The man is a godsend. A handsome, muscular, hot-as-sin angel from heaven who is good with my son and can make me laugh until my stomach hurts.
I seriously don’t know what I would have done without him after I went back to school, and that has nothing to do with him insisting on giving me free rent.
He’s watched Grant more times than I can count. He’s picked him up from daycare when I was running behind, which of course led to me having to answer questions from the other mothers the next day.
“Who was that?”
“Is that Grant’s father?”
“How big are his arms?”
“Are you two together?”
Those were the polite questions asked to my face. However, I couldn’t ignore the side conversations I overheard about Maverick’s arm porn and how one Stepford wife wants him to lay her out so he can lick her wherever his heart desires.
Join the club, sister.
Certain thoughts of Maverick—such as the ones where he gives me more orgasms than I thought possible—can’t help but float through my head every once in a while.
Fine. Every night.
But that’s where they stay.
Things are going so well I have to pinch myself daily to make sure this isn’t a dream: my schoolwork is going better than I’d expected, only having to worry about one job is a huge stress reliever, and Grant is the happiest he’s ever been.
Maverick has had so much to do with that.
I won’t mess this up with a few lustful fantasies. And it’s not like Maverick even looks at me that way. I’m just Scarlett, his friend who lives with her kid in his basement, helps out with his chores as a “thank you,” and occasionally bakes chocolate chip cookies.
Which is what I’m doing this morning. For the first time in months, I don’t have anything on the agenda. I’m caught up on schoolwork, the doctor’s office is closed for the weekend, and there are no playdates or other outings for Grant.
So baking day it is. I love doing it and Grant loves “helping.” Which means he sits on the counter and looks cute while eating leftover chocolate chips.
We head upstairs, hoping Maverick won’t mind if we take over the kitchen, but there’s no sign of him.
Me: Where are you?
Maverick: At Jaxson’s gym. Kalum wanted to go a few rounds today. What’s up? Is everything okay?
Me: Yeah. Totally. I just wondered if we could use the kitchen to bake today.
Maverick: Like you even need to ask as long as chocolate chips are involved.
Me: Of course, and you’ll have your own special batch. Thanks! =)
A few hours and what feels like a few dozen batches later, I look around and feel bad, because Maverick’s kitchen looks like a flour-fueled hurricane went through it. I don’t know how some people bake and make it look like they didn’t even use the kitchen. When I bake, I’m pretty sure I get flour on the neighbors’ counters.
Not wanting Maverick to see the method behind my madness, I start cleaning the kitchen. That leads to putting in a few loads of laundry, so I grab a few pieces of Maverick’s because I have room and that’s just polite. And now, as Grant is sitting on the counter drawing and coloring, I have the oven on self-clean as I put away the groceries that were delivered about an hour ago.
Whoever invented online grocery delivery should get a freaking medal.
“Oh my! What smells so good in here?” Maverick asks as he comes in through the door that connects the kitchen to the garage.
“Cookies!” Grant yells, popping his head up.
Maverick comes into the kitchen and, holy shit, it’s time for my first panty change of the day.
As he stands next to Grant, looking at his newest creation, I notice every little detail about him. The way he talks to Grant like he’s an adult, which Grant loves. How he takes an interest in everything my kid does, even though half the time he doesn’t understand it. And how sometimes he looks at me and I think he sees me as more than a friend.
Then, of course, there are the physical things that one can’t help but notice. Like today. He’s showered from the gym, but his hair is still a bit damp, and I can smell his soap even though he’s a few feet away. His T-shirt is clinging to every muscle, and instead of basketball shorts, today he’s in sweatpants.
Fucking. Sweatpants.
“Are you doing laundry?” he asks, effectively snapping me out of my dirty thoughts.
“Oh . . . uh . . . yeah. Is that okay?”
He laughs, because it’s not like this is the first time I’ve done laundry here. “Yes, Scarlett, you know it is. I just asked because I have a few things I need to throw in the washer.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I did them already.”
He looks at me, confused, and I just shrug. “I had a few loads to do and I had room. I hope you don’t mind. The clothes were already in the laundry room, so I didn’t go through your stuff to get them.”
“It’s fine, Scarlett. Well, no, it’s not. You don’t have to do my laundry. I’m a grown man capable of separating colors from whites.”
“I know you are, but I don’t mind. I was doing laundry anyway. And you won’t let me pay rent or utilities. Plus, I’m pretty sure my kid has taken your iPad away from you. Please, it’s the least I could do.”
He sighs, knowing I’m not going to drop this. We’ve had one too many disagreements when it comes to me helping out, so he knows I’m not going to back down.
“Fine. But at least let me get the groceries tonight.”
“Too late. I used the grocery delivery service. Oh, and I was going to make spaghetti and chicken parmesan tonight. That sound good?”
I walk away from him and Grant, busying myself at the sink—just needing some distance for a moment. I don’t know what’s going on with my body, but my attraction to Maverick right now is through the roof.
“While, yes, that sounds delicious, you don’t have to cook for me, Scarlett.”
“I know. But—”
“You want to. You don’t mind. I get it.”
Silence falls over us. If I let myself live in my fantasy, right now Maverick is looking at me like he wants me to be dinner. He’s imagining that Grant isn’t here as he lifts me up and sets me on the counter, doing whatever he wants to me.
But that’s all it is: a fantasy. Because Maverick doesn’t think of me that way.
But as I turn around and notice his eyes, they are . . . hungry. Intense. Lustful.
For me?
Which is confusing, because he definitely couldn’t be attracted to me, the curvy girl who hasn’t lost the extra 10 pounds from having Grant, while putting on another 10 in the process. Me, in a ratty pair of sleep shorts and a tank top I should have thrown away two years ago. Me, with a face free of makeup, and who the hell knows what my hair looks like after a day of baking and cleaning?
“What are you drawing, buddy?” I ask Grant, needing to do something other than wonder what Maverick is looking at or thinking.
“Us!” he says, not looking up from his picture, which kind of looks like stick figures by a house, but I’m not sure. He’s three. I let him go wherever his imagination takes him.
“That’s great, buddy! Who’s this?”
I point to the littlest of the would-be stick figures.
“Me!” he says in all his three-year-old delight.
“Good job. And who’s this?” I point to the person on the right.
“You!”
“And what’s my name?”
“Mama!”
“Very good,” I say, rubbing his head. “And who’s this?”
“Dada!”
This stops me in my tracks, because he’s never said “Dada,” or “Daddy,” or anything in the dad category. Ryan hasn’t been around in weeks and I never bring him up.
“You drew a picture of your daddy? That’s sweet of you. We should give this to him the next time we see him.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Grant picks up th
e drawing and turns around, handing it to a confused Maverick.
“What’s this, buddy? I thought you were going to give it to your dad?”
“Dada! Mavwick Dada!”
20
Maverick
Holy fuck. Holy fuck. What in the actual fuck?
“What did you say, buddy?” Scarlett asks. I can only assume she’s wondering if we just heard him correctly.
“Dada!” Grant says, holding out his arms for me to pick him up.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I’m not . . . he’s not . . . I . . .
I don’t know anything.
“Baby, Maverick isn’t your daddy. But he does love you very much like a daddy does,” Scarlett says, smoothing back his hair. “Your daddy was here a few weeks ago, remember?”
Grant gives her a confused look, but shrugs his little shoulders and gets back to coloring.
Because it’s that easy for him. For me? I feel lightheaded. I don’t know which way is up. How can one little word throw you for such a fucking loop?
I walk out of the kitchen, needing a little space. Which I’m not granted because I can hear Scarlett behind me.
“Maverick, I’m so sorry. I don’t know where he got that from,” Scarlett says with worry in her eyes.
“Geez, Scarlett, I wonder where he got it from? Maybe because the kid is confused because his so-called father comes and goes when he pleases? Yet I’m here every damn day!”
“Are we going to get into this again?” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in frustration, which does something amazing to her boobs.
Great. Now I’m pissed, confused, and horny.
“No, we aren’t, Scarlett. Because I’m leaving. I need to get out of here.”
“You’re leaving?” she says, following me to the door. “Is this what you do when you don’t like how something is going? You just leave? He’s three, Maverick! You cannot be angry at a toddler for saying things he doesn’t understand!”
“I’m not! I’m just . . . Just let it fucking go!” And it’s the last thing I say as I slam the door and jump on my bike.
I don’t know where I’m riding to, but this time I have my senses about me. I definitely won’t let myself end up at Amy’s again.
I meant what I said. I’m not mad at Grant; he’s an innocent child.
And the words he said weren’t what threw me. It was how those words made me feel.
I wasn’t ready for them. I mean, who is? I’m sure that even men who know one day their child will call them “Dada” aren’t ready to hear it the first time.
And for me? I honestly never thought I’d hear those words from a child.
It was the strangest feeling of my life—looking at his little face as he handed me his picture so proudly. And it’s hard to describe the warm sensation that crawled through my body when he called me “Dada.”
I felt so many things in that one moment.
I loved it.
It scared me.
I wanted it to be true.
I wanted my life back.
I wanted to be that little boy’s dad.
I realized I don’t know the first thing about being a father.
How one person could have so many conflicting feelings all at once because of one little word is beyond me. But I am. One moment I’m thinking about how great it would be if I were that little guy’s dad, and for his mom to be mine, and the next minute I’m in a cold sweat thinking about what it could mean.
Could I even be what he needs me to be? Could I be what Scarlett needs? The answer is: I honestly don’t know.
I can no longer deny that I have feelings for her. When I saw her in my kitchen today looking so comfortable, it took all I had to hold myself back from pinning her against the island and claiming her mouth. She’s gorgeous and she doesn’t even try to be. She doesn’t even know she is. The curves of her body are natural and enticing, and every day I have to fight the urge to touch her.
Then I looked over at Grant, contentedly drawing at the counter, and all I could think of was that this is where they belonged.
In my house. With me.
So why did Grant’s words throw me for a fucking loop? Wouldn’t him calling me that give me hope that we could be a family? If I want them with me, shouldn’t his words fill me with joy rather than dread?
Which leads to the other side of the coin, and the thoughts I’ll admit only to myself: that I’m no good for them. That I don’t deserve to have a family of my own.
Grant’s slip of the tongue was the cold ice bath I needed to remind myself that I’m not a family man, or at least, I don’t think I am, because my chance for a family ended when Jenna left.
And what do I know about being a father? Mine was dead when I was four. I was in prison for stealing cars. I developed a computer program so complex that the authorities are still trying to figure out how I did it. Is that the kind of person who should be raising a child? Providing for a family?
But haven’t I been? At least in the financial sense, I have, which is more than I can say for Grant’s sperm donor. Just the thought of how much Scarlett has struggled the past few years—raising Grant on her own while working two jobs because that fuckhead wasn’t around to help her—makes my blood boil.
I know being a dad is more than a few bucks a month, but shouldn’t he be around to help her when times are tough? When Grant falls down and needs a bandage? Or how about when he’s older and doesn’t want to talk to his mom about love, relationships, or the other things I dreaded having to talk to my mom about? Shouldn’t Ryan be there for that? Shouldn’t he want to be there for that?
He should be. He wasn’t. He hasn’t been.
But I was.
I am. And I will be.
The next thing I know, I’m pulling back into my driveway. I have no clue how long I’ve been gone, but the upstairs light is still on.
I need to apologize to her. I need to tell her that I’m sorry for bolting, but that I’m not scared. That I want us to be together.
I want us to be a family.
I burst in through the door and what I see when I enter isn’t what I was expecting.
Scarlett, at my kitchen island, wiping away tears.
21
Scarlett
“What’s the matter?” Maverick asks, bolting into the kitchen when he sees me crying at the island.
Which he wasn’t supposed to see.
“I’m sorry, Maverick.”
I can’t raise my eyes to him, but I know without looking that he’s confused. I don’t blame him. I’m confused too. About so many things.
“Why in the world would you be sorry? I’m the one who took off,” he says, sitting next to me.
“Why does everyone leave me?”
My words come out in a whisper, and I pray to whichever God is listening that Maverick didn’t hear them.
But I know he did when he turns and wraps me in a hug so fierce that I’m worried about how I’m going to take my next breath.
“What do you mean?” Maverick asks, gently rubbing circles on my back.
“Ryan left. He always leaves. You leave. Every man I’ve let into my life leaves. Why?”
I’m not even trying to hold back my tears at this point. What’s the use? As soon as I put Grant down for the night, I just let them flow. It had been a while since I’d had a good cry, and I had tears waiting to break free.
I cried for my boy, whose real father doesn’t want to be here for him. For us.
I cried for me, wondering if I’m not doing enough for my son.
I cried for Maverick, who was trying to do something nice when he allowed us to come live with him, and now probably feels like he’s gained this family he didn’t ask for, or probably want.
And during my cry session, I realized that this was now the second time Maverick and I had argued, and that he up and left. Why do all the men in my life leave me?
I knew Maverick would come back—he does l
ive here—but his actions broke a piece of me.
“I am so, so sorry I freaked out,” Maverick says. “And I am so sorry I left. Again. It’ll never happen again.”
I shrug away from his embrace, because while it feels good—too good—I won’t let him lie to me like that.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean, Maverick.” Suddenly my tears are gone, and my anger has returned. “Twice now you’ve left when things got rough, and I’m just your roommate. So please, don’t lie to me and say that you aren’t going to leave again. Actions speak a hell of a lot louder than words.”
I get up to go downstairs, needing to remove myself from Maverick’s presence. I only take a step before he grabs my elbow and spins me around to face him.
“What did you say?” he asks with a fire in his eyes I think could burn me if I let it.
“Don’t lie to me?”
“No. The other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“What was the last thing you said to me, Scarlett?”
“That actions speak louder than words?”
He loosens his grip on my arm and slides his hand into mine. It’s the most intimate gesture he’s ever made, and while it’s confusing as all hell, I won’t lie—I don’t hate it. I also don’t pull away.
His hand is rough and callused, but his thumb feels smooth and gentle as he’s rubbing it on the top of my hand.
“I’m sorry I left, Scarlett. I panicked. I was . . . I wasn’t expecting that.”
“I don’t think either of us did.”
He takes my other hand, linking our fingers together. I look up at him and it’s almost too much to see his beautiful face looking at me with . . . I’m not sure what, but this isn’t anger anymore. Or confusion.
It’s so much more.
“You know, you’re the second woman to tell me that I should lead with my actions,” he says, letting go of my hands, only to let his fingertips trace up my arm, leaving goosebumps in their path.
“Maverick?” My question is all but a whisper.
He doesn’t answer with words.
Wrecked: South Side Boys-Book 3 Page 8