by Jessie Evans
They were unlike anything she’d seen before, but still strangely familiar. She was inches away from a painting of an owl with mufflers for wings and bicycle spokes for eyes, trying to figure out how she might be familiar with the artist’s work, when Nash spoke from behind her.
“I just pulled those out of the garage a few weeks ago,” he said. “My ex hated them.”
“Really? I li…” She turned, losing the ability to form words when she saw Nash dressed in nothing but a pair of loose, black, drawstring pajama pants.
He had said he was going to grab a quick shower while she bathed Felicity, but for some reason she’d expected him to change into something less…comfortable.
“Yeah, said they gave her the creeps.” Nash wandered over to the fridge and grabbed a beer. “You want one?’
“No, thanks. But the…um…the paintings. I like them. A l-lot,” she stuttered as he twisted the top from a Michelob Ultra and perched on a stool at the kitchen bar a few feet away.
Aria glanced up at the ceiling, then down at the floor, letting her eyes rest anywhere but on Nash’s bare chest. His stunning bare chest with its perfectly sculpted muscles and concave stomach and that six pack that looked closer to an eight-pack judging from her brief glance at it. The man was built like a professional athlete, all muscle, with a body designed to perform.
Aria was doing her best not to imagine Nash’s body performing in a bedroom-type setting when he said—
“Thanks. I only started painting again a few years ago. I still feel a little rusty.”
—and Aria’s jaw dropped for entirely different reasons.
“They’re yours?” she asked. “Oh my god, they’re stunning. I love them!”
Nash shrugged, looking pleased, but embarrassed. “They’re all right. I still have a long way to go. You know how it is, you only see the places where you didn’t get things the way they were in your head.”
“No, I think they’re great. Really, I love them,” Aria said, turning back to study the paintings. “It almost makes me want to pick up a brush again.”
“You should. You’re talented.”
“No. Maybe, once, a long time ago,” Aria said, waving her hand dismissively in the air. “But I haven’t painted since high school. I mean, I messed around with clay and Paper Mache at this commune I lived in for awhile, but nothing after that.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t making a lot of money, and art supplies are expensive.”
“I hear you,” Nash said. “That’s part of the reason I quit for years. My sister and I were helping my parents build a new house. Most of my spare money went there for a long time.”
Shame made Aria’s cheeks feel hot. She was still mooching off of her parents, while Nash had already helped give his a better life.
“Yeah,” she said, brushing her hair from her forehead as she stared deep into the lug nut eyes of a mama deer. “So…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 said, coming to stand behind her, so close she could feel his warmth and smell his fresh-from-the-shower scent rising all around her. “We give up on things too easily when we’re kids.”
Aria chewed her lip, thinking about other things they’d both given up on when they were kids, about that night in the woods when Nash had called her his girlfriend and made it sound like the most special, wonderful thing in the world.
Maybe he was right. Maybe some things did deserve a second chance.
And maybe he was talking about more than art…
Maybe …
“So I saw there was only one bed,” Aria said, not turning to look at him, worried that the crazy thoughts rushing through her head might show on her face.
Nash cleared his throat, and Aria felt him take a step back. “I figured I could sleep on the couch,” he said, crushing her small, foolish hope before it could completely form.
But that was good. Boundaries were good. Friendship was good. Anything else was drama she and Felicity could do without.
“That’s nice of you,” she said, facing him with a smile. “But I can take the couch. I don’t mind. I mean, this is your place.”
“No, you take the bed.” He backed another step away, as if to make certain she got the message. “I get up at the butt crack of dawn to lift most mornings, so you’ll get more use out of the bed. And that way you’ll be closer to Felicity if she wakes up in the night.”
Aria sighed, suddenly tired. “Oh, she’ll wake up. No question of if, only when. Which reminds me, I should get a few bottles ready.” Aria moved toward the bag of groceries on the counter, locating the formula and clean bottles she’d brought from her parents’ house.
“She’s still not sleeping through the night?” Nash asked, eyebrows lifting as he watched her from across the counter.
“No, she’s still not sleeping through the night,” Aria said, with a sigh. “And I’ve tried everything they say to try. I’ve added an extra nap during the day, I’ve fed her more solid foods, I’ve tried letting her cry for ten minutes before going in to feed her, and rocking her for fifteen minutes before she gets the bottle—nothing works. She just cries and cries until she gets the milk and then goes right back to sleep.”
Nash shook his head. “You haven’t tried the Mamaw method.”
“The Mamaw method?” It was Aria’s turn to lift an eyebrow.
“My sisters’ kids call my mom Mamaw so now we all do it,” Nash said with a bashful shrug. “But I’m telling you, the Mamaw 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?” Aria asked.
“I can teach you how it works.” Nash took a pull on his beer. “We could start tonight if you wanted.”
Aria crossed her arms, fighting the hope rising inside of her. It felt like forever since she’d 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 rose was…dizzying. It sounded like her birthday and Christmas and half a dozen orgasms all rolled into one.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” she finally said. “What’s the Mamaw method? How does she work this dark magic?”
Nash grinned. “Nothing magical about. 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 now,’ and you go back to bed for fifteen minutes. If she’s still crying after fifteen minutes, you go in and do the same thing.”
Aria blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“But what if she’s hungry?” Aria asked.
“Babies Skeeter’s—”
“Felicity, please. If Skeeter sticks as a nickname, I may have to kill you,” Aria said, softening the words with a mock glare.
Nash laughed. “All right. 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.”
Aria shook her head. This still sounded wrong, and on the verge of cruel and unusual punishment. “I’m not supposed to pick her up? Or rock her, or anything?”
“My sister Raleigh would rub my nephew Jason’s back or tummy every once and awhile,” Nash said, then added in a whisper. “But Mamaw frowns on that. Shows weakness.”
“Dude, I’m weak,” Aria said, propping her elbows on the counter and resting her chin in her hands, feeling defeated before she’d even started. “There’s no way I’ll be able to resist picking her up. She’s so totally pathetic. I swear, she cries like someone is pulling out her toenails one by one.”
Nash laughed, but Aria shook her head.
&nb
sp; “No, seriously. It’s like she’s being tortured.” Aria shuddered. “She’s so loud. She’ll keep you up all night unless I grab her within the first few sniffles.”
Nash shrugged. “So she keeps me up for a while. I don’t care.”
Aria frowned. “But you have work on Monday.”
“You’ve had work for eleven months and you’ve managed,” Nash said, the admiration in his voice surprising her. “I’m at least half as tough as you are.”
“I’d say you’re probably a little tougher,” Aria said, giving his bare chest a pointed look. “Just a hair or two.”
“Doubt it,” Nash said, leaning onto his forearms, bringing his face closer to hers. “Mamas are tough, but I would bet I’m better rested than you are. And more familiar with babies. Why don’t you let me help you 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.”
Nash rubbing her back. The thought was way more exciting than something so innocent should be.
Aria cleared her throat. “That’s a really sweet offer, Nash, but—”
“I’m sweet, Aria,” he said with a completely straight face. “Don’t let this big, meaty body fool you.”
Aria laughed as she rolled her eyes. “I really don’t want to put you out.”
“Put me out. It will make me feel useful. We men like to feel useful.”
“Not all men,” Aria said, unable to keep from thinking about Liam, who hadn’t even held Felicity since she was three months old, let alone tried to be useful in helping raise her.
“Well, I’m not all men,” Nash said in a soft drawl that made it feel like someone was brushing a feather up and down Aria’s spine. “Come on, let me help. What do you have to lose?”
Aria looked up at him through her lashes, seeing nothing but sincerity in his expression. “All right,” she said, feeling like she was making an even more dangerous bargain than the one they’d made last night, but unable to help herself. She knew it wasn’t smart to lean on Nash, but, god, how she wanted to sleep.
And a part of her was curious to know what it felt like to have a partner helping her get through a long night of parenting, to see if it was appealing as she’d always thought it would be.
“We’ll try it,” she said, “but only on one condition.”
“What’s that?” Nash asked.
“You let me help you with something while we’re here,” Aria said.
Nash nodded. “All right. Assuming I need help, I’ll ask for it.”
“But I don’t do laundry,” Aria said, holding up one finger. “Or ironing. Or cooking, except for things that contain sugar.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know how to cook.”
“I know how to cook,” Aria said. “Things containing sugar in them.”
“But you work for a catering business,” Nash said, a befuddled look on his face.
“I’m the pastry chef and baker,” Aria explained. “I paste and bake and put icing on things in a pretty way, I don’t cook-cook.”
“No laundry or home-cooked meals,” Nash said, shaking his head with a mock frown on his face. “What kind of fake wife are you?”
“The fake kind,” she said with a wink.
“Right.” Nash’s eyes met hers, making Aria keenly aware of the less than one foot of space that separated them, of how cozy it felt to be leaning across the counter toward him, exchanging silly banter, and how just plain nice it was to spend time with Nash.
It was only their first night together, and already Aria could feel how easy it would be to get used to this. To get used to him.
“You’re worrying again,” Nash said beneath his breath.
“How can you tell?” Aria whispered.
“Your eyes get all cloudy,” he said. “Which is a damned shame. You have beautiful eyes.”
Aria dropped her eyes to the counter, her cheeks feeling warmer than they did a moment before. “Thanks,” she said, not knowing what to make of the compliment.
Being enemies with Nash was second nature, but this friendship thing was a whole new ballgame.
“You’re welcome,” Nash murmured before draining his beer with one final swallow and pushing away from the counter. “We should get some sleep so we’ll be ready when Felicity is. I’ll go grab my toothbrush and stuff out of the master bath and keep it in the half bath near the front door for now.”
“Okay,” Aria said. “So…should I come wake you when Felicity gets up?”
“I’ll wake up on my own,” Nash said over his shoulder as he left the kitchen. “I’m a light sleeper.”
Aria took a deep breath, doubting she’d be sleeping at all, not with a half-dressed Nash less than fifty feet away, waiting to get up and rub her back when Felicity started crying.
She wondered if he’d meant that back rubbing thing literally…
“Guess I’ll find out in a few hours,” she mumbled as she flicked off the kitchen light and went to get ready for her first night as Mrs. Nash Geary.
She was exhausted, but she lay awake for hours in his enormous bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this would prove to be the stupidest thing she had ever done.
Or maybe the smartest.
Chapter Seven
By Tuesday morning Nash had dark circles under his eyes, by Wednesday he was yawning his way through his morning staff meeting, and by Thursday he was second-guessing the Mamaw method, sleep-training in general, and every parenting instinct earned through years of helping take care of little ones.
Felicity March was not a normal baby.
She was as determined as a bulldog after a bone, filled with an unholy midnight hunger, and every bit as stubborn as her mother. By day, she was sweet-tempered and charming, but by night she was a hellion with an eardrum-piercing banshee wail that Nash imagined had every dead person within a ten-mile radius rolling over in their graves.
Aria hadn’t been kidding about her daughter’s cry. It was blood-curdling, and back-rubbing did nothing to calm her down. In fact, it only seemed to enrage her all the more. For the past five nights, he and Aria had spent the better part of every night wincing and cringing as they stood at the edge of Felicity’s bed, taking turns rubbing the baby’s back as she wailed and moaned and cussed them in a unique baby-language all her own.
Raleigh—who was both thrilled and outraged that Nash had not only eloped, but also refused to bring his new wife over to meet the family until they had her daughter sleeping through the night—said to give it seven full nights before throwing in the towel, but Nash was on the verge of giving up.
Listening to Felicity cry until her tiny face turned purple with rage night after night was hard on his head, but the effect her misery had on Aria was hard on his heart.
The poor woman was a wreck. Her pale skin looked bruised beneath her eyes, she’d lost at least four pounds she couldn’t afford to lose, and her hands shook as she bustled around the kitchen making coffee every morning.
Thankfully, she only had to bake muffins and cookies for her sister’s catering business this week, but she had confessed she worried what was going to happen on Sunday when she had a five-tier cake to cover in iced cherry blossoms for a fancy bridal shower. If her hands weren’t steady by then, her work was going to be affected.
If she had been his wife in more than name, Nash would have checked Aria into a hotel and told her to get a good night’s sleep and let him handle sleep training solo for a night. But she wasn’t really his wife, and Skeeter wasn’t really his daughter, and he felt helpless to do anything to protect Aria from the obviously soul-mangling experience of trying to get her baby to sleep through the night.
He couldn’t spare her. He couldn’t even comfort her with the freedom he would have liked. He couldn’t draw her into his arms and hold her, he couldn’t promise they would get through this together, and he certainly couldn’t pull her into their bedroom and give her a little pleasure to make up for the pain.
The en
tire experience had him frustrated—in more ways than one—and feeling lonelier than he had in a long time. Aria was so close, but she might as well be a thousand miles away as far as he was concerned. She wasn’t his to help or comfort.
He knew that, the only thing he didn’t know was—why did a part of him want things to be different? Why was a part of him starting to wish that this were more than an arrangement, and Aria more than a friend?
“Probably just need to get some damned sleep,” Nash muttered to himself, chalking up the crazy thoughts to sleep deprivation.
By the time he fell onto the couch in an exhausted heap Thursday night, he had decided to abandon the Mamaw method. When Skeeter started crying tonight, he’d get up and make the bottle himself, anything to get her back to sleep without another epic battle of wills. The baby could nap off her exhaustion during the day, but he and Aria were going to be too beaten down to function if this went on for much longer.
Despite his keen awareness of Aria sleeping down the hall and his confused feelings about his fake wife, Nash was too tired to dwell on anything for long. Within seconds of his head hitting the pillow, unconsciousness sucked him under and he slept.
Deeply. Dreamlessly. A sleep so hard that, when a gentle shake on his arm woke him the next morning, for a second he had no idea where he was.
It took a moment to remember why Aria March was in his house, and another moment to guess why she was smiling like she’d just won the lottery.
It was the sun. The sun was shining in through the window behind her, turning her hair into a halo of red fire. It was morning, and he couldn’t remember hearing Felicity cry a single time during the night.
“She did it?” Nash asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with a fist.