by Tara Leigh
I shouldn’t be so cavalier. Hearing the bathroom door close, the shower turn on . . . it’s torture. With every blink, a tantalizing image of Nash’s naked body flashes against the back of my eyelids. His tanned body, so strong and sleek, rivulets of water running down his well-defined abs, his powerful thighs, his . . .
Stop it!
Nash has my body all hot and bothered, and my mind is a mess. But he put a stop to what we started last night and he was right. Keeping things platonic is for the best.
I absolutely cannot join him in the shower.
No matter how badly I want to.
No matter how good I know he’d look dripping wet.
Chapter 13
Nixie
After spending two days lounging around the Holtsmann, only leaving to go on walks with Kismet and to the Pratt campus—with Jay always nearby—I decide it’s time to escape my overprotective detail and get back to reality.
Nash won’t like it, but that’s too bad. I’m not his prisoner. He can’t keep me here against my will.
Though, I have to admit, the time we’ve spent together has been nice. Very nice. True to his word, Nash hasn’t brought up 9/11. And I haven’t made any more confessions.
Neither of us has mentioned Derrick.
And we haven’t shared another kiss.
He calls before leaving the office and we decide what to do for dinner. I picked Thai the first night, he picked sushi the next. But he leaves the choice of movie to me, probably because he works through most of it. Though he does occasionally set his laptop aside when I nudge him, not so subtly, with my feet.
But a foot massage is as far as we’ve gone. I haven’t asked him to sleep in bed with me again, and he hasn’t offered. It’s an uneasy truce, and I don’t expect it to hold. Of course, when Nash gets back to the suite tonight and sees that I’m gone, he’ll probably show up in Brooklyn and throw a man-sized temper tantrum. He’ll act like a brute and I’ll act like a brat. We’ll probably both say things we’ll regret.
And maybe that will be the end of us.
But when I turn onto my street, it’s immediately obvious that Nash is the least of my concerns.
There are two vans parked in front of the building. MOLD REMEDIATION SPECIALISTS OF BROOKLYN is written on one, and METROPOLITAN WILDLIFE REMOVAL is written on the other.
Uh oh.
I spot Sam on the curb, hiking up his belt with one hand while running the other through his hair, and looking like he would rather be anywhere else.
“Uh, Sam?” I ask, a sinking feeling in my stomach. “What’s going on?”
He spins to face me, the tools in his belt jangling. “Nixie, where have you been? I called you three times yesterday.”
I saw the calls, but I didn’t recognize the number so I didn’t pick up. “I’m sorry, I—”
“It’s okay. It’s probably better if I explain everything in person anyway,” he says hurriedly, wiping at his sweaty forehead. “Mrs. Dwyer’s windows weren’t sealed shut when the window washing service same so she called me about water getting in.”
Shit. I meant to help her but I got sidetracked by Derrick and completely forgot. “Oh no. Is there anything I can do?”
“Nah. She went to stay with her sister out in Rockaway until we get all this sorted.” He waves at the vans like they’re enough of an explanation.
“What exactly is all this?”
“Well, the water was simple enough to take care of. But I noticed some mold behind the couch and curtains. Now, I can mop up a leak, and manage basic electric and plumbing. But I don’t do mold.” He points to first van. “So I called those guys.”
I nod. “How long will it take to fix?”
Sam’s eyes slide away from mine. “That depends. When the mold guys opened up the wall, they found a snake.”
Oh my god, this keeps getting worse.
“A snake? What kind—a garter snake? A dead snake?” I take a quick breath. “A dead garter snake?” I can handle one small, harmless, and most importantly, very dead snake. Barely.
Sam shakes his head. “No. The one they caught was about seven feet.”
I feel my gag reflex kick in and I pick up Kismet, holding her close. “But . . . they caught it, right?”
“Yeah. They’re looking for the others right now.”
“Others?”
“The wildlife guy saw two other skins in the wall that he says don’t belong to the one he caught.” Again, a wave of nausea rises up my throat. “Don’t worry, he’s checking the building now. I’m sure it’s going to be fine.”
Sam doesn’t look sure. At all.
And I definitely don’t feel sure.
I don’t even want to go into my apartment to get my things. But all of my art supplies are in there. And I got three new watercolor orders on my Etsy site yesterday.
I don’t call Nash right away. I walk around the block once, then twice. And then I sit on the stoop across the street and stare up at the building. The windows look beautiful. Clean and completely streak free.
I eye the two men dressed in what look like haz-mat suits standing at the curb, smoking a cigarette. I should probably ask if they can check my apartment for mold, too. Mrs. Dwyer is right above me. Maybe—
Another guy comes out of the front door lugging a cage. A very heavy cage, by the looks of it. “Got another one,” he shouts to Sam.
And . . . I’m officially done. Frankly, I don’t even feel bad about it. I can candle cockroaches. I can even, almost, handle mice. And the only place I’ve ever seen a rat has been in the subway. But I didn’t scream. The rat went his way and I went mine.
But one case of mold and two captured snakes—with another one on the loose—is not a healthy fungus/reptile ratio. Which, for the record, should be zero. As in, zero over zero equals zero.
I pull my phone out of my purse. Nash answers on the second ring. “So, I was wondering if Jay could drive to Brooklyn . . .”
Nash
The sight of Madison and Parker’s smiling faces never fails to make my heart swell. I swipe at the screen to take Eva’s call, hating that it makes their photograph disappear. “You’re up early.”
“Try explaining that to my children, will you? Their preschool doesn’t start until nine thirty, so one would think waking up before dawn isn’t necessary.” There’s a pause while Eva sips at what I’m guessing is her second, or maybe third, cup of coffee. “Although maybe they’re right. Even with nearly four hours to get ready, somehow we’re still always late.”
“I’ve offered to hire a nanny for you a million times, Eva. If you need help in the mornings, I’d be happy to—”
“No, no.” Eva immediately objects. “An occasional babysitter is all I need. You know how I feel about hiring a stranger to raise of my kids.”
I do know. She’s determined to make up for the fact that the twins are growing up without a father by being Super Mom. I respect her for it, but I worry, too. Sure, she allows family to help her. My family, anyway. Eva’s mom passed away when she was a teenager. Her dad is out of the picture, and if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay that way. But my parents live in Florida, only coming back to New York for occasional visits, and I work seven days a week. “If you change your mind, let me know.”
“The kids will be in full-day kindergarten in a year and a half, I’m on the home stretch,” she says, her tone more wistful than excited. “Anyway, I just wanted to check in. Should we meet at the airport tomorrow or will you pick us up on the way?”
“Airport?” And then I remember. Thanksgiving in Bermuda. I trip I had absolutely no intention of going on, but forgot to cancel. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
For the last week, my attention has been on all things Nixie. Counting the number of freckles scattered across her face (six on her left, seven on her right, and three on her nose). The increasing accuracy and speed of her punches. Her favorite foods and movies. I even enjoy watching her turn a blank page into a whimsical watercolor—which
is, literally, watching paint dry.
I nearly lost my mind when Nixie called me from Brooklyn. Had I known it would only take a couple of snakes to get her to stay at the Holtsmann with me, I would have shoved the reptiles into an air vent myself.
I’m falling more in like with her every day. And every night, I watch her go into one bedroom while I go into another.
I haven’t been back to my own apartment in ages, and I’m frankly shocked by how quickly Nixie has become a habit I have no intention of giving up. Although maybe not quite as shocked as Simmons, when I walk out of the door by six every day and don’t show up again until nearly nine. I’ve never kept hours like this before.
“Did you forget?”
“No,” I lie, plowing a hand through hair I just combed into submission. There’s no way I can bow out now. “I’ll pick you up. Want me to come upstairs and help with the kids?”
She laughs. “No. Once they see their suitcases, I’ll be lucky if they get any sleep at all. We’ll probably be waiting in the lobby before you even leave your place.”
I hear Nixie puttering around in the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the closed door. There’s no way I’m leaving her alone in New York while I’m out of the country. I don’t even like leaving her to go to my office a few miles away. “Uh, Eva . . . I need to bring someone with us.”
Although I haven’t taken any action against Derrick Attwood yet, I hired someone to keep an eye on him. Apparently he’s been back to Nixie’s apartment building in Brooklyn twice. It’s only a matter of time before he realizes that she’s moved out and starts looking elsewhere.
“Jay? I thought he was going to his sister’s after he drops us off at the airport.”
“No, not Jay.”
Interest piques Eva’s voice. “Who?”
“A friend.”
“A friend like one of your cute boxing buddies or—”
I frown. “I don’t have cute boxing buddies.”
She laughs. “Says you. Oh, how about the hotel heir—”
“He’ll probably be at their latest resort.” There’s a new Holtsmann every time I turn around. It’s hard to keep track.
“I guess I’m stuck with just you then.”
“And my friend. She’s having trouble with her douchebag ex. I won’t leave her here alone.”
I hear a crash in the background. “Oh, no. Parker, why didn’t you let Mommy pour your orange juice? Here, say hi to your Uncle Nash while I clean this up.”
Parker’s tear-clogged voice comes on the line. “I spilled,” he moans.
“I know, buddy. Maybe you should ask for help when you need it, okay?” I leave the bathroom and take a suit from the closet, talking to Parker and then Madison as I get dressed.
“I didn’t make any spills this morning, Uncle Nash. I was really careful because I’m wearing my favorite dress. Want to know what color it is?”
“Hmmm. I’ll bet it’s blue.”
“No!”
“Green?”
“No!”
“Oh, I know. It’s brown, right?”
Her peal of laughter vaults through the phone. “It’s pink!”
“But that’s my favorite color,” I tease.
“Don’t worry, we can share. Mommy says we have to go now. I love you, Uncle Nash.”
“I love you too, Maddie.” The smile still on my face, I end the call and step into the kitchen, desperate for a cup of coffee and a lobotomy.
Nixie is there, her back to the cabinets, lips curved around the edge of a mug. “Little Miss Pinkalicious?” she asks, eyes like melted butterscotch.
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“She’s adorable.”
“And she knows it, too.” Nixie sets her mug down to pour coffee into a travel mug for me. “So, do you have a passport?”
The pot rattles against the insulated tumbler. “I think mine’s expired. Why?”
“After I leave, I’m going to send Jay back here for you. There’s a one-day passport office in midtown. He’ll take you.”
She screws the top on and hands it to me. “Why do I need a passport, Nash?”
“Ever been to Bermuda?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Me neither. But it’s where we’re spending Thanksgiving.”
“Thanksgiving? That’s . . .”
“This Thursday,” I finish.
Her shoulders hike up an inch at my sarcasm. “What would I do about Kismet?”
“I’ll have my assistant look into whatever is required to bring her with us.”
“I can’t believe the holidays are already here again.” She glances away and blinks a few times before turning back to me. “Who’s we?”
“Eva, the twins, my parents, a few friends.”
She shakes her head. “No way. I’m not crashing your family vacation.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“Well, I’m not going to Bermuda.”
I choke on a swallow of the hot coffee and decide to use one of Eva’s tricks. “Fine. Then you can explain to Madison and Parker why their uncle isn’t there to build sandcastles on the beach with them.”
She tilts her head, skeptical. “Oh, please. I’m sure there will be a nanny, maybe two, to play with them all day long.”
I shake my head. “Nope. No nanny. Just their mom.” I check my watch and set down the mug, shrugging into the suit jacket I left on the back of a barstool. “And me.”
Running a tongue over her teeth, Nixie gives me a long look before turning away. “I’ll think about it.”
Nixie
The door closes behind Nash and it immediately feels as if he’s taken all the energy in the room with him. I pick up my mug, wishing it was something stronger. Better yet, something to make me stronger.
Because the longer I spend with Nash, the less I want to leave. I like making coffee for two in the mornings and talking about our days at night. I like hearing the quiet click of his computer keys while I’m working on a painting, and watching Nash cut bits of meat for Kismet from his dinner plate.
After Jay helped me get the rest of my things from my apartment (and by helped, I mean that he braved the snake-infested building on his own while I stayed on the sidewalk and thanked him effusively before, during, and after every trip), I made the mistake of doing another Google search and actually clicking through a few of the links. I told myself it was only because he’d obviously done the exact same thing to me, but whatever my motives, it’s hard not to be a little in awe of Nash.
Not long ago, I called Nash a Master of the Universe. I thought I was being tongue-in-cheek, but the phrase is apparently more apt than I realized.
His business successes are legendary. From nothing, he became a millionaire in his early twenties. According to the Wall Street Journal, as a result of several shrewd and daring investments, he’s widely expected to join the billionaire boys club sooner rather than later.
Some media outlets call him a greedy vulture. A heartless tycoon.
Others laud his philanthropic efforts with at-risk youths, painting him as a modern day Robin Hood. A champion of kids eager for a helping hand, not a handout.
The society pages swoon over Nash, calling him Wall Street’s most eligible—and uncatchable—bachelor. He’s been photographed with dozens of beautiful women. Starlets, socialites, models.
Which of course makes me wonder— What on earth does he see in me?
But aside from that, it’s what else I know about him that gives me pause.
Nash is Good Samaritan. An overprotective ally who lets me kick and hit him all in the name of self-defense. A stubborn, egotistical chauvinist with too much sex appeal for his own good. And an uncle to a pair of adorable four-year-olds.
It’s hard to reconcile the man who wears so many cliché titles with the one who speaks of building sandcastles. Who just reminded his nephew to wash his hands after going to the bathroom. Who carries his niece on hi
s back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And now Nash expects me to go away with him, with his family and friends, to celebrate my second most detested day of the year. Thanksgiving.
When my parents were alive, we spent the entire day in the kitchen, cooking together. My father would slather the turkey with butter, even beneath the skin, and cover it with cheesecloth, basting it every hour. My mother made sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows and cornbread stuffing with apples. It was just the three of us, and while the food cooked, we sat at the kitchen table and played board games. Candyland and Monopoly and Trivial Pursuit Junior.
Back then, I loved Thanksgiving.
Not anymore. If I could, I would permanently erase it from the calendar.
I barely remember my first Thanksgiving without them. It must not have been an easy day for Pappi either, although he tried not to let it show. He was newly divorced and he was mourning my parents, too. My father was his best friend and business partner. He knew my mother since before I was born. And they weren’t his only friends that died.
The day Pappi picked me up from school, his navy suit was caked in a pale gray, chalky dust. That dust was everywhere, in his hair and on his skin. Tears had streaked through the grime on his cheeks like a sad clown.
For him, and so many others, the months after 9/11 were filled with funerals and memorial services. Sometimes three or four in a single day.
It was a dark, dark time.
Rather than attempt to recreate the traditions of prior years, Pappi took Derrick and me to a local Chinese restaurant, and that became our new tradition. The three of us sitting at a small, round table in an otherwise empty restaurant, eating egg rolls and wonton soup, crunching on fortune cookies. For our main course, Pappi ordered a dish called Happy Family.
I’m still not sure whether he was being ironic or hopeful.
This year, I expected to spend the holiday alone. No turkey or candied sweet potatoes. No Happy Family. Just me and Kismet.
But now . . .
If Nash doesn’t go to Bermuda, we’ll be spending Thanksgiving together. Just the two of us.