Once Upon A Wild Fling

by Lauren Blakely

  That’s why. It’s an epidemic, evidently.

  I smile at her. “Looks like a great place.”

  She presses her palms together. “We love it here, and we simply wanted you to know. The Bingley School has so many wonderful opportunities.”

  Ben tugs on my hand. His stomach must be calling out for a sandwich too.

  “Good to know.”

  She inches closer, and I catch a whiff of her floral perfume, which might be pretty if she hadn’t bathed in it. “And so you know, if you need any help adjusting to Manhattan or Bingley, I’d be happy to do whatever you need,” she says, extending a hand. She wears no ring. “Anytime, any way you need it.”

  Well, Bingley is rolling out the red carpet for Ben, and the pink carpet for me. Backing away, I fasten on a smile. “Really appreciate that. Would you look at the time? We need to jet.”

  I turn to leave, and as we imitate 100-yard-dashers, Ben pulls harder on my hand. “I think she liked you.”

  “Nah, she was just being friendly,” I say, trying to make light of it.

  He shrugs as we hoof it up the street. “Nope. You’re a chicken magnet.”

  A laugh bursts from my gut. “Where did you learn that word?”

  His young face turns resolute. “I heard Ally and Uncle Miller say that about you. They said you’re a chicken magnet. That’s why ladies are always talking to you. Maybe that’s why you said you wanted a chicken sandwich for lunch.”

  I can’t stop laughing, but I do my best to settle down as we pass a florist and stop at the crosswalk. “Ben, first of all, it’s not chicken magnet. It’s chick magnet. Second, it’s classier to say lady magnet.”

  “Lady magnet,” he repeats, then furrows his brow. “Nope. Chicken is way more fun to say.”

  I hold out my hands. “Can’t argue with that.”

  Ben tugs at my wrist, his expression inquisitive. “Daddy, will I be a chicken magnet like you when I grow up? I mean, you are handsome like me.”

  I ruffle his hair. “You’re handsome and talented and brilliant,” I say, since he needs to know looks aren’t everything. But damn, this kid is one fine-looking boy. What can I say? I do have good genes. Since, clearly, all the good looks and talent are from me, and not She Who Shall Not Be Named.

  “But it might be kind of a pain in the butt to go to school here.”

  “You said butt,” I say, like Beavis and Butthead.

  “I say it all the time. Butt is funny, like chicken.”

  “Butt is literally the funniest word in the English language. But did you like that school?” I ask, secretly hoping he’ll say no.

  “I did, but it gets annoying when everyone talks to you all the time, like the people at the shows do. Plus, Mrs. Beedle smelled like tuna.”

  Done. “Then let’s find a new school.”

  “Cool. But right now I’d like to find a chicken sandwich.”

  “I’ll use my chicken-sandwich magnet to find the restaurant where we’re meeting William.”

  And I’m secretly hoping his sister will be there too.

  3

  Roxy

  Steeling myself, I take a deep breath and head to our portrait studio.

  I can handle him.

  I rap on the ajar door then push it open. “Knock, knock.”

  The man waiting inside is the spitting image of the dog next to him—tall, graying, and angular. He strides over to me, Harriet in perfect lockstep.

  His dark eyes are full of too much affection, and his smile is straight from a How to Try Too Hard handbook. “So good to see you, Roxy.”

  “Hi, Henry,” I say carefully, unsure of what to expect from him.

  He wraps his arms around me in a rather adhesive hug.

  “How are you?” he asks earnestly, his nose getting a little too close to my hair. Let’s be honest, he doesn’t need to smell me to say hello or for any other reason. Harriet sniffs my thigh, but that I understand. Sniff all you want, girl.

  “I’m well.”

  He sighs contentedly into my neck. “It’s been so long.”

  “Not really that long,” I say, remaining ramrod straight.

  “Four months?” He separates slightly to meet my eyes.

  “That’s not long in the scheme of things. Blink of an eye and all.”

  “Harriet and I miss you so,” he says, and my gaze strays to the Weimaraner’s big brown eyes. Her tail thumps on the floor, and I believe her. She might miss me.

  But Henry? He misses the idea of me.

  We went on three dates. Count ’em. Three. We walked his dog on the first date, and at the end he told me we had crazy chemistry.

  Not true. My chemistry was entirely with the canine—that girl can fetch, run, and give great love snuggles. But Henry was so much sweeter than anyone else I’d dated, so I agreed to a second outing.

  Plus, Harriet.

  That next time as we played mini golf, he wandered up behind me at the seventeenth hole, placed his head on my shoulder, and said happily, “I’m falling for you, Rox.”

  Possibly that was just a Machiavellian strategy to knock me off my game. Because we were neck and neck until that confession. It took me six tries to get the damn purple ball past the windmill fans after that.

  As we walked away from the final hole, I was cycling through my ready-made list of excuses to avoid a third outing, but I remembered the string of bad dates I’d been on before him, as well as the men who said they’d call and didn’t, the men who turned out to be secretly married, and the men who bored me to tears too.

  Give Henry a chance, a little voice said.

  When he asked me out once more, my little voice took over from the big one and said yes.

  Stupid little voices. Don’t listen to them.

  On that date, over eggplant curry, he asked me to marry him.

  There was no fourth date.

  “And how is Miss Harriet doing?” I ask, diverting attention to the canine, scratching her chin.

  She rubs her snout against me and pants happily.

  “Look at that!” he says. “It’s meant to be.”

  Time to tap dance. “It means she wants her photo. I’m so excited you’re here for a picture.”

  His gray eyes shine with the Cling Factor—it’s strong in this one. “I’m excited too. In so many ways.”

  Oops, wrong approach.

  I recalibrate, focusing on the practicality of the photo. “Why don’t you two sit on the couch? It’s perfect for a pair like you.”

  “We look alike, don’t we?”

  Most owners deny they look like their pets. But Henry embraces their sameness. “You sure do,” I say, raising the camera as he moves to the couch.

  He smiles widely, leaning his head next to the dog’s. “Does that mean you think I’m handsome?”

  This is why dating hates me. Dating and I never spoke the same language.

  I don’t answer. I simply smile as I snap more shots, hoping against hope he doesn’t have a ring in his pocket and isn’t going to try to mulligan his proposal.

  “Do you think so?” he asks, persisting.

  I gesture for him to scoot over. “Just move a little to the left.” Dart, dodge, dance away. I can do this.

  “Maybe kiss the dog too?” he offers, then brings his lips to Harriet’s snout.

  “Sure, go crazy.”

  He peppers kisses all over Harriet’s face as I capture them.

  When we’re done, he moves closer to me again, asking to see the shots. I inch away as I show him the back of the camera.

  But his eyes aren’t on the screen. They’re on me. “Roxy, what if I told you these pictures were just a way to see you again?”

  Gee, I’d be so shocked.

  I school my lips into my best all-business smile. “Thanks, Henry, that’s really nice to say. But I have a Great Dane who needs his toenails clipped, so I should go.”

  The Great Dane isn’t coming till this afternoon.

  Henry grabs my wrist. “May
be I came across too strong last time. But look, I’m willing to slow the pace. Like Harriet—she can run, but she can also trot and walk. Would you like to trot with me?”

  I don’t even want to crawl with him.

  I hate to do this. I hate to use my situation for this purpose. But it seems I’m going to need the biggest guns today.

  I set a hand on my stomach. “The thing is, Henry, I’m pregnant.”

  His jaw drops. He opens his lips. He sputters, saying something that sounds vaguely like “Congratulations.” He grabs the dog’s leash and hightails it out of there onto Madison Avenue.

  Wow. I never knew the baby in my belly would be so effective at warding off all the dates I don’t want.

  Ironic, because those dates are the very reason there is a baby in my belly.

  I grab my purse, checking to make sure I have crackers. They’re safe and sound. Fortunately, I’ve managed to avoid morning sickness for the most part. The only thing that makes me want to retch is too much perfume, and I have a hunch I won’t have to worry about that at lunch with two men. My brother texted me earlier to ask how I was feeling, and when my immediate reply was good but starving, he said I should join him for lunch, so I’m heading out to meet my brother and Miles.

  Along the way, I text William to ask if he can order me a pasta dish and to remind him not to make any pregnancy jokes. I’m thirteen weeks along, coasting out of the first trimester, but I haven’t told anyone about the baby except family and my best friend.

  When I do, the questions will come fast and furious, and I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for them.

  4

  Miles

  William stands tall at the table, looking as polished as a financial manager should be in his tailored suit and power tie. He points at me. “It’s the next Ed Sheeran.”

  I clap him on the back at Ruby’s Kitchen. “Please. I’m aiming for the next JT, don’t you think?” I wink.

  William bends to high-five Ben. “What do you think?” He tips his forehead to me. “Ed Sheeran or Justin Timberlake?”

  Ben screws up the corner of his mouth. “What about Taylor Swift? All my cousins sing her songs.” We grab seats at the table in the café.

  “The kid has a point,” William concedes, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. “Dream big, right?”

  Settling in at the table, I grab a menu and flip it open. “I’m happy to be me. But the next Sam Smith works too.”

  That’s more my level, and it suits me fine, even though I’m taking an extended break from actively touring and playing big arenas. I returned to Manhattan earlier this year when I learned what my sneaky-ass brothers were up to.

  They tried to pull a fast one on me—they reunited, the fuckers. I can’t believe they thought they could do that without me.

  Then again, they started the band in the first place, leaving me behind. Fine, I was twelve when Campbell and Miller formed the Heartbreakers, so I guess our parents weren’t too wild about their youngest playing in a pop band. They told me I had to wait till I was “old enough,” so I joined when I turned sixteen. I guess I was always on the outskirts—the kid brother who tagged along. That was why I was so eager to launch my own solo career when the Heartbreakers split before I turned twenty.

  But there was no way I was letting them restart one of the most popular boy bands ever—or evah, as the fans used to say—without their youngest member. I’m back, and I’m all the way in. For the last several months, we’ve played gigs in Manhattan and the tristate area, and we launched a brand-new YouTube channel that is on fire.

  Once a Mouseketeer, always a Mouseketeer.

  “How are the school visits going?” William asks, not bothering to open the menu. This is his stomping ground.

  “The art teacher was fishy,” Ben offers, grabbing a jar of crayons from the middle of the table and sliding them closer.

  “Boom. Enough said.”

  “Speaking of fish, Bingley is a bit like a school of piranhas,” I say, then detail what went down, as Ben busies himself by drawing a dolphin on the white paper placemat.

  “That school is nuts. It’s full of the Crazy Factor, as my sister would say,” William says, and I sit a little taller at the mention of Roxy. I’ve come to know her through William, but also because her best friend, Mackenzie, happens to be Campbell’s fiancée.

  “I’d have to agree with the Crazy Factor assessment.”

  “That’s why you need to ask me these things. Lean on me, man.” William pats his chest animatedly. He’s never met a conversation that can’t be improved by talking with his hands. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “I thought it was to tell me where to invest and whether cryptocurrency was the new thing.”

  He shoots me a searing look with his intense eyes. “I’m your everyman. C’mon, help me help you.” He slows his speech more, gesturing from him to me. “Help me help you.”

  I smirk. “Sure, Jerry Maguire.”

  He raises both arms in the air in victory. “Yes! I take that as a full-speed-ahead compliment. Jerry was dedicated, and you know I am too.”

  I do know that. William’s been great since he started handling my financials a few years ago, and even better since I moved to New York. But I don’t want to hassle the guy for everything, especially since he has a life of his own, with a wife and kids.

  He tells me New Yorkers are usually blasé about celebrities, then he tosses out the names of some elementary schools to check out. “Don’t forget to check out the Drew School. That’s where Daniel goes, and hopefully all the parents there will think you’re hideous.”

  “That’d be a welcome relief,” I say, laughing. Sadly, it would. I’m not complaining. But since Ben’s mom took off before the episiotomy stitches had even fallen out, I’m not so wild about getting in a relationship again. Sure, I’ve had a few dates here and there, and I definitely haven’t retired from my favorite horizontal hobby, but mostly I’ve been laser-focused on music, singing, and taking care of this awesome kid. Attention from strangers—even if they’re beautiful women—doesn’t interest me. Call it once burned, twice shy. I had that kind of attention from Ben’s mom, and I was sure we had something special going on. So special we decided to have a kid.

  Then she decided to skedaddle.

  Oops. I was wrong about how special we were.

  I spot the waitress walking toward us, and I turn to the center of my world. “Do you know what you want, little man?”

  An impish grin stretches across his face. “Guess.”

  His tastes are pretty simple, but I play along, arching a brow and humming. “Could it be liverwurst?”

  He laughs, shaking his head.

  William pipes in. “I bet you have a hankering for a house salad with extra kale.”

  “No, no,” I say, getting into it more. “He wants a kale smoothie. Don’t you?”

  Ben’s nose crinkles. “That all sounds gross.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine, if it’s not oatmeal with chia seeds, I don’t know what it could be.”

  Before he can answer, the waitress arrives, flashing a cheery grin at my kid. “Hey there! Did you know we have a grilled cheese special today?”

  His blue eyes light up, and Ben points excitedly to the waitress. “Yes! She knew it. She must be a cheese magnet.”

  The woman with the blonde ponytail and freckled face smiles at him. “I’m definitely a cheese magnet.”

  When she meets my gaze, she blinks. “Oh.” She steps back, nearly stumbling.

  I smile widely at her, checking her name tag. “Hey, Marissa. I’d love a chicken sandwich with a small house salad.”

  She stares. For one second, then four or five. When she finally speaks, her voice shoots up several octaves. “Chicken sandwich. Of course.”

  Ben shrugs happily. “My dad is a chicken magnet. But that’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  Marissa’s face flushes beet red. “I’m so sorry.”

 
I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s all good.”

  She clasps her chest, sighing. “I’m just such a huge fan of your music, Mr. Hart, and I was trying to play it cool. But I love, love, love your songs so much. Like, more than Ed Sheeran. And I can absolutely get you that chicken sandwich, and a grilled cheese special for the handsome little fellow.”

  She turns on her heel to go, when William calls out, “Yoo-hoo. I’d like a Cobb salad.”

  She spins back, smacking her forehead. “My apologies, sir.”

  “No worries. I’m used to playing chopped liver to this guy. Also, I need a pasta primavera for someone who’s joining us in a few minutes.”

  When she leaves, William mouths appreciatively, “Better than Ed Sheeran.”

  I blow on my fingers. “What can I say?”

  “If I were still single, I’d ask you to save a little on the side and give it to me.”

  “You know I’d gladly do that for you.”

  “Also, I might have to take back what I said about New Yorkers being low-key. I don’t know that you’re going to be able to navigate this town without a slew of autograph and date requests.” His phone pings, and he glances at the screen. “Roxy’s nearby, and I told her to come for lunch too. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not in the slightest.” And I don’t. I really don’t.

  “Great. Let me catch you up on business.”

  We dive into the latest investments he wants to make for me, as Ben switches from a seascape to a landscape. William updates me on the value of my assets, and my mind briefly wanders to other assets, namely his sister’s.

  It’s not that I think my buddy’s sister is a babe. It’s that I think she’s a total babe. Red hair, hazel eyes, full lips, fantastic wit, big heart, and a rack I’d like to get to know. As William talks about return on investment, I try to listen. Truly, I do. But I’m not a numbers guy. Percentages baffle me. Spreadsheets bedevil me. All I want is to make music and have someone smarter than I am invest the money from it.

  That’s this guy, and he’s been amazingly good with my portfolio so far, tucking millions safely away for my boy and me. So I try in vain to focus on market performance and increasing valuation, but mostly I’m wondering what Roxy will be wearing and if it’ll accentuate her increasing valuation.