Once he’s settled at the trough, I take the box into the kitchen and open it. Laughing, I check out the contents. I can’t believe Miles sent me this.
Inside the box is a plastic container of gourmet pickles from the fanciest pickle shop in Brooklyn—a store that only sells pickles and somehow still manages to boast lines every day—as well as two pints of Talenti gelato.
A white card is tucked inside. I slide it open to find a note.
Just in case that craving kicks in at some point. Thanks again for being my bodyguard. XO Miles
I stare at the card for a few seconds, tracing the black lettering, wondering if he wrote it himself or called it in to the delivery company. I kind of hope it was him. But does it matter?
Oh, right. So I can keep it and feel those dang butterflies again.
Which is ridiculous, so I try to shove them and the zings far from my mind.
My stomach growls, and that’s as good a reason as any to call him. When he answers, the chatter of children playing echoes in the background, as if he’s at the park.
“Potential Pregnancy Cravings Delivery, at your service,” he says.
“So if I eat this now, does it mean I had a craving for pickles and ice cream or just that you sent me an excellent dinner?”
He laughs, a deep, warm sound that makes me smile. “That does sound like an amazing dinner, but only if you include a sandwich between those two courses.”
“Ooh! That gives me an idea. Mackenzie sent me her recipe for one of her most awesome sandwiches, and I picked up all the ingredients the other day. I think I know what I’m having for dinner now, along with the ice cream and pickles.”
“Is it her apple cinnamon grilled cheese special? Because she made that the other day for us and it was spectacular.”
A little voice echoes in the background. “It was so yummy!”
“We’re at the playground in Central Park,” he adds.
“I had a feeling. Anyway, it’s a portobello mushroom sandwich with aioli and avocado. It’s so yummy even Ben would like it.”
There’s a pause, then Miles says, “Want to test that theory?”
“I don’t want to say I told you so, but I told you so,” I say proudly when Ben finishes the sandwich, licking his fingers and smacking his lips.
“You’re an amazing chef, Roxy,” Ben declares.
“Nah, I’m just good at following recipes. Be sure to tell Mackenzie she’s a great chef when you see her again.”
“I will, but who should I thank for the ice cream?” he asks, practically batting his eyes, since he won’t let me forget about dessert.
“We haven’t opened it yet,” Miles says, laughing as he takes another bite of a pickle.
Ben shrugs happily. “I’m just thinking ahead.”
I wink at him. “You can thank the cow for the ice cream and thank your dad for picking it out.”
Ben taps his chest. “Actually, I picked out the peanut butter and chocolate flavor when I helped Daddy shop for you earlier today.”
“You’re a fantastic shopper, then.” I stand, give him a kiss on the forehead, and scoop up his plate. “And I’ll thank you in advance for the ice cream.”
But before I can head into the kitchen, Miles pops up from the table, grabs the plates from me, and says, “I’ll clean up.”
I thank him and sit on the couch. Ben joins me on the floor, parking himself across the coffee table from me. “Now, Ben, I’ve been dying to know. How is your drawing of the alien whale coming along?” I ask. He was working on that in art class the last time I saw him.
“I finished it. It’s awesome. The whale lives on Saturn, so he has rings around him, but he also works on a spaceship that flies him back to Earth’s oceans.”
“That must be a powerful spaceship.”
“Oh, it definitely is,” he says, his tone serious.
Gloria slinks out from the couch and wanders over to Ben. He smiles, stretching out his arm to pet her. She arches her back, asking for more.
“She’s my friendly cat.”
“The other cat’s not friendly?” he asks as he strokes her fur.
“No. Alan’s a conundrum. He hides from strangers and then acts like he rules the place when it’s just him and Gloria.”
“What’s a conundrum?”
“Something confusing and hard to explain.”
“Maybe he’s an alien. Like in the books my dad reads.”
That intel tugs at my lips. “Your dad reads about aliens?”
Ben nods emphatically. “He does, and that’s why I made the alien whale for him.”
“I hear you talking about me,” Miles calls out from the kitchen. “And aliens are totally cool.”
“Well, friendly aliens are cool, Dad. Scary aliens are not cool. Those aliens are conundrums.”
A minute later, Miles returns with the pints of ice cream, spoons, and bowls.
I arch a brow. “I’m impressed you found everything.”
“My ability to open cupboards and root around is quite astonishing,” he says.
“I expected more of a man look and a cry for help.”
He lifts a brow in question.
“Usually when a man looks for something in a cupboard or drawer, it’s right there shouting ‘I’m here!’ and they still don’t see it. Because they give it a man look.”
“Well, I guess I gave it a capable-man-who-knows-how-to-get-stuff-done look,” he says, with a little checkmated-you-didn’t-I grin.
The fact that he’s so helpful is another point in his favor. He flops down next to me on the couch, his leg touching mine, sending a zing through me that I absolutely shouldn’t feel. But tell that to my body. I’m zinging, and it’s not just from the leg. It’s from the dinner too—and that he had thoughtful and funny gifts delivered, and then wanted to join me, and is now hanging out with me.
We eat ice cream, and I expect Miles to take off after, but he doesn’t seem to be in any mood to leave once he finishes his peanut butter and chocolate ice cream. I don’t have a ton of games and books for kids Ben’s age, so I grab a deck of cards and ask if anyone wants to play Go Fish. “Is that what six-year-olds like?”
Ben chimes in with an intensely serious answer. “Roxy, I’m too old for Go Fish. Daddy and I play Crazy Eights when we fly.”
Miles mimes dealing a hand or two. “We spread out the cards on the tray tables and engage in a fierce card battle.”
Somehow, that image delights me. “The two of you playing cards in first class sounds adorable.”
“How did you know we fly first class?” Miles asks.
I roll my eyes. “Please.”
“You should come with us some time,” Ben says, bouncing on his knees. “We have a lot of fun. We pretend we’re fancy when we ride in that section.”
I lower my voice to a faux whisper. “News flash—you are fancy when you ride in first class.”
Ben dips his spoon into his bowl, hunting for one last morsel, then finds it. He finishes the treat with gusto, getting nearly all the final spoonful of ice cream down the hatch, except for a streak on his cheek. Miles leans across the coffee table and cleans up the ice cream patch.
As we play a few hands, I tell Miles that things are looking good with the apartment I’m trying to snag, and he offers a high five. “And you didn’t even have to sell a kidney to get it.”
“Don’t jinx me. They might still ask for one.”
“If they want a spleen, I’m happy to give mine. I read somewhere that you can live without one.”
I pat his knee. “You’re so sweet to offer your inessential organs.”
After another round, Ben pops up and declares he has to pee. I point him to the bathroom then turn to Miles. “Aliens?”
He shrugs. “What’s wrong with aliens?”
“Nothing. It’s just not what I expected for your reading taste.”
“What did you expect? Music bios? Pop magazines?”
I laugh. “I’m not honestly sure
, but maybe it’s just that aliens seem delightful.”
He scowls as if he’s adopting a tough-guy attitude. “Aliens in sci-fi are rarely delightful. Also, not all sci-fi books have aliens. Some are about total badass dudes trying to save the entire solar system while piloting awesome ships.”
“That does sound like good, manly fun.”
“What do you like to read?” He scans my apartment looking for evidence, but I’m an e-reader girl.
“True crime,” I answer.
Laughing, he shakes his head. “I would not have pegged you as a true-crime fan.”
“What would you have pegged me as?”
He stares at my face then lets his eyes travel down my body, like he can find the answer by assessing me. But he stops at my belly. “You’re getting rounder.” His voice dips, hitting a huskier tone.
I glance down, setting a hand on the small pillow that my stomach’s becoming. “Just a tiny bit. Enough that I told Sam the news the other day when Mackenzie and I took her to the nail salon. Then I told Campbell and Ally and Miller later that day.”
“The gang all knows then?”
“They all wanted to touch my belly. Well, mostly Sam and Ally. Your brothers didn’t,” I say with a laugh.
His eyes darken. “They better not.” Then he looks me over again, shaking his head almost in disbelief. “You look great. You look . . . amazing,” he says, his voice a little raspy, a lot sexy, and like he’s completely lost his train of thought. His eyes drift back up to my chest, and he lingers there too. I don’t mind. Normally I’d be offended if a man stared at my rack, but Miles has done the dishes and brought me dessert and talked with me all night long.
I also don’t mind because I like the way his eyes show desire as he looks at me.
I like, too, that he’s unabashed about drinking me in. That he’s shameless in the way he stares. He raises his gaze to my face, and his blue irises are fiery again, like how they looked at the reunion. He lifts a hand, swipes his thumb over the corner of my lips, and says, “Looks like you have ice cream on your cheek too.”
I tremble because he’s lying and we both know it. But I love the feel of his hand on me. My body screams for him to touch me more, however he wants, and maybe he can sense it, because he runs his thumb over my jawline and whispers, “Thanks for dinner.”
“Thanks for the gift,” I say, and my voice has never sounded so wobbly before.
“We should do it again,” he says, and I swear he’s looking at me like he wants to rip off all my clothes.
But it must be my hormones talking. That’s all it can be. I’m clearly assigning way too much desire to him simply because I’m an aching mess of want. There’s no way he can want me the same way I want him, this intensely, this deeply.
“Roxy, do you have ice cream on your face too?” Ben asks, returning from the bathroom.
I flinch and yank away from Miles, scooting to the other side of the couch, caught red-handed. But doing what? Enjoying his dad’s thumb on my jawline?
And holy hell, did I ever enjoy his thumb on my jawline, because my body is still humming a few minutes later as we return to the card game.
I’ve enjoyed this evening so much.
I wasn’t even craving ice cream and pickles. But maybe I was craving company.
Their company.
So much that when Ben mentions his next school visit in a few weeks, and Miles asks me to go, I don’t hesitate to say yes to my plus-one duties.
I’m liking them as much as the bodyguard ones.
19
Roxy
The next weekend, my mother strides to the door of an out-of-the-way boutique in Brooklyn and gestures grandly to the white curlicue letters etched on the glass. “Ta-da. May I present the best-kept secret in all of the wedding industry?”
Mackenzie eyes the name—Susie’s Dresses and More. “Tell the truth, Mrs. Sterling. Why does Susie want to keep this a secret? What is she hiding?”
My mother plays along. “So she can offer the best service to a few exclusive insiders. You have to be in the know to find it.” My mother, of course, is in the know. When I mentioned Mackenzie was struggling to find the right dress for her wedding this summer, she insisted on intervening.
I mean helping. She insisted on helping.
Mackenzie points to the swirling letters on the sign. “Level with me. What’s the more, Mrs. Sterling? Does Susie have a giant collection of creepy dolls behind the racks of dresses? I can handle it. I just want to know what I’m getting into.”
My mother laughs at Mackenzie’s antics. My mother has always laughed at Mackenzie’s antics. “Come inside. Let’s find you the perfect dress. And maybe something more,” she says, adopting a spooky tone at the end.
She heads inside, and I grab Mackenzie’s arm, whispering, “The more refers to vintage nipple clamps.”
Mackenzie’s hands fly to her chest. “Ouch.” She lowers her hands. “Also, you have a dirty mind, you saucy minx.”
“Lately, that seems to be the case.”
“Ooh, have you hit the want-to-hump-everything-in-sight-mester?”
I laugh. “Yes. It’s gotten so bad that my couch pillows told me they had a headache last night.”
We go inside, and it turns out the more refers to a whole range of dresses beyond wedding ones, including a collection of ’20s-style mermaid frocks that I ooh and ahh over as Mackenzie tries on a gown.
“This one has some room in it,” Mom tells me, meaning the dress. “If you needed something down the line for an event or whatnot, you’d look good in it in your condition.” She runs a hand down the silky fabric of a rose-gold flapper-esque dress.
“You can say it, Mom. While I’m knocked up,” I supply.
She laughs. “‘Condition’ suits me fine.”
“Personally, I prefer bat in the cave. Do you like that euphemism?”
“I’m not going to call it a bat in the cave,” she says, shaking her head, a smile on her lips.
“How about in the pudding club? One of my clients said that the other day when I told her.”
My mother’s hazel eyes widen, and she grips my shoulder. “Have you started telling clients?”
I laugh. “Yes, Mom. They’re not freaking out over my horrible condition.”
“Darling, I’m not freaking out. I’m merely concerned, and always will be concerned because I’m your mother.” She dips her voice lower. “But what did they say?”
“They all invited me to their spinster clubs, of course. Said I’d be a welcome addition since I’d be living the life of an old maid soon.” I’m clearly feeling a little feisty today with Mommykins. I’m not sure why I have the desire to poke her, but maybe it’s because the reaction is worth it.
She huffs and rolls her eyes. “I never said you’d be an old maid. I simply don’t want you to limit your love opportunities.”
“Too bad my couch already turned me down,” I quip.
She furrows her brow. “I don’t understand.”
And that’s a damn good thing. “Never mind. Anyway, everyone’s been great when they learn about my pudding club admission.”
She breathes what sounds like a sigh of relief.
“Hey, do you know where the expression in the pudding club comes from?” Mackenzie’s strong voice carries from the dressing room.
“No, dear, where does it come from?” my mother asks.
“British etymology,” I say.
“Used notably by the writer James Curtis in the novel The Gilt Kid in 1936,” Mackenzie adds.
“It was an answer to a trivia question the other night,” I say to my mom, explaining how Mackenzie can whip out an answer so quickly. “Shockingly, Mackenzie answered it correctly.”
“Of course I did, especially since I was a member myself more than thirteen years ago,” she shouts, then unlocks and emerges from the dressing room in a flurry of white and beauty, wearing a tea-length swing dress with a sleeveless lace bodice that’s utterly gorgeous.
“Oh my God,” my mother and I gasp in unison.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
“It’s stunning,” my mom adds reverently.
“Is it really?” Mackenzie asks, nerves flickering through her voice. “I can’t believe I’m actually getting married, and Kyle is going to walk down the aisle with me.”
I can’t tear my gaze away from the dress—it’s perfectly bridal with the lacy top, it’s thoroughly casual with the bare arms, and it’s completely fresh and fun with the swing skirt. It’s my best friend, through and through.
“It’s the one and only dress I’m letting you wear,” I tell her.
When she heads back inside the dressing room, my mom whispers, “Her son is walking her down the aisle? Not her father?”
“She thought it was fitting to walk with her son. Mackenzie’s quirky. She marches to the beat of her own drum. Also, she was a single mom too.”
“I know,” my mom says, staring in Mackenzie’s direction then sighing contentedly. “I like her.”
“Me too,” I say, glad Mom and I can agree on that.
Once Mackenzie is done, her gaze catches the mermaid dress. “Ooh, wouldn’t that look great on Roxy, with her pudding club belly, even when it gets bigger?” she says to my mom.
“I was telling her that very same thing.”
I gasp in an over-the-top fashion. “Mother, but then everyone would know I have a condition.”
She laughs. “You’re seventeen weeks. You can’t hide it much longer. And at some point, you might need a dress that looks elegant and lovely.”
“Does that mean you’re not ashamed of me?”
She furrows her brow. “I was never ashamed of you. And I can’t wait to dote on my grandbaby.” She wraps her arms around me and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Never ashamed of you,” she adds for emphasis.
I smile, feeling a little warm and fuzzy about my mom for a brief moment. “Thank you.”
Mackenzie nudges me. “That dress isn’t only elegant. It’s smoking hot. You could wear it the next time you see Miles.”
My mom’s eyebrows rise. “Miles? Who’s Miles?”
Once Upon A Wild Fling Page 10