Baby Mine (Hunter & Lennon duet Book 1)

by Kennedy Fox

  I let out a sarcastic laugh, refusing to let his words get to me. “You’re so vile and immature. You really need to grow up. Acting like this at twenty-four isn’t cute anymore.”

  “Oh, so you thought I was cute at one point?” Hunter taunts and takes a bite of his toast, crumbs falling on his clothes and the floor this time, but he doesn’t seem to care.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I never thought you were cute.”

  “Liar,” he says matter-of-factly, smacking his lips. “I know for certain you did.”

  My blood pumps at a much faster rate, and I know if I don’t walk away, I’ll say something I’ll regret later. So I choose the high road like any mature adult would. If only he’d act like one every once in a while.

  Though it actually pains me, I allow him to have the final word. Turning on my heels, I grab my bag, then leave with the door slamming behind me. As I walk down the stairs, I try to take in deep, calming breaths, refusing to let him ruin my day.

  Brisk air brushes against my cheeks, and I can’t get to my car fast enough. Winter in California is bearable and much different from Utah where I grew up. There’s no snow here, but sometimes the cool air chills me to the bone. Once I’m inside, I set my things on the passenger seat and inhale a deep breath as I start the car. Just the thought of toast crumbs on the floor and counter has me twitching, so before I leave, I text Hunter, unable to let him get away with this.

  Lennon: Please, if you could, pick up the kitchen before you leave. I’d really appreciate your help with this.

  Hunter: New number, who dis?

  Lennon: Why do you insist on aggravating me all the time?

  Hunter: Not sure what you’re talking about. And the answer is no, honey buns. I’m walking out the door and can’t be late. Have a NICE day.

  Ugh! He knows how much I hate that nickname, yet he continues to say it. Ever since the first time I made Brandon cinnamon rolls, Hunter has called me that, but I know he’s being condescending by the way he treats me.

  I type out a rude message but then decide to delete it. Reminding myself I’m the bigger person, I tuck my phone into my bag and try to push the thoughts of him away. Hunter’s been dead set on treating me like an inconvenience since the first night I came home with Brandon. After eight months of living together, I don’t know why I’d expect him to change.

  Sighing, I reverse and pull onto the road and drive toward the school. I really hate being this worked up in the morning and can’t wait until Brandon and I get our own place. When we’re more financially stable, we will. I’ve only been working for the school since the fall and haven’t completed my first year yet. Brandon has been at his job since he graduated, but he has some student loans to pay off because his football scholarship didn’t cover everything. Even though Hunter acts like an ass most of the time, I can put up with him as long as it means I get to live with my love and not struggle to pay the bills each month. Small sacrifices, I suppose.

  Hardly any traffic is on the road on the way to work, which is a miracle. Depending on what time I leave in the mornings, it can be a smooth sailing or bumper to bumper, another reason I like being early. Soon I’m parking and grabbing my bag, then crossing the parking lot. I walk to the office to meet Principal Maples. She’s strict and scary, how most kids imagine principals, and has worked in education for over twenty-five years. I respect the hell out of her, but it doesn’t make me any less nervous when we’re having a one on one. She’s the type of woman who will chew a person up and spit them out with only a few words.

  “Sit,” she instructs, barely glancing up from the papers in her hand when I enter her office. I take a seat, dropping my heavy bag on the floor.

  “I see you submitted a budget proposal for the spring concert,” she says, her dark eyes finally meeting mine.

  I swallow hard. “Yes, ma’am. I’d like to be able to buy a few new microphones and instruments for the kids to play at the concert. We have a large supply of recorders but are missing several percussion instruments like hand drums, claves, and even a bass drum,” I linger nervously. “The tambourines aren’t in the greatest condition either as you can imagine with the kids smacking them around,” I add with a small smile.

  “Lennon, this should’ve been submitted before the school year started.” The sternness in her voice isn’t lost on me. She sets down the paper, and I notice it’s a printout of the written budget I made to show where the money would be spent. It took weeks of research for this request over winter break, and I made sure all the numbers were accurate.

  “I understand and apologize. I applied for several grants to purchase the extra equipment, but we weren’t accepted as I had hoped. I thought the kids could do the spring program with what we had, and while we can, I think they’ll learn more if we could purchase new rhythm instruments,” I explain.

  Principal Maples looks at me and doesn’t say anything. I’m growing more anxious as each second passes, and it’s so quiet I can hear the ticking of the second hand on the wall clock. “I’ve decided to approve five hundred dollars, which is within my limits of authority. I know this is your first year, and you probably didn’t realize what you would need, but next year, proposals are due before the first day of school. Understand?”

  I nod, my heart pounding at the prospect of having my contract renewed next year, which is overly exciting, but I don’t allow it to show. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.” Flashing her a grateful smile, I add, “I won’t let you down, promise. It’s going to be the best spring concert the kids have ever done.”

  “I like you, Lennon, and I like your drive. Keep up the good work. Remember this first year of teaching and how passionate you are. I hope you never lose that. After years of teaching, too many educators lose that spark and only clock in to earn a paycheck,” she tells me just as her phone rings.

  “I will. Absolutely! Thank you again.” I stand, see my way out, and walk toward the music room with a little hop in my step. She didn’t outright say I’d have my contract renewed, but Principal Maples always chooses her words carefully.

  Unlocking my classroom door, I step inside feeling elated I’ll be able to teach the kids new things. I stop for a moment and look around the room. Taking it all in, I really focus on the fire to teach music inside me right now. The child-size chairs surrounding the piano in the center of the room will soon have eager children who want to sing and learn sitting in them. I’m really living my dream.

  I glance at the clock on the wall to see how much time I have until the bell rings. Twenty minutes. I decide to text Brandon about the little sexy stunt he pulled this morning.

  Before I click on his name, I see an unread text from Hunter. I open it and find a picture of our sink stacked full of dirty dishes that have been in his room for only God knows how long.

  My nostrils flare, and just like that, I’m worked up and raging all over again.

  Bastard.

  Chapter Two

  Hunter

  I can’t help but chuckle as Lennon stomps around, huffing and cursing me out like she does every morning. It’s our own little fucked-up routine, just without the make-up sex afterward.

  When we met almost two years ago, I knew she was special. Call it instinct or maybe fate—I don’t know what it was—but I felt it right down to my bones that Lennon Corrigan was meant to be in my life. The way she looked at me, our flirtatious banter, the electricity that soared between us—it all made me come alive. The fact I’d never felt instant chemistry like that with anyone before her had me wanting to get to know her.

  Imagine my shock that night when I saw her standing in my kitchen after fucking my best friend. As much as I wanted to be happy for Brandon, I was slowly dying inside. I still am, and I’ve wanted to ask her why so many times.

  Why him?

  Why not me?

  Why didn’t she give us a chance?

  I’ve concluded the moment we shared at the bar must’ve been one-sided. She’
d flirted to get a free drink, and that’s all it was. She came up a few more times with her friends but never made it clear she had felt what I did. Of course she returned for more drinks, but I clearly spun it in my head into something it wasn’t, which made me a goddamn fool.

  She chose Brandon, and I refused to stand in the way. However, that doesn’t make it easy to see them together, even now. You’d think I would’ve gotten over it, considering nothing really happened between us, but the more I saw her on the weekends and the days she’d sleep over during the summer made it impossible for me to forget her. We shared something special at that bar, or at least my heart constantly fed me that lie anytime she was close. I quickly decided the only way to deal with her constant presence was to get under her skin and frustrate her as much as I could because that was what she did to me.

  It was all fun and games until eight months ago when Brandon announced she’d be moving in permanently. Lennon found a job at one of the schools here so they’d no longer have to date long distance. It was easy to see how happy he was about it too. I could’ve said no, made an argument about how there wasn’t room for her in our tiny apartment, or even mentioned how I didn’t approve of their relationship. However, I’d never put our friendship at risk by making him choose between me—his best friend—and the woman he loved.

  I refused to be that guy. If the tables were turned, I knew he’d wish me luck and give me his blessing. So that’s what I did and continue to do.

  Now hearing her sing in the shower each morning, watching her dance in the kitchen while she makes coffee, and doing her stupid yoga in the living room have tortured me for the past eight months. Everywhere I turn, there she is—invading my space and creating dirty thoughts in my head that I’m constantly pushing away.

  It’s been fucking hell.

  The only way to erase the thoughts of Lennon from my mind is to find someone else. Or that’s what I keep telling myself, at least, because I’ve tried many times and failed miserably. Something’s obviously broken inside me because no matter what I do, those feelings for her don’t go away. I know she doesn’t reciprocate them, and you’d think my dick would get the memo and stop getting hard any time I see her in a tight skirt or low-cut blouse. You’d think my heart would stop racing each time she’s near. You’d think after hearing them having sex and her screaming his name, I would stop obsessing over my best friend’s girlfriend.

  But no.

  I’m fucking broken.

  Nothing in my head works right when it comes to her, and even screwing random chicks to erase the thoughts that haunt me hasn’t worked so far.

  Though it doesn’t stop me from trying.

  Once Lennon leaves for the day, slamming the door behind her, I let out a breath of relief. I still have thirty minutes before I have to leave for work, and since I showered the night before, I drink my coffee in silence without distraction.

  I didn’t always shower before bed. Normally, I’d do it before work every morning or after the gym, but then Lennon blamed me for hogging the bathroom and making her late for work. Actually, I prefer to shower before bed now—I’ve come to like it—but hell if I’d ever admit that to either of them. During those early days when Lennon first moved in, we’d fight over who showered first in the mornings, which led to a lot of shouting and toilet flushing sabotage. Needless to say, Brandon begged me to compromise so the three of us could live together in peace.

  For the sake of my best friend, I did, and once again, Lennon got her way—the bathroom is hers in the morning.

  “Sounds like you two got off on the right foot today,” Brandon says, slowly making his way into the kitchen. With eyes half closed, he reaches for a mug and pours himself some coffee. I watch as he adds creamer and sugar before meeting me at the kitchen table.

  “Not my fault she’s wound so tight,” I say into my cup before taking a drink. “She gets upset over the smallest things.”

  “Probably doesn’t help that you egg her on before eight in the morning,” he kindly reminds me as he’s done dozens of times before. He takes a slow sip and releases a deep breath. “She likes routine.”

  “Doesn’t mean she has to force her ways on everyone,” I tell him. “If my dishes are dirty, I’ll clean them when I feel like it. She gets her panties in a knot because I don’t do them on her watch.” We have this same conversation every few weeks, and you’d think he’d learn by now that I won’t change my ways for anyone, especially her.

  “It’s your funeral, man. This fight is between you two.” He shrugs, surrendering. Brandon knows this apartment is just as much mine as it is his, and he can’t force me to do anything as long as I keep up with my half of the bills and chores. I hate putting him in the middle like this, but if I bow down to her every demand, she’ll never stop. Considering I already hate having to see her every day and live in this agony, she’ll just have to deal with me the way I deal with her.

  Before Lennon moved in, we’d clean once a week, and that was enough. Between working full-time jobs and mostly ordering out food, there wasn’t much to keep up with. Now, Lennon cooks for Brandon every night, does their laundry twice a week, and tells me when it’s “my time” to vacuum and dust the apartment. After enough nagging, I do the chores she assigns, but only when I’m ready.

  However, vacuuming up her panties and cell phone charger got me thirty minutes of scolding and a lesson on checking the floor beforehand. Then when she found out I used bug spray instead of furniture polish to dust the apartment, she stomped her foot and screamed at me for being an imbecile.

  Safe to say, I made my point on how I felt about her assigned “chores.”

  “Nah, don’t worry, man,” I reassure him. “It’s how we show affection.” I chuckle, then finish my coffee. “If she hates it that much, maybe she’ll go live with one of her sisters or friends or something, and we can get our bachelor pad back!”

  I stand and walk to the sink where I set my empty mug. A few of my cereal bowls that Lennon soaked in soapy water are still there, and I shake my head at how she tries to control everything.

  “If she moves out, you know I’m going with her,” Brandon tells me softly. “She’s the love of my life, and you’re my best friend, so I’d hate to even have to pick, but she’s my future. However, moving out is the last thing I want.”

  His words have my jaw tightening at how pussy whipped he is. I know he loves her, but fuck. I miss the days when it was just us. We’d play video games, order pizza, and then head out to the bars. In college, we were so broke that we’d take advantage of all the happy hour 2-for-1 deals so we’d have enough money to buy a drink for a girl or two. Mason and Liam would always be there to fuck shit up too. Through thick and thin, it was always the four of us, and there was a strict no girls tagging along rule until Lennon came along.

  Brandon’s one of the good guys, and deep down, I know he deserves to be happy, but I can’t help feeling like he stole something from me. It’s unfair to say, considering he had no idea how I felt about her, and once they hooked up, I knew none of it mattered. Even if it’d been nothing more than a one-night stand, Lennon would always be off-limits. Bro code and all that shit. You don’t dip your toes where a buddy has already been. The second he claimed her, my chance was shot.

  “I know, man,” I finally say, grabbing my bowls and emptying out the water.

  I don’t want to have these feelings for her. Hell, I’d do anything not to have them. The only thing that seems to work, even if only temporarily, is pissing her off. She’ll scream, tell me how immature and irresponsible I am, curse me out until she’s red in the face, and for a split second, those feelings of lust dissipate.

  Approximately thirty seconds later, she’ll do something adorable like shake her ass as she stomps away or force a smile in my direction to pretend she’s not seething, and those stupid feelings quickly rush back.

  Heading to my room, I grab the last of my things that I need before I leave for work. I spot three more bowls
, a glass, and silverware on my desk and carry them to the sink.

  Brandon’s already finished his coffee and left the kitchen by the time I return. Knowing this will piss Lennon off, I place them next to the other dishes I left her this morning, and a smirk hits my lips.

  My cell phone beeps, and as soon as I see Lennon’s name flash across the screen, I know it’s going to be a passive-aggressive comment. When her message is exactly what I thought it would be, I reply like I always do—with anything to set her off even more. When she doesn’t respond to my last text, I take a picture of my dirty dishes and send it to her, knowing it’ll have her steaming. Nothing satisfies me more.

  To be honest, I don’t know why she even tries anymore. She’ll text me with a simple request, and I always do the exact opposite, so you’d think she’d learn by now.

  Her messages are usually along the lines of:

  I’m making Brandon dinner tonight, so don’t bring food home for him or he won’t be hungry later.

  Or…

  I have to stay late at work, and my sisters are coming over right after. Do you think you could sweep the kitchen when you get home since you’re the one who made the mess?

  Or…

  It’s your turn to do laundry. Don’t forget the towels in the bathroom this time!

  Of course I brought home a six-pack of beer and two large pizzas. Instead of sweeping, I walked around in my work boots caked with dried dirt and stones from the worksites. And I did do laundry that night, just not her towels. Hearing her scream my name the next morning when she realized the linen closet didn’t have any was totally worth it.