Fragile Illusion: Stag Brothers Book 3

by Lainey Davis

  "No." He smiles.

  "What do you mean 'no'? I thought you just said you were here to talk to me."

  "I've got conditions," he says.

  I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms. "I'm absolutely not sleeping with you, so you can get that out of your head right the hell now."

  He laughs. "Nothing like that, doll. I do need a favor, though."

  I glance over at reception to see if Mindy is listening. Of course she is. Thatcher notices this, too, and says, "Walk me to my truck and I'll tell you what I have in mind."

  I think about it for a few minutes, while watching him grow visibly uncomfortable. Before I open my mouth to talk again, he holds out a cardboard box. "I brought you something," he says. "By way of apology for my behavior last night."

  Well, this is unexpected. "Thank you," I say. I crack open the box, peering past the lid, and then I gasp as I pull out a glass cluster of neurons. The work is exquisite, delicate. The bundle of nerve endings splays out blue and black from the stem in the middle. This is exactly how I always imagined things looked inside me. Exactly! How could he possibly know to give this to me? "Who told you about me?" My voice quivers more than I intended, and his face softens.

  "Nobody said anything about you, Emma. I just thought you'd like this enough to accept my apology and hear me out. So will you walk with me a minute?" He rubs a hand through his beard, nervously.

  I can only nod, tucking the glass back into the box. "Can I go stick this on my desk? I don't want to drop it and break it."

  "So you like it then?" He raises his eyebrows, hopeful, and I can't help but smile. He looks like a kid who just made something for his parents. It's endearing to me that he cares whether I like his art.

  My voice is a whisper when I tell him, "I love it, Thatcher." I rush off down the hall and slide the box across my desk. I grab my messenger bag and shove my laptop and digital recorder inside. I nod toward the doors and Thatcher walks with me.

  Once we're outside, he leans against a battered old truck and says, "So here's the thing." He runs his hands through his beard again. "I'm in some deep shit with my family…and I'm just going to cut right to the chase. I need someone to pretend she's my fiancé until after my brother's wedding."

  I wait a beat for him to laugh, tell me he's joking. Get to the real favor. He doesn't. "So…what now? You want me to pretend I'm going to marry you?"

  He nods. "I promise I will give you unfettered access to me, and my studio, and I'll answer your questions without cracking jokes. You show up to, like, 2 family dinners with me and be my date for my brother's wedding and we'll call it even."

  "Are you serious right now? That plan is absurd. And besides, a month of acting like I can tolerate you is way more effort than you answering my questions about glass in the gardens."

  Now the mischievous grin returns and I feel myself wanting to slug him again. "It doesn't sound like your boss will like it very much if I clam up and refuse to talk to you."

  Shit. He's right. I'm in deep trouble with Phil. He made that pretty clear in his office. I exhale slowly through my nose and Thatcher just stares at me, like he's studying me, and it makes me uncomfortable.

  "I'll tell you what," he says. "I'll get you an in for another story that would be great for the Post, and I'll make sure you're the only reporter with access."

  "What story is that," I ask, chewing on the inside of my cheek. He tells me that the woman his brother is going to marry is an Olympic gold medalist for rowing and that she has helped shift the mission of his other brother's law firm. "How many Stag brothers are there?" I ask, trying to keep it all straight. He grins and holds up 3 fingers.

  "Tim is the oldest and runs Stag Law, which represents professional athletes and helps fight for equity for women in athletics, the arts…anywhere that gets federal Title 9 funds. And if you want to know more you'll have to agree to help me and talk with Juniper, because that is all I understand about what she does." He sticks his thumbs in his belt loops, looking like he's none too comfortable. What he's proposing sounds absolutely crazy…but he's right that I need this story. And it sounds like this pitch about his sister in law would be amazing to research and write.

  I sigh, letting the air and frustration out of my entire body, and groan. "All right, Stag. I'll do it."

  "Oh thank god," he says, visibly relaxing. He hands me his card with the address for his studio. We make a plan to meet there a bit later, and I text Phil that I'll have the revision for him tomorrow. Thatcher says we can hammer out the details for our pretend engagement over dinner later, and I agree to let him buy.

  "But I am not sleeping with you. We need to clear that up right away."

  He laughs. "I promise I will be on my best behavior." He opens the door to his truck and swings in, then rolls down the window and leans out halfway. "Unless you want me to misbehave." He winks, and I wish I had something to throw at him. But my imagination also flashes to images of Thatcher misbehaving with me, and I feel a flutter in my tummy.

  "Get the hell out of here," I yell after him as he peals out, laughing. This is going to be a long month.

  Seven

  THATCHER

  I make an attempt to clean up my studio a bit before Emma gets here. I know she's supposed to write about me in a positive light no matter what, but I've never had anyone from the press meet me in my space before. I really don't let anyone in here but staff. My work in progress is too important to me, too private. I hope Emma doesn't look too carefully at the things that aren't complete. She seemed to really like the bonsai, though, so that sets my mind at ease a bit.

  I start to think about why it matters to me that she likes my art. That's different. I usually don't give a shit what people think of my glass…buy it or move over has always been my motto. I feel bad for hitting on her at the conservatory. I guess I have to re-classify her as someone I know professionally. For some reason I'm always able to rein it in with women in a professional context. I could kill Cody for making me think she was a groupie. This whole thing could have been avoided.

  It would be nice if she wants to get wild with me, though. I remember the way her body looked in those slim pants and that breezy top that gave just a hint of her curves. And fuck me, a red head. Even her eyelashes are red. I noticed when I was staring at her in the parking lot, pleading with her to accept my crazy scheme. I wonder what it feels like to wrap that red hair around my fist, yank her head back…suck on her neck. Knock it off, Thatcher. This is going to be a long month.

  I've got to not only not hit on Emma, but I can't go out and find anyone else to sleep with, either. If word gets back to my family that I'm cheating on my so-called fiancé, Tim would treat me like worse garbage than he is already. It fucking sucks having perfect brothers.

  I hear a knock at the door, and walk over to answer it a little too quickly. I curse under my breath when I see that it's not Emma Cheswick, but my sister in law Alice, blowing on my nephew's cheeks. Fuck. I totally forgot I told them I'd babysit tonight.

  "And there's Uncle Thatcher!" Alice coos to Peter, who claps his hand and reaches for my beard. Always with the damn beard. I hope he doesn't have anything sticky on his fingers.

  "Come here, squirt." I pull him in and toss him up on my shoulders, where he moves his hands immediately to my hair.

  "Thatcher, I really appreciate you watching him for us tonight. It means so much to us to be able to go to Dad's retirement dinner." Her eyes shine. I know she's proud of her dad, and also feeling a little blue that her mom can't be here for this. Alice's mom died of cancer when she was in high school, just a few years after our mom died.

  "Dude-time with Petey is my pleasure, Alice." I lean down so she can reach me to kiss my cheek. Her hair is wild and curly as ever, but I notice Petey doesn't yank on it like he does mine.

  "My brother isn't with you is he," I ask, not sure what I hope the answer will be.

  She shakes her head, though, and I feel some relief. "He's still at the office rev
iewing notes with Juniper. They're trying to get things squared away before she and Ty leave for their honeymoon. Tim's meeting me at the restaurant."

  I nod. "Well, I want you both to have a great time and not worry. Whatever I can't figure out, I'll just Google." She bites her lower lip and creases her brow. "Relax, Alice. I've watched Peter before." I don't tell her that Emma will be here soon helping me out. That's what a fiancé does, right? Helps with the nephews. As Alice pulls away I smile, thinking this month might not be so bad after all.

  Peter and I head into my attached apartment and I turn some kids show on the TV. I sit on the floor next to him to watch and he crawls right into my lap. I don't get a lot of one on one time with him. It's nice just chilling with the little dude, even if he does yank on my hair. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings. Emma.

  I answer the door carrying Petey in a football hold, and he drools and laughs as Emma's face registers shock at seeing me with a baby.

  "You have a child?"

  "Ha! No way, babe. Petey here is my nephew and I forgot that we are hanging out tonight. Hope it's ok if he sits in on the interview."

  Emma looks uncertain, but I step back from the door and Petey starts clapping his hands. He's damn charming, like all the Stag men. She can't help but smile, and we all sit together on the rug. "Fire away, Ms. Cheswick," I say, pulling Petey back from her laptop as she tries to open up all her stuff.

  "Maybe I should sit up higher," she says, climbing onto the couch. Peter pulls himself to standing and slaps at her laptop. I like this kid even more. He's pushing Emma's buttons, literally, and she's cute as hell when she's irritated. Her face flushes as red as her hair.

  I lie on my back on the carpet and start to play airplane with Peter so he's out of reach of Emma. "Thanks," she says, and I catch her staring at my abs as my t-shirt rides up when I swoop Petey around. "So, um, why don't you tell me how you first got interested in glass."

  Eight

  EMMA

  I am shocked at how good Thatcher is with his nephew. He's so comfortable tossing that baby around. It's damn sexy, and I almost forget the man is a sleaze just looking for sex. When he tells me about how he feels like the molten glass is part of his mind, malleable and able to bring his imagination to solid form…well. It's easy to see why women drop their undies for him. He orders takeout, and we pig out on Indian food while he holds his end of the bargain. Thatcher Stag tells me how the art teachers at his school were his saving grace after his mom died, how they arranged for him to do intensive programs and helped him apply for a scholarship when he decided to study glass blowing in college. "Only Stag to leave the state for college," he says, laughing at how the tiny town of Alfred in New York never stood a chance against his artistic vision…or his libido.

  Thatcher talks to me about his work for a while and then he looks at his watch. "Hey," he says, handing Petey a pouch of some sort of food. "My sister in law will be back soon to grab Petey, so we better hash out our plan. Basically, you need to act believably in love with me when my family's around."

  "Ok." I chew on my pen. "How did we meet?"

  He grins one of those devilish smiles I've come to recognize. He saves those for women he's trying to hit on. "You interviewed me at an opening," he says, "and you were smitten immediately."

  "I'd prefer if you were the smitten one and had to work for it a bit," I tell him, and he nods.

  "That sounds more plausible. All right, I can just tell my family I was smitten and drove to your office to give you a glass bonsai in an attempt to woo you. Then, you were smitten."

  "That was a bonsai?" I think back to the beautiful cluster of neurons I now have on the mantle of my apartment, where it catches the afternoon sun just right and sparkles.

  "Well yeah," he looks insulted. "What the hell did you think it was?"

  I flush, not meaning to. Of course I hadn't meant to insult his art, but I am taken aback. I thought the gift was so personal to me. That he somehow knew about me and was, I don't know, honoring that by giving me a symbolic artistic creation. "I, um…" I decide I'm just going to be honest. I'm going to have to spend a lot of time with him for the next month and I will be lying to enough people as it is. "I thought it was a bundle of neurons."

  He scrunches up his face as if he's thinking about this. "I can see that. The trunk was sort of messed up."

  "I really like it, Thatcher." My voice comes out as a whisper. "I like it very much. Thank you again."

  "You're welcome, Chezz." We start to talk about the family dinner I will need to attend on Sunday. I'm not sure whether to believe him when he says it's casual. Just because he wears ripped jeans to fancy art openings doesn't mean people won't stare if I do it.

  Just then, Petey toddles up to me and smiles. I get low and hold out my hand for a high five. He grasps my finger and scrunches up his face, loudly messing up his diaper. "Jesus, Thatcher." The smell hits the room in a cloud. Petey releases my finger, and he starts to cry. "We have to get him cleaned up," I yell.

  "All right. Hm. I don't see the changing pad Alice usually sticks in the bag. Woo, Petey, you outdid yourself." Thatcher rummages through Petey's diaper bag, pulling out tubes of diaper cream and spare clothes. I fan the air, while Petey starts crying louder, so I pick him up, feeling that he's soggy all up his back. I start to bounce him and make shushing sounds.

  "What if you put some of that down on the carpet?" I point with my toe at a box of bubble wrap Thatcher has sitting by the door. I guess he uses that to ship his art.

  "Great idea! Ok, set him down here."

  Together, we strip the soiled clothes off Petey's thrashing body to the chorus of crackles and pops as Petey wriggles around on the bubble wrap. We manage to get the diaper off and we use about 36 wipes scrubbing him from his neck to his knees. He lies on the bubble wrap smiling each time it crackles, while I gather up the messy clothes and the rancid diaper.

  "Ok. I'm going to soak these clothes in your utility sink and throw this diaper away outside," I say. "Then I'll come back and it can be your turn to clean up."

  "Got it. I'll find Petey some clothes."

  I walk through the kitchen of Thatcher's house and open the basement door. I take note that the place is much tidier than I would have thought. Sure, there's wood paneling and 1970s-style wallpaper, but it's neat and it smells clean. The basement isn't even damp. I'm up to my elbows in suds and baby shorts when I hear Thatcher yelling, "No! No! Emma, help! Help!"

  I fly up the stairs and into the living room, where Petey is smiling, half dressed, and a shirtless Thatcher Stag is holding an open tube of diaper cream. "Emma! He ate it! I turned away to take off my shirt because it had poop on it and when I looked back at him, he had this in his mouth!"

  "Do you remember how full it was before?" I look at the tube. It's organic diaper cream, so I guess there can't be too many harmful ingredients.

  Thatcher shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair. He looks panicked. "Go wash your hands, Thatcher. You're getting diaper cream everywhere." I pick up the baby. Thatcher looks down at his fingers and silently walks into the kitchen.

  Petey is still laughing and clapping. His face is shiny and his breath smells a little like the cream. I sigh, remembering a story I researched not too long before. I dig out my phone and call up Poison Control.

  "Yes, hi. My friend and I are babysitting and the little guy just ate some diaper cream." Thatcher walks back in the room and, seeing me on the phone, starts to panic all over again. I mouth "poison control" to him and he grips my arm while I bounce Petey. "No, I'm not sure--hey Thatcher, how old is Petey and what does he weigh?" He snatches the phone from me and talks with the specialist. Within a few minutes Thatcher collapses to the ground in relief.

  "He's going to be fine. Absolutely fine."

  Nine

  THATCHER

  I rest my head against the wall until I feel my heart start to slow down. I seriously thought I had maybe killed my nephew, and now I'm more exhaust
ed than I can ever remember feeling.

  Emma, still holding Petey, starts rubbing her nose against his nose. Shit, she was ice cool during all of that. Didn't panic for a minute and she knew exactly what to do. She explained that she had just done a big research project about Poison Control and got to interview some of the people who work in the call center. Even now, she's calm. She says, "Why don't you go take a shower? Petey and I will clean up in here. When you get back I'll finish up down at the utility sink."

  I look down at my chest, remembering that I had to take off my stained shirt. I think this might be the only time I've had my shirt off in front of a woman where I wasn't actively trying to take off hers, too. I don't totally get what's going on here, because Emma is seriously sexy, but all I'm feeling right now is gratitude for her. I nod and hurry upstairs. I have to scrub a lot to get all the oily diaper cream off. When I get out of the shower I hear Emma narrating. "We're taking this stinky pile out to the trash. Yes, we are! Yes, that is silly, isn't it? Do you feel better now that you got all that out?"

  I walk downstairs and see her holding my nephew, smiling up at me, and I forget for a minute that we are about to start an illusion. This girl is the real deal. Just totally, honestly herself. Wide open. Willing to help me out, even with a baby shit storm. Only now I've roped her into this big lie, and it feels like she's off limits. I plunk a kiss on Petey's head and tell her, "You can go get cleaned up now. I'll try to keep this guy alive while you're down there."

  She smiles. I notice that she's totally cleaned up the rug. I didn't even know I had carpet cleaner, but I can tell she scrubbed up some places where the bubble wrap wasn't sufficient barrier. I look at my baby nephew and wonder how such a small person can make such a huge mess. "Petey, man, what the hell did you eat?" He tugs my beard. Seems about right.

  Eventually, I hear a car pull up outside. The three of us are sitting on the couch. Emma is coaching Petey through "braiding" my hair. I groan and lean my head on Emma's shoulder. "How the hell am I supposed to tell my brother I almost killed his kid?"