The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob

by Pippa Grant

  We share a wavelength. I swear we do. “I don’t know.”

  “Would you give him a kidney?”

  “Yes. I mean, if the doctors told me I wouldn’t ever have to give my kids one. Actually, I’d have them tested to see if we’d be a match first, because if we wouldn’t—”

  “Let’s just call that a yes then.”

  “I’d donate a kidney to anyone who needed it. Probably. Maybe.”

  Holly pokes her head into the stockroom. Based on the way she’s scrunching her face at me, she clearly overheard that. “We’re low on Hot Mess Moms Club mugs at the coffee bar.”

  “Gotta go, Portia. Text me and save me from myself, okay?”

  “I’m not one to waste my breath.”

  “Please.”

  “I could tell you I can’t take the kids tomorrow night.”

  I whimper. “Maybe save me next week?”

  “I’ll add it to my calendar.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  Holly looks me up and down as I hang up the phone. “You’re thinking about keeping the squirrel, aren’t you?”

  I almost blurt a fast no, then realize a yes gets me out of questions about what else I might be losing my mind over. Instead, I offer a weak smile. “I need to learn to say no.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  Twenty-Three

  Levi

  Life lesson number six hundred thirty-four: Do not let young girls talk you into art projects with glitter.

  Especially when their four-year-old brother is nearby.

  “C’mon, Hudson. Don’t swallow the water. Just put it in your mouth and shake your cheeks, then spit it out.”

  His impish grin in the mirror as he leans over the sink to suck water from the faucet tugs at something deep inside me.

  This kid.

  He’s a handful. Creative as hell. Fearless. Determined. Boundaries will not keep Hudson Scott from much.

  And I get the impression his sisters have the same spark. They channel it differently, but it’s there.

  Plus, I haven’t yet seen Piper on skates.

  I tap his shoulder. “Rinse. Or your mom won’t let us play anymore.”

  I have so much pink sparkle glitter in my hair that I’ll probably die looking like a Vegas show gone wrong. I’ll probably sneeze it out of my sinuses for weeks. And there will be so many questions at Tripp’s house for Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday.

  On the bright side, Zoe and Piper have quit freaking out about Ingrid losing her shit when she sees the glitter carpet. It took me calling my own mom and asking her to please share a story about a time I did something dumb and she wanted to kill me, but she didn’t, because she’s my mom and she loves me, and then assuring the girls that their mom will forgive them too.

  Yep.

  There’ll be questions at Thanksgiving dinner.

  It’s leverage, I swear. I’ll tell if she will. She’s completely clammed up about her boyfriend, and even my normal spies won’t give me anything.

  Also, I’m not convinced Ingrid won’t be the one to kill me. And I have a feeling that offering to replace the carpet in her apartment isn’t something she’d appreciate.

  Money cannot buy everything. Nor should it.

  “One more time, Hudson. Can’t have a glitter tongue for your Thanksgiving pageant.”

  It would be cool, and memorable, but Ingrid doesn’t need the stress, so rinse him out we will. He thought pooping glitter would be the best way to spend the holiday week, and he knew swallowing it was the only way to make it happen.

  For the record, I did not suggest an alternative method to sparkly poop.

  “My teeth have the power!” he crows.

  The squirrel slips and slides along the tub, chasing a tube of lip gloss that he can’t get his little paws around.

  Zoe pops her head in and studies us with her dark eyes. She has flour smudged across her pink Waverly Sweet T-shirt and glitter stuck to her black leggings, and she’s holding a bottle of glue. “We can’t find the cap.”

  “Skippy stole it,” Piper reports behind her. It’s like looking at a mini-Ingrid when she makes her the damn squirrel causes all the problems face, except she has a dusting of glitter freckles and I’ve never seen Ingrid wear a Thrusters shirt with Thrusters leggings and a Thrusters gaiter used as a headband. “We should throw it away and then tell Mom we used it all making her Christmas presents so she can’t be mad.”

  “Mom doesn’t get mad when we use all the glue, dummy. She gets mad when we use it all and don’t tell her and then you or Hudson need it last-minute before your science project is due.”

  “We don’t have science projects, dummy.”

  “Did you know Ares Berger’s wife has dummies?” I ask. The hockey star and his ventriloquist wife are the first thing that pops into my head, and I figure it’ll diffuse the situation.

  I’m right. Piper and Zoe stop fighting.

  And I’m wrong. Because Piper is shapeshifting before my eyes from a normal seven-year-old girl and into a monster.

  “OH MY GOD, DO YOU KNOW ARES BERGER?”

  Piper shoves Zoe out of the way and crowds me up against the sink, a mini rabid fan-girl attack unfolding in ways that I didn’t see coming, but I probably should’ve, considering her outfit, plus the Thrusters posters all over her half of her bedroom walls and the way she talked about which Thrusters shirt she was planning to wear to Thanksgiving, and which pair of Thrusters pajamas she was taking to stay over at Aunt Portia’s house tomorrow night.

  “I want his autograph for Christmas. And I heard he sings. Have you ever sang with him? I’ll bet he sings like an angel. Did you know he had a hearing problem when he was little? And that’s why he doesn’t talk a lot? We are so much alike. He’s my favorite. And his baby is sooooo cute. One day, they walked past the store, but they didn’t come in, and when Mom told me, I cried, because if he’d come in, she could’ve asked him to sign my skates, but he didn’t, and he’ll probably never come back, and he should come back, because he could be my dad. I mean my pretend dad. Not a real dad. His wife’s okay, but she’s no Ares, you know?”

  I ease Hudson to the ground and steer him around his sister to safety. “There can really only be one Ares.”

  “Do you know him? Like know him know him?”

  I’ve met him a few times, which I will not be confessing to Piper. Especially since no isn’t a lie. I’m not sure many people know the real Ares Berger. “I don’t, but—”

  “How can you not know him? Jesus. What good is it to be famous if you don’t know Ares Berger?”

  Zoe rolls her eyes. “Do I need to go get your bodyguard?” she asks me.

  “Very funny.” I try one of the shape up looks my mom used to use on me, and it fails completely. “Piper. No more talk about hockey until the dishes are put away.”

  “The dishes are put away.”

  “Did you two finish vacuuming the living room?”

  “Zoe won’t let me plug it in.”

  Zoe huffs. “She always plugs it in backwards.”

  “Do not! You do!”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Piper. You’re only seven.”

  “They’re always like this,” Hudson announces.

  Seriously. Fucking. Amazing.

  Also, my mom’s getting a new car or—fuck.

  Not a new car. Her boyfriend could give her that.

  Maybe I can buy her a gazebo with a fully-stocked bar and a heater for use in winter. Like a she-shed, but fancier. Seems like something a single mother would appreciate. Twenty or thirty years late, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Making up for past wrongs in not doing it sooner?

  “I plugged the vacuum in,” Giselle announces, “and anyone who doesn’t get their rump into the living room to take thirty-second turns pushing it while the other one moves furniture will have to drop and give me twenty.”

  All three kids look at each other, shr
ink a little from Giselle, and then dart for the living room.

  “I vacuum first!” Zoe yells.

  “No, I do!”

  “Me me me! What does twenty mean? Do we have to give her our allowance?”

  “It means push-ups, idiot.”

  I eyeball my bodyguard. “I thought you didn’t babysit.”

  “You were clearly being assaulted by a seven-year-old. I did what I had to do. You can send my Christmas bonus to a women’s shelter. And increase it by fifty percent.”

  “Doubled, and done, and you’ll still get your normal Christmas bonus.”

  “Had enough?”

  I shouldn’t smile. I’m exhausted. I don’t know how Ingrid does this day in and day out. But I can also see how it’s worth it.

  She’s raising three funny, smart sparks of light who’ll take the planet by storm one day.

  It’s like an entire world right here in one small space.

  Giselle folds her arms. “You’re in over your head.”

  “Yep.”

  She starts to open her mouth again, then shakes her head, gives the squirrel a look that makes him freeze, then rocket out of the tub and down the hall before she follows the animal.

  She doesn’t have to say what she’s thinking.

  None of them do—not my employees, my friends, or my family.

  Ingrid doesn’t need one more complication. If I’m in, I’m in. No playing. No dabbling. No when it’s convenient for me.

  If I’m getting involved in her kids’ lives, if I want to be more than a one-time babysitter, then my entire life has to change.

  Everything I’ve ever thought I wanted has to change.

  Since the minute my piano lessons clicked, I’ve never wanted anything beyond being a musician. I’d still play ball with my buddies in our parents’ driveways. I’d jump in both feet first whenever someone recommended fun. In high school, I took girls to homecoming and prom, because that’s what my buddies did, but I always knew none of them were my future.

  Subconsciously, I caught on to how much Mom did for Tripp and me. And I caught on to the fact that she worked a desk job to support us instead of following her own dreams.

  Mom can sing.

  Mom can sing circles around me.

  My first year solo, I brought her out with me for part of the tour. Had her sing on stage with me a few times. And I know—I know—that she would’ve loved this life for herself, but that she would’ve given it up in a heartbeat for Tripp and me.

  Hell, she did.

  So there’s never been a question in my mind.

  I can be Levi Wilson, single pop star, or I can be Levi Wilson, the guy who walked away from it all for a woman.

  I’m not unhappy being by myself. I’ve never felt like anything’s missing from my life. But I also light up from the inside out when Ingrid pushes through the door thirty seconds after we get the vacuum put away.

  She freezes.

  Glances at the dining room, set for dinner.

  Then into the living room, still sparkling in spots on the rug, with the squirrel sitting in the windowsill, nibbling on the corner of a picture frame.

  Over at her kids, who share a guilty glance and then huddle together.

  And finally at me, a single wrinkle between her brows, silently asking what in the world we did this afternoon. “I covered the pie after Skippy tried to eat it,” I blurt into the silence.

  And then the kids unload.

  “Zoe spilled glitter!”

  “Only because Hudson bumped my arm!”

  “Piper called me poop face!”

  “Home sweet home,” Ingrid murmurs softly with a slight smile touching her lips.

  I want to kiss her. I want to sweep her off her feet, fetch her a glass of wine, pour her a bath, and wash her hair for her.

  In my entire life, I’ve never once wanted to wash a woman’s hair.

  But I want to wash Ingrid’s.

  I can’t do any of that while her kids are watching, so I shove my hands in my pockets and pretend I’m not watching for any sign that she wants to throw herself at me and kiss me the way I’d very much like to kiss her right now. “I tried to teach them some Von Trapp family songs, but they thought I was asking them to sing about alfredo sauce.”

  She glances down at my crotch, and yeah, Mr. Superstar in my pants knows it, and he decides it’s time to show off, which is also not good when her kids are watching. Down, boy. Down. Think about your mom having sex with a used car dealer. Think about your mother having sex.

  Okay.

  I’m gonna make it.

  And throw up in my mouth a little, but at least I won’t be having a birds-and-bees-and-boners discussion with Ingrid’s kids.

  And after the tampon fiasco this morning, I’m convinced there would be questions. And Skippy’s setting the base for an invisible force shield probably wouldn’t work the same this time.

  Her gaze lifts back to my eyes. “How is it that your hair makes you look like a vampire in the sunlight, but your freaking white jeans don’t have a speck of craft herpes on them?”

  I almost choke at craft herpes, but manage to keep an almost straight face to reply. “Magic.”

  Also, making eye contact with her is re-invigorating the boner situation.

  Mom having sex. Mom having sex.

  Nope. Not cutting it.

  Beck having sex. Beck having sex.

  Okay. Got it. I’m under control. You wouldn’t think that’d do it, but Beck insisted on practicing his O-face on us while we were trapped together on a tour bus in Montana not long after we started Bro Code, and I’ve never been more turned off.

  Ingrid’s kids are still tattling on each other. But she’s smiling at me like I’m getting laid tonight.

  For the record, what I’m about to tell her isn’t just so I could get laid. “There’s spaghetti sauce in your slow cooker and a pot of water ready to boil on the stove, plus garlic bread ready to go in the oven. And we tried to make cookie pie for dessert, and the squirrel did not get into the one we put in the fridge.”

  Her eyes go shiny, and she blinks quickly. “Thank you.”

  “I can’t guarantee there’s not glitter in the sauce. We had…an incident.”

  “If you only had one, you had a good day.”

  “I couldn’t find any wine.”

  “Every time I drink by myself, Hudson needs the emergency room.”

  “Right. Forgot. You’ve mentioned that.”

  She’s smiling at me like I can do no wrong. “But thank you for the thought.” She claps her hands. “Zoe. Piper. Hudson. Tell Mr. Levi thank you for hanging out with you today.”

  All three instantly morph from an arguing horde to a swarming mass of hugs wrapped around me and out-shouting each other with thank yous and Text my mom if Waverly replies and If you ever meet Ares Berger, tell him I’m JUST LIKE HIM, and My boogers have glitter.

  I ruffle everyone‘s hair. “Be good for your mom, and sing good tonight, Hudson.”

  “Thank you so much again,” Ingrid whispers after she’s disentangled me from her kids and shoved me out the door.

  I get it. Tight timeline. “Sure. Anytime.”

  Even Giselle can’t stay quiet at that one. She snorts to herself while Ingrid laughs. “If you say so. Also, if you have a secret magic trick to getting glitter out of your hair, I want to know what it is. And Hudson got a glitter booger on your white pants. You have no idea how much joy it gives me to know they don’t have actual magic and that you’re subject to normal human issues.”

  “My pants definitely have magic,” I murmur.

  Her eyes widen, then go dark, and she shoots a look three steps down at Giselle before turning her attention back to me. “That was not what I meant.”

  I grin.

  Her cheeks go pink. “And not what I should think about all through my preschooler’s Thanksgiving pageant…”

  “Call me later.”

  Her smile promises she will.


  And that warm knot in my chest promises I’ll enjoy it more than I should.

  Twenty-Four

  Ingrid

  I should not be here.

  It’s Wednesday night. I was late getting out of the store. Late getting my kids to Portia’s. Stuck in traffic on my way downtown. And now I’m punching the button to Levi’s floor in an elevator that only goes to the top six floors, because those are the floors reserved for Copper Valley residents who can afford the most privacy.

  But I shouldn’t be here.

  This Levi?

  He’s not the Levi on stage that I was obsessed with seeing in concert every chance I got.

  He’s the Levi who keeps coming back despite physical danger, weird pets, and the utter chaos that goes with my life.

  He babysat my kids.

  And left me with a clean apartment—the girls insisted he did most of the cooking and wiping and scrubbing himself between playing games and beauty parlor and arts and crafts with them.

  And now I have a sleepover. At his place. Where I’m very, very likely to fall completely, madly, helplessly in love with him, which is the last thing my family needs.

  No, Zoe, Levi can’t be at your gymnastics meet because he’s in Arizona for a concert. No, Piper, Levi’s shooting a commercial in Austria. He can’t be at your game. No, Hudson, Levi’s in New York, at very important meetings, and he can’t take you to little ninjas tonight.

  And who’s to say he’d even want that?

  Which is exactly why I shouldn’t be here.

  I’m falling head-over-heels for a man who offered me a friends-with-benefits secret fling, and then did me a favor that I never should’ve let him do.

  Tonight won’t make that better.

  But I’m helpless to resist the idea of a full night of grown-up time with the man who makes me feel like more than a frazzled mom and busy shop owner.

  The elevator dings on Levi’s floor, and the doors slide open.

  It’s not too late.

  I could hop back in, text him that I don’t feel good, and go home for a night of ice cream and vodka and leftover cookie pie, all by myself.