by S. A. Wolfe
I attribute this attraction to being holed up for too long. So many weeks sequestered at home, recovering, feeling that emptiness and loneliness of being hidden. I don’t know how my mother manages to live like that without losing her mind.
For a moment, I am silly enough to believe Peyton’s sexy smile is just for me, and then I remind myself that this is how so many of the younger women at the restaurant think of him. I can’t afford to be a young, wide-eyed ninny again.
Yes, I happen to know that odd word ninny.
Aleska didn’t approve of my previous relationship, said I was being a ninny so many times that I couldn’t possibly forget that word. Sure, I had to look up the definition and still didn’t fully understand the context until the infamous ordeal that ensued preceding our breakup. I never want to be a ninny again. Says the pathetic woman who swoons at Peyton’s touch.
“Babies are boss,” he says in that low, seductive voice of his.
As soon as I begin to fantasize about kissing him and what it would feel like to have his rough, unshaven face against my skin, I wrench my gaze away from him.
“I want to help, Carson,” I repeat. “And I think Jess is exhausted enough to say yes.”
“Say yes to what?” Jess returns in a clean T-shirt, and her hair has been brushed and styled into a tidy bun.
“You’re supposed to be napping,” I tell her. “No wonder you’re exhausted.”
“I can’t sleep when there’s a party downstairs and people are talking about me.”
“Talia wants to kidnap your baby and take him for a drive so he’ll sleep,” Peyton explains.
Everyone watches as he takes Scotty from my arms and gently cradles his head before giving the baby a belly rub with his own head. Scotty’s gurgles turn into giggling delight.
“Her plan isn’t perfect,” Peyton continues, “but she might be on to something.”
“What’s the plan?” Jess asks.
“The word kidnap didn’t bother you?” Imogene asks. “You must be desperate.”
“I am, because this little guy is going to want to eat in another hour or two, and I’ll burst like Old Faithful on cue. And then Carson and I will do the zombie walk around the house, trying to entertain our wide-awake baby. It’s the same script every night. Look at me. I’m a wreck. I don’t sleep. I feel like the crabbiest mother on the planet. I don’t have any energy, and I still have this muffin top!” Jess grips the extra flesh above her jeans and shakes it for proof.
Imogene laughs. “Are you still wearing maternity jeans?”
“Yes. That’s my point. I don’t sleep, so I can’t do anything else, including exercise. I planned on not working for a while, but I need sleep, and I need exercise. And Scotty’s ravenous appetite makes me hungry, too. That whole thing about ‘nursing burns so many calories and gives you your body back’ is not working for me. And no one told me that the pregnancy would make my curls go flat. I’m tired, flat, fat, and leaking all the time. So, yes, I’m game for a new strategy.”
Carson hugs Jess from behind and cocoons her in his big arms as he plants a kiss on the top of her head.
“I’m sorry for sounding like an ungrateful whiner.” Jess reaches out to stroke her baby’s cheek. “I love him more than anything, but the sleep deprivation is causing me to deteriorate more and more each day.”
“Then it’s a plan,” Peyton says. “Talia and I will drive Scotty around so the baby and you two will sleep.”
“What?” I jerk my head toward Peyton.
“We’ll do four hours and return him when he’s settled and calm. Hopefully snoozing,” Peyton explains.
“Okay, before anyone changes their mind, here are my keys.” Carson pulls them out of his pocket and tosses them. Peyton, still holding the baby, manages to catch them before I can. Carson looks pointedly at his confused wife. “They are going to drive Scott around our property. You and I are going to bed now. Got it?”
Jess nods. “Wake me for the handoff. I’ll be in better shape by then. I hope.”
“There’s a fridge full of liquid gold. Bags and bags of milk,” Carson explains. “He only lets me give him a bottle every few days. He’s a boob guy and usually puts up a fuss if I try to feed him from a bottle, so you may have a real problem there.”
“I’m not worried. I’ve done this with plenty of fussy nieces and nephews. I’m good at getting them to take the bottle,” Peyton says smugly as he locates the bottle cooler bag on the counter, and then he holds the baby out for me to take. It’s like being handed a huge boulder, but clever on Peyton’s part. This is how he disables his opponent and takes charge.
“I can’t believe two big dudes are discussing this. It’s hilarious,” Imogene says.
“Honey, stay out of this one,” Cooper says, making his way across the kitchen to his wife. “For once, the men saved the day.”
“And me.” I glare at Cooper.
Scotty takes that moment to smack my cheek with a chubby hand.
“Oops,” Cooper says. “That looked painful.”
“You don’t need to go with me,” I tell Peyton while trying to wrestle Scotty’s hand away from hitting me again. “How hard is it to drive in circles? And I can always pull over to feed him a bottle.”
“I have at least a hundred thousand hours of baby-feeding time over you.”
“You are in charge of opening a very big restaurant tomorrow night. You cannot stay up all night babysitting. I, on the other hand, have tomorrow off because all my customers are going to be at your restaurant. I can handle this.” I glance at Carson to take my side, but the big oaf just shrugs.
In a frenzy, as if they think we’re going to back out, Carson and Jess jump to grab the cooler from Peyton, and they fling open the fridge and quickly load it with baggies of milk and cold packs.
Even with Scotty in my arms, I’m able to grab the diaper bag off the back of a chair and beat Peyton to the cooler, taking the handle as Jess zips it closed.
Peyton watches me with amusement and waits until I’m struggling with the weight of the baby and the two bags before he approaches. “Give me the bags or the baby,” he says with a palm out. I hand him the baby who happens to weigh a lot more than the bags.
“Well, that’s that,” Carson says. “Let’s leave it to them.” He grabs Jess’s hand and pulls her along.
Before she’s yanked out of the kitchen, she turns to me and Peyton and whispers, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“That’s a first,” Imogene remarks. “That’s a really big deal—Jess handing her baby over to you.”
“Love of my life,” Cooper says with exasperation, “let’s finish the movie, then get everyone out of here so Jess and Carson can have a quiet night. And you two on baby detail, good luck and don’t call us for help.”
“Screw you.” Peyton smiles. “This is going to be a piece of cake.”
“Good. Hand over the keys,” I demand.
“Hell no, woman. I’m driving.” And with that, he snatches both the diaper bag and bottle bag from my shoulder, hitches Scotty up in his other arm, and heads out of the house, with me trailing behind in quick steps.
Peyton
I SETTLE THE BABY in his car seat as Talia gets in on the passenger side. Scotty is facing backward, so I adjust the special baby mirror on the back seat so he will be able to see my face when I look in the rearview mirror. Talia observes with a perplexed expression.
I’ve got this covered. I did the same setup for my sister with her car, and I handled my brothers’ kids when they were newborns, too, so all this baby gear and the parenting tricks are very familiar. Doesn’t mean I want it for myself, though.
I buckle myself in and look over at Talia. She’s the opposite of every woman I have ever pursued. I have always been attracted to tall, voluptuous brunettes, but I constantly find myself staring at Talia, a petite blonde with slender arms that are deceptively strong when she’s hauling stock pots of boiling water or chopping vegetables like she’s han
dling a machete.
Talia scrolls through her music library as Scotty squeals and kicks behind us.
“We can use my playlist.” I hold out my phone.
“Scotty likes Earth, Wind and Fire, according to Carson. And Jess said ‘Baby Beluga’ drove her over the edge, so I think—”
“‘Boogie Wonderland’ it is.” I start the song on my phone before Talia finds it on hers. Then I start the engine and set the volume to low.
As the upbeat music fills the eight-speaker stereo system, Scotty lets out a happy sigh and burps. Talia smiles at me, pleased that we seem to be handling our babysitting duties quite well so far.
The private road that circles Jess and Carson’s property is rough, unpaved terrain, surrounded by pitch-black darkness with no moon to light our way, only trees and brush that ominously reach into our path.
I turn the music down to the lowest possible notch and turn off the front speakers so it only plays softly next to Scotty, who is finally quiet, his chubby legs no longer kicking in the air.
“I think it’s working,” Talia whispers.
“So it seems. But don’t be fooled. Babies always trick you into thinking they are content, and then … bam. It starts again.”
“I suppose.” She turns to study our subdued passenger then she settles back into her seat. “But this is kind of fun. Weird, but fun.”
“It is.” What the hell is wrong with me? I’m bragging that I’m great with babies and I’m driving around with this woman to prove my point? Jesus.
“Thanks for volunteering. This is easier and more interesting with you helping.”
“My pleasure,” I say. Because I’m an idiot.
I glance back at Scotty, whose eyes are fluttering with sleepiness. When I turn back to Talia, she’s staring at me, her eyes unblinking and her pink lips frozen and slightly parted. It takes me a second to register her expression, the way she’s looking at me. It’s attraction and curiosity rolled together, and it triggers the same response in me. It’s lust. Experience has taught me that, when it comes to women, I really do have a one-track mind.
A sudden rocky patch in the road causes the truck to jump and land with a hard thud. Scotty giggles, but Talia yelps and grabs the dashboard with both hands.
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “This vehicle was made for this, and the baby likes it.”
“I’m not sure I do.” Talia puts her hand protectively against her chest, and I wonder if she’s about to cross herself and say a prayer.
“Sorry if that scared you.”
“I’m fine. A little startled, that’s all. It’s so dark out here and the road is … rough.”
“We’re safe,” I say, and she nods, albeit apprehensively.
Talia
“SO, YOU LIKE GUYS with short hair. That’s the extent of your criteria?” Peyton cocks a brow at me and then returns his attention to the road.
I don’t know where he’s going with this, but I’m quite sure it’s one of his games. He’s a smooth operator.
I love that expression and only know it because my mother used to play the Sade song “Smooth Operator” over and over when I was little. I’d dance around the apartment with her, singing the lyrics, which didn’t hold any meaning for me. How ironic and prophetic since my father was the ultimate smooth operator. Needless to say, my mother stopped playing that CD when he left, when her favorite song became just a little too real.
When it comes to women, I think Peyton is the same. Not that he’s a louse—another word I love, right up there with rat—but Peyton is too irresistible to women. Even I’m finding him a little too irresistible.
I don’t think he’s a bad guy, but I know quite well that he’s not the type of man I need in my little world of dysfunction and neediness. I have to fix my situation, my life, with a different approach and a different kind of man. Of course, I’m thinking along the lines of Adam Knight, a man who exudes stability, whereas Peyton is the type who would gallivant all over the world, from restaurant to restaurant, woman to woman, following his dreams. I don’t need a self-involved dreamer, but for kicks I can play along with Peyton’s game. It’s harmless flirtation.
Says the former ninny.
“Sure, I like a nice, clean-cut guy in a good suit. Worn with confidence and a good sense of humor, most intelligent men can pull it off, and what woman doesn’t find that attractive? Not every man has to wear jeans and boots to look cool.”
Peyton looks down at his own jeans and work boots. “Ah.”
“And my criteria is a lot stiffer than that.”
“Is it now?” Peyton begins to laugh before I realize why.
“I didn’t even try to make that sound sexual,” I say. “I must be picking up those dirty innuendos from Imogene.”
“I love my sister-in-law—she could make a mobster blush—but I like your subtlety, too.”
The smile fades from my face. I’m not sure if he’s paying me a compliment. And I’m really not sure what he means by my subtlety.
“You’ve got men eating out of your hand, willing to do anything for you.”
“I do?” I stare at him, waiting for him to explain.
“Oh, come on. You’ve noticed that Bash lets you do whatever you want in his kitchen. No one has that power over him. And Zander always finds a reason to visit the kitchen. Whenever I’m looking for him in the brewery, I find him there, either eating your food or pretending to search for a tool that doesn’t exist—at least, not in the kitchen. And Oliver, the bartender? The guy keeps walking through the kitchen with single glasses for the dishwasher. He doesn’t even bother to carry a rack to make his trip look legit. He’s always talking to you in his broken English, Pepé Le Pew act.”
“That’s no act. He’s still working on his English. He says this job will force him to improve. I speak French fairly well, so I understand him, and he isn’t flirting. He’s passionate about soccer. I don’t know how to tell him I’m not a big sports enthusiast, so I go along with whatever he wants to talk about. He’s a little homesick. All of his family is in Grenoble—he’s just trying to connect to people here.” I pause and take a breath, realizing I’m rambling.
Peyton doesn’t say anything, just listening and waiting for me to continue.
“Zander gets lonely back there with the beer tanks, so he pops into the kitchen to hang out with humans for a change of pace. And Bash … well, we are becoming friends. There’s no attraction for either of us. We just like talking.”
“Well,” he finally says and gives a small smile. “You sure know a lot about my male employees, but you’re not as astute about the male species as you think you are.”
His warm, inviting eyes shimmer with a bit of mirth behind them. He makes me feel exhilaratingly nervous, and I let out the breath I was holding. So much for resisting his magnetism.
“Oh, really?” I say. “I disagree. I can also tell you a few things about your female employees.”
Peyton raises an eyebrow, again in a perfect challenge.
“Melody just had her twenty-second birthday, and she confided to me and the other women that she’d love to bag her boss. Only her words were, ‘Do you think Peyton would notice me if I got a boob job? Having a mild crush on my boss makes it easy to come to work.’”
“Jesus,” Peyton mutters. “Really?”
“Really. And Grace has to take care of her grandchildren because her daughter is an addict. She has been late for a few shifts and is terrified that you’ll fire her because she’s not young and perky like most of the servers, and she’s not skilled for any other line of work.”
“I would never fire her for being late, especially since she takes care of her grandchildren.” He looks wounded.
“I know,” I say matter-of-factly. “You’re a decent guy.”
“You think so?”
“You gave me a kitchen when I needed it, and you have a whole host of nutter heads working for you, and they really do like you. Not many bosses can say that. But then,
like I said, your staff is full of nuts. Nice nuts, but still.”
Peyton lets out a deep laugh, and I have to shush him so he doesn’t wake Scotty who drifted off during the thirteenth replay of “Boogie Wonderland.”
“So, tell me what happened to the knucklehead, the one you dumped?” he asks.
“What?” I’m shocked.
“I remember that guy you brought to my brother’s wedding. Big dude, buzz cut. He was all over you. I was thinking of asking you to dance, but Imogene said that the walking refrigerator was your boyfriend and you two were serious.”
“Marko.” Saying his name out loud makes me nostalgic and sad. Marko is a reminder of who I was before I got sick. We were happy, and I was sure we were in it for the long haul, as they say. “I didn’t dump him. Life took us in different directions. You should know what that’s like.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re here and your girlfriend is in New York City.”
“She’s not—”
“I’m guessing when you’re not at work, you spend all your waking time thinking about work. Even now, you’re driving around with me, but you’re obsessing about tomorrow night, wondering if you’ll fill the house—and you will, by the way. You’re a workaholic, and your girlfriend is a workaholic, and you rarely see each other. But what do I know? I’m only guessing because I know how hard the restaurant business is and …”
“And what?” he asks with a tinge of irritation.
“And I’ve never seen your girlfriend here.”
“She’s not … She’ll be here tomorrow night,” he mutters.
“Good, you’ll have to introduce us.”
“You’re saying you and this Marko guy decided your careers were more important? What does he do?”
“He works for a heating and plumbing company, and …” My words drift off when I run out of ways to defend my ex.
“Wait a minute. He does installation and repair jobs and probably works eight to five, right? And no offense, but you’ve established quite a nice career for yourself. You’ve got your cooking and deliveries down to about eight hours a day on average, add on an extra ten hours a week for parties. But seriously, I don’t believe for a minute that your careers were a factor. What do you have to say about that, Ms. Madej?”