by Lili Valente
“But you don’t love him,” Dad says, standing to pace the carpet in front of the bed. “I can tell, even if the rest of those dummies down there can’t.”
I huff. “You just called your wife, children, and future son-in-law dummies. Real mature, Bob.”
“Don’t call me Bob.” He scowls. “And I don’t care about being mature, I care about keeping my daughter from making another mistake.”
Another mistake.
His tone makes it sound like all I’ve done my entire life is flit from one bad choice to another, from the day I left home to the day I crawled back in disgrace years later. And yes, I have made my share of mistakes—I can admit that—but I’ve also had wonderful adventures.
I studied to be a pastry chef in Paris, backpacked through Germany, lived on a commune on a vineyard in the Italian countryside, and went to more rock concerts than a Rolling Stones groupie. I have more stories to tell after twenty-eight years than most people have after a lifetime.
I also have a daughter. A beautiful, magical little girl who, despite the fact that her father isn’t the man I thought he was, isn’t a mistake. Felicity is a treasure, and I could do worse for my child than moving in with a man who adores babies in general, and mine, in particular.
Like staying here and facing my father’s disappointment, day after day.
“I love you, Daddy,” I say, swinging the baby bag over one shoulder and grabbing Felicity’s small overnight suitcase from the floor. “But this is my life and I make my own decisions, and this one is already made.”
He frowns. “All right. But don’t come crying to me when it falls apart. That man has never had your best interests at heart, Aria, not when you were a girl he was pushing to grow up way too fast, and not now.”
“He wasn’t pushing me to…” I trail off with a shake of my head.
This is pointless.
Once Dad has something stuck in his head, arguing with him is an exercise in futility. I’d just be wasting breath and the time I’ll need to get the crib Nash borrowed set up before Felicity’s bedtime.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “I won’t come crying to you. Goodnight, and thank you for trying to help. Hopefully, the next time we get together we can enjoy each other’s company without all the unsolicited advice.”
“Maybe,” he says, scowling. “If you leave that idiot you married at home.”
I bite my tongue. A part of me wants to defend Nash—he has many annoying qualities, but he’s far from an idiot—but I know when to cut my losses. My father is too stubborn for anything I say right now to make a bit of difference anyway.
Without another word, I walk out of the bedroom and down the stairs, kissing my mom and sisters goodbye before heading out the door.
Chapter Twelve
Aria
Don’t panic, don’t panic, I chant silently to myself as I follow Nash down the walk to his truck. He’s holding Felicity, who’s grinning at me over his shoulder, clearly thrilled to be going for a ride with her new friend.
“That went well.” Nash beams at me across the back seat of the truck as he straps Felicity into her car seat, and I wedge the diaper bag and small suitcase onto the floor beneath her feet.
The truck bed is already full of my two large suitcases, a duffel bag full of Felicity’s clothes, two toy chests, a few tote bags stuffed with sheets for the crib, baby towels, soap, and other toiletries, and the crib Nash picked up earlier in the day.
This “moving in together” situation is becoming more real with every passing moment, but so far Nash doesn’t seem to be freaking out.
I wish I could say the same.
“You okay?” He winces as Felicity grabs a fistful of his hair and tugs at it with a squeal, but he doesn’t pull the baby’s hand away. He’s like a giant Labrador retriever, patiently enduring Felicity’s rough handling.
I should lie to him, pretend like the last ten minutes of the evening didn’t happen and everything is fine, but when I open my mouth, the truth comes spilling out. “My dad came up to talk while I was packing.”
Nash gently dislodges Felicity’s fingers, exchanging his hair for her favorite toy hammer with a grunt. “I can imagine how that went.”
I sigh. “He’s going to have a lot of fun saying ‘I told you so’ when we break up in a few months.”
Nash pauses, staring at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher.
“What?” I finally ask.
“I know your dad isn’t a fan, but I had a good time with your family and Skeeter today,” he says before adding in a softer voice. “I had a good time with you today.”
“I had a good time with you, too,” I murmur, so flustered I can’t work up the gumption to insist he stop calling Felicity by that ridiculous nickname.
Nash smiles again, that smile that makes his eyes crinkle and my stomach feel crowded with butterflies. “So, why not enjoy it? Nobody said we can’t have fun pretending to be married.”
“I…guess not,” I say, the suspicious part of me warning that this is a trick and that trusting Nash is the stupidest kind of stupid.
He shrugs. “So, let’s be friends, have a good time, and worry about the future when we get there.”
I cock my head, studying him for a long moment as I work up the courage to ask, “So you don’t hate me anymore?”
His smile fades, but the intensity in his eyes remains. “I was telling the truth today. I never hated you, Aria. Not even when I really wanted to.”
The backs of my eyes go unexpectedly stingy as I whisper, “I never hated you, either.”
His lips—his beautiful, sexy lips—curve in a kind smile. “Then it sounds like we’re on the same page.”
I nod, but as we load into the truck and Nash aims it back across town to his place, I can’t help but wonder what page that is exactly.
Are we friends now?
Friends who are pretending to be married to help each other out?
That seems like what Nash was saying, but the potential energy simmering in the air between us doesn’t feel friendly. It feels alive with awareness and longing and dangerous possibilities.
My skin hums for the entire drive and is still humming an hour later after Nash and I have finished putting up the crib, filling the bureau in his spare room with Felicity’s clothes, and setting up the baby’s toy boxes.
The entire time, I’m keenly aware of every glance Nash casts my way, every time our hands accidentally brush. By seven thirty, when I finally escape to the bathroom to give Felicity a quick bath and get her changed into her sleeper, I’m a nervous wreck all over again.
Once Felicity is tucked in, it won’t be long until it’s time for Nash and I to go to bed, too, and so far, I’ve only seen one other bedroom, with one king-sized bed in it.
It’s an inviting bedroom, large, but still cozy feeling, with coffee-colored walls and a burgundy bedspread with a gold fleur di les design that’s masculine, but not in a boring way. The rest of the house bears warm touches as well—flowered curtains, decorative pillows on the big green couch, and a frilly potted plant in one corner by the window. Nash’s place is cute all over, but it’s the kitchen that grabbed my attention when we walked in, and the kitchen I return to when Felicity is tucked into her crib, chewing on her bunny’s ear as she drifts off to sleep.
I wander through the living room into the combined, kitchen-and-dining space, getting a closer look at the artwork crowding the walls. The wooden slabs used as canvases are different colors, but all are faded and worn, making me think they were sourced from various old buildings. They’re cool by themselves, but it’s the mixed media paintings that call me over for a second look.
Each piece features a different local animal—owl, deer, rabbit, hawk—but with the body parts made up of a mixture of oil paint and pieces of old machinery. There are cogs, wheels, engine parts, and other things you might find in a junkyard combined with paint in muted reds and blues. The effect is stunning on the old wood, and the an
imals alien, but playful at the same time.
They’re unlike anything I’ve seen before, but still strangely familiar.
I’m inches away from a painting of an owl with mufflers for wings and bicycle spokes for eyes, trying to figure out how I might be familiar with the artist’s work, when Nash rumbles from behind me, “Just pulled those out of the garage a few weeks ago. My ex hated them.”
“Really? I love…” I turn, losing the ability to form words when I spot Nash dressed in nothing but a pair of black pajama pants resting low on his hips.
He said he was going to grab a shower while I bathed Felicity in the guest bath, but I hadn’t expected him to change into something so…comfortable.
For him, anyway. The sight of his bare chest—that powerful, beautifully muscled, perfectly dusted-with-golden-hair chest—is making me feel a lot of things, but comfort sure as heck isn’t one of them.
“Yeah, she said they gave her the creeps.” Nash wanders over to the fridge, grabbing a beer from inside and lifting it into the air between us. “You want one?’
“No, thanks. But the, um…the paintings. I like them. A lot,” I stammer as he twists the top off the beer and perches on a stool at the kitchen bar.
I glance up at the ceiling, then down at the floor, forcing my gaze to focus anywhere but on Nash’s body. Anywhere but his perfectly rounded pectoral muscles and concave stomach and that six pack that, based on my brief examination, looks closer to an eight-pack. The man is built like a professional athlete, with a body designed to perform.
I’m doing my best not to imagine his body “performing” in a bedroom setting when he says—“Thanks. I only started painting again a few years ago. I’m rusty.”—and my jaw drops all over again.
“They’re yours?” I blink as he nods. “Oh my god, Nash, they’re stunning. I love them.”
He shrugs, looking pleased and a little embarrassed. “They’re all right, but I still have a long way to go. You know how it is, you only see the places where you didn’t paint it the way it was in your head.”
“I do, but I think they turned out beautifully. They’re so provocative and compelling and…” My breath rushes out. “Seriously, amazing work. They almost make me want to pick up a brush again.”
“You should. You’re talented.”
“Nah. Maybe, once, a long time ago,” I say, waving my hand dismissively in the air. “But I haven’t painted since high school. I messed around with clay and Paper Mache at this commune I lived in for a while in my early twenties, but nothing after that.”
“Why not?”
I lift a shoulder. “I was busy with work and the baby. And then I wasn’t making a lot of money, and art supplies are expensive.”
“I hear you. That’s part of the reason I quit for years. My sister and I were helping my parents build a new house. All my spare money went there for a long time.”
Shame heats my cheeks. Here I am, still mooching off my parents, while Nash has already helped give his a better life. But I knew when I decided to train as a pastry chef that I probably wasn’t going to make a ton of money right away—or maybe ever. That hadn’t mattered to me at the time.
Honestly, it doesn’t really matter to me now. I don’t need to make a ton of money, just enough to support myself and my daughter.
Too bad that’s so much harder to do than I expected.
Brushing my hair from my forehead I turn to stare into the lug nut eyes of the young doe in one of the smaller paintings. “So yeah, I was busy and…I don’t know. It’s like you said, I could never get the canvas to look the way it did in my head. It got frustrating after a while, so I gave up.”
“You should try again. You might find it easier to stick with it now.” Nash wanders over to stand behind me, so close I can feel his warmth on my back and smell his fresh-from-the-shower scent rising around me. “We give up on things too easily when we’re kids.”
I chew my bottom lip, unable to keep from thinking about other things the two of us gave up on when we were kids, or about that night in the woods when Nash made me feel so special, so beautiful.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe some things do deserve another shot.
Things like art and…
Chapter Thirteen
Aria
I close my eyes and will myself to get a grip.
Nash isn’t sending out signals. He’s being nice, and that’s what I should do—be nice, civil, not flirty or hopeful in stupid ways. Dwelling on things that happened in another life is never a good idea.
Though I can’t help but wonder…
“So, there’s only one bedroom?” I ask, not turning to look at him, fearing my crazy thoughts about second chances might be showing on my face.
He clears his throat. “I figured I could take the couch,” he says, confirming that he’s committed to a kind, respectful, friendly relationship.
Which is good. Boundaries are good. Friendship is good. Anything else is drama both Felicity and I can do without.
“That’s sweet of you.” I face him with a smile. “But I’ll take the couch. I don’t mind. This is your place, and I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable in your own bed.”
“No, you take the bed.” He backs a step away. “I get up at the butt crack of dawn to lift most mornings, anyway, so you’ll get more use out of it. And that way you’ll be closer to Felicity if she wakes up in the night.”
I sigh. “Oh, she’ll wake up. No question of if, only when. Which reminds me, I should get a couple of bottles ready.” I cross to the bag of groceries on the counter, locating the formula and clean bottles I brought from my parents’ house.
“She’s still not sleeping through the night?” Nash asks, his eyebrows lifting as he watches me from across the counter.
“No, she’s still not sleeping through the night,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And I’ve tried everything they say to try. I’ve cut her naps shorter during the day and fed her more solid foods. I’ve tried letting her cry for ten minutes before I go in to feed her and then rocking her for fifteen minutes before she gets the bottle, but nothing works. She just cries and cries until she gets the milk and then goes right back to sleep.”
He shakes his head, his lips curving into a smile. “You haven’t tried the Mee-maw method.”
“The Mee-maw method?” I prop my hand on my hip. “Don’t tell me you saddled your mother with that one. That’s the worst grandma name there is.”
He laughs. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad, but my sisters’ kids started calling her that when they were little and it stuck. Too late to change it now.”
“Poor thing,” I say with a cluck of my tongue.
“Oh, she doesn’t mind. As long as she gets to spend time with her grandbabies, she doesn’t care what they call her. Point is, her sleep training method works. It takes a few nights for it to stick, but once it does, babies start sleeping through the night and don’t stop unless they’re sick or some idiot wakes them up.”
“Really?” I arch a skeptical brow.
“I can show you how it works.” Nash takes a pull on his beer. “We could even start tonight if you want.”
I cross my arms, hope flickering to life inside me, even as the voice of doom insists that my daughter is the worst sleeper ever and will probably flunk out of Mee-maw Sleep Training School. Still, I can’t help being curious. It feels like eons have passed since I last slept through the night. The thought of tucking Felicity in and going to bed and not having to get out of it again until the sun rises is…dizzying.
It would be like my birthday and Christmas and half a dozen orgasms all rolled into one.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” I say. “What’s Mee-maw’s secret? How does she work this dark magic?”
Nash grins. “Nothing magical about it. Just, when the baby cries, you go to the door of their room and say ‘hush now, hush,’ real soft until they get quiet. Then you say, ‘I love you, Skeeter, I love you so much, but it’s night-night time,’ and the
n you go back to bed for fifteen minutes. If she’s still crying after that, you go in and do the same thing.”
I blink. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“But what if she’s hungry?”.
“Babies Skeeter’s age—”
“Felicity, please,” I cut in. “If Skeeter sticks as a nickname, I may have to kill you.”
Nash grins, a dimple popping grin that makes my blood feel fizzy again. “Fine, babies Felicity’s age don’t need to be fed in the night. If she stops getting her bottle after bedtime, she’ll adjust her eating during the day to make up for it.”
I wrinkle my nose. This still sounds wrong. “And I’m not supposed to pick her up? Or rock her, or anything?”
“Raleigh would rub my nephew Jason’s back or tummy every once and awhile,” Nash says, before adding in a confidential whisper, “But Mee-maw frowns on that. Shows weakness.”
“Dude, I’m weak,” I huff, propping my elbows on the counter and resting my chin in my hands, feeling defeated before I’ve even started. “There’s no way I’ll be able to resist picking her up. She’s so pathetic. I swear, she cries like someone is pulling out her toenails one by one.”
Nash laughs, but I shake my head.
“No, seriously. It’s like she’s being tortured.” I shudder. “She’s so loud. She’ll keep you up all night if I don’t grab her within the first few sniffles.”
He shrugs. “So, she keeps me up for a night or two. I don’t care.”
I frown. “But you have work on Monday.”
“You’ve had to work since she was born and you’ve managed,” he says, the admiration in his voice surprising me. “I’m at least half as tough as you are.”
“I’d say you’re probably a little tougher.” I shoot his bare chest a pointed look. “Just a hair or two.”
“Doubt it.” He rests his forearms on the counter and leans in, bringing his face closer to mine. “Mamas are tough, but I’m sure I’m better rested than you are. And have more experience with babies. Why don’t you let me back you up tonight? I’ll get up with you and rub your back while you rub Felicity’s, help you resist the urge to pick her up.”