” Jess’s voice falters to a whisper.
“Just go upstairs for a while,” I urge.
Jess doesn’t argue. By this point, her shirt is soaked, and she’s so haggard that the last thing she needs is to entertain guests.
She shuffles out of the kitchen just as Carson enters. He looks at her, but before he can say anything, she brushes his shoulder lightly with her hand as she passes and leaves the room.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Talia thinks she can head off your wife’s breakdown,” Peyton says offhandedly, and I shoot him a look.
“You’re not helping,” I say.
“You want my help?” he asks coolly.
I scoff and turn my attention back to Carson as I juggle his hefty baby on my hip. “Your wife needs a break, and you do, too. You both need sleep.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Carson grumbles.
“You do look pretty bad, dude,” Peyton adds.
“Thanks.” Carson leans against the counter in silent defeat and watches his robust baby play with my hair.
“I think I have an idea that will help you—at least for tonight. I’d like to pitch in and help get the baby on a more reasonable schedule.”
Scotty twists my earlobe in his little fist, and I wince.
Carson watches and shakes his head. “He’s not like other babies. He doesn’t sleep twelve to fourteen hours in a twenty-four-hour period. He doesn’t take long naps during the day either. He sleeps in sprints, either when he’s feeding or when we’re in the car, so it’s not like we can sleep when he’s sleeping. He eats constantly, and then he wants to play, even at three in the morning. Look at him. He’s huge. He’s measured out of his age group in weight and height. He’s off the charts.”
“And look at that big head,” Peyton says. “He could be a bouncer at a bar.”
“You’re not helping,” I snap at him.
“Seriously,” Carson continues, “I estimate that Scotty’s cumulative hours of sleep in a twenty-four-hour period are seven or less. Maybe five hours at night, three of which occur while he’s nursing, and then maybe two hours in the car if Jess drives to the store. He falls asleep in grocery carts, too. The car is his favorite place to sleep, though.”
“Maybe we should rig up his crib, motorize it and put it on wheels and a track so it rolls in a circle around his room all night.” Peyton is only half-joking, I think.
“I’ve actually considered that.” Carson smiles. “Baby on wheels didn’t fly with Jess.”
“Well, the car is the only thing that sedates him,” I say, getting us back to my idea. “It’s simple. I’ll drive Scotty around for a few hours tonight so you two can sleep. People drive their babies around all the time to get them to sleep. Or so I’ve heard.”
Carson frowns, and Aleska shakes her head in disb
elief at me.
“I’m not talking about a road trip. I’ll just circle your property. It’s a few miles, nice and empty, and I’ll put on his favorite music and we’ll loop around your land. When he falls asleep, I’ll keep driving until morning.”
“Talia, as much as I want to turn my baby over to you for a night so I can sleep, my wife wouldn’t be able to bear it. Jess has serious separation problems with this boy. We haven’t been able to hire a babysitter to go out for a two-hour dinner because Jess starts crying five minutes after we leave the house.
“Her mom stayed with us two weeks ago, and she was terrific with Scotty. And she and Jess got along great for the first time in years. The baby mended a lot of tension between those two, so I thought for sure that Jess and I’d get a night out for a quiet dinner. We got in the car, and Jess immediately called her mom to see if Scott reacted badly to Jess’s leaving. I mean, we were sitting in the driveway! Then I drove past the property line and Jess burst into tears. That was that. We went back home.”
“I should have been here to help her for the past two months.”
“Hey, she’s not blaming you. You were here for the birth, and she needed that the most. This isn’t your problem. Jess and I had a baby, not you. This is our job, and it may take a while to get this down to a viable schedule, but billions of people have done this and we can, too … I think.”
Peyton puts his hand on my shoulder. I don’t mind it one bit.
I glance up at his sly smile, dreamy eyes with long eyelashes—good God—and the dark scruff that accentuates his strong jaw and cheekbones. So sexy. I’m not immune to his gorgeousness, and even though I normally prefer short hair on men, Peyton’s shoulder-length locks give me stupid, little happy shivers.
He’s been so helpful the past few weeks, carrying my delivery bags and loading them in the van. Every single day I’m cooking at Swill. And every day, I thank him, careful to sound professional and polite. I don’t want him to know how he makes me dizzy when he’s hovering around me, taking heavy objects from my hands and unintentionally smothering me in a wave of arousing warmth. Calming breaths are a necessity whenever Peyton makes an appearance.