The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

by Ninya Tippett

  I raised a brow at Brandon. “As if you would’ve ever called me! You’d know straight away that Martin’s just hounding after you to get married and have babies and you would’ve run in the opposite direction the instant he hinted at you about a girl.”

  “He’s gotten away with dating his heart out in the past,” Martin said with a smirk. “It’s his pretty face, I think.”

  “Thanks for the ringing endorsement, Dad,” Brandon said wryly. “I’m just not sure that Charlotte’s sold on the pretty face alone.”

  I smiled serenely and flicked a hand in an up and down motion. “Of course, not. There’s the hunky rest of you too.”

  Martin let out a hearty chuckle. “At the rate you two are going, I’m starting to wonder how soon I’d get those grandchildren you mentioned earlier.”

  I must’ve turned beet red but we got easily distracted when we heard a burst of laughter from the corner where Francis had been waiting for Nicole and Zach.

  The man had gone down on his haunches so he was eye-level with the boy and he was laughing lightly at something Zach was saying. The boy was extending him a small giraffe stuffed toy he’d won earlier from one of the arcade games and Francis carefully accepted it, patting the toy animal’s limp head.

  I had to blink a few times to make sure I wasn’t just seeing some kind of optical illusion.

  Francis was smiling from ear to ear, his eyes bright and alive without a hint of ice.

  Well, I’ll be damned. He’s freaking happy.

  “I’m having trouble reconciling what I’m currently seeing from what I know to be reality,” Brandon mumbled in a tone that concealed none of his bewilderment. “He looks nothing like the man from more than two years ago who’d sworn he had no interest in a child he crudely suspected wasn’t even his.”

  Martin snorted, as if this somehow didn’t surprise him at all, and patted Brandon’s shoulder. “Looks like you’re not the only one capable of reforming, son.”

  I quickly scanned the room to see if anyone else who knew about Francis’s secret family was seeing the same heartwarming scene unfold.

  Jason was standing next to sniffling Anna, his hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture while she watched Francis and Zach with an astonished expression. Jake was now standing by the bar where Tessa stood with Felicity. He was watching on with the two women but he unconsciously put an arm around Tessa’s shoulders and gave it a squeeze. Tessa was blinking back tears and unwittingly leaning against Jake’s shoulder.

  I couldn’t suppress the grin more than I could suppress the warm feeling in my stomach as I reached for Brandon’s hand and entwined my fingers with his.

  “Looks like they’re not the only two,” I murmured, leaning my head against Brandon’s shoulder and slipping my own arm through Martin’s. They’re two of the best men I knew in the world and I was happy to be in their company.

  “I think Nic’s about to bawl her eyes out,” Brandon mused just as Nicole’s shoulders started to tremble.

  “I think Francis isn’t about to let her,” I replied with a satisfied smirk as Francis looked up at the woman who was trying to keep it together as she watched her son and his father together for the first time. He touched her elbow lightly and gingerly fished out a handkerchief from his pocket which he presented to her. Zach was looking up, glancing back and forth between his parents, watching the exchange for a moment before he began tugging on Francis’s pant leg. Francis smiled down at the boy and hoisted him up in his arms, turning Zach toward his mother who was smiling through her tears.

  My own eyes prickled with emotion and I bit on my lower lip to keep down a small sob.

  Lucky Zach. Sometimes, it’s not too late for your father to become one to you.

  Miracles, after all, come in their own time.

  ***

  “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this but it’s awesome,” I declared with a grin that must’ve stretched across my entire face as I revved up the loud, powerful engine of Brandon’s favorite sports car later that evening.

  The entire car practically roared to life and I felt a moment’s hesitation at exactly how I was going to drive this automotive beast without breaking the speed limit and getting pulled over for reckless driving. The slightest feathering on the pedal, even in my sneakers that Brandon had brought along, pumped a little more power into an engine that was already revving to go, go, go.

  “I thought I’d let you do a little test drive before we decide on what new car to get you now that you can drive,” Brandon said with an indulgent smile. “I know you think this car is pretty badass but I’m not sure a sports car is the best idea for you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  I wasn’t sure if his concern was really for me or for the car. After all, before I even got to stick the key into the ignition, Brandon spent a good twenty minutes reciting an entire rulebook of how-to-drive instructions to me. He reiterated many times during the entire recitation of rules just how different a sports car drives from a regular car and that his little ‘sleek siren’ (his exact words) was extra special because she was ‘smooth but sublime’ (his exact words again).

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m a careful driver! I don’t speed or cut people off like a jerk. I’ll be as careful as a grandma driving home from Sunday church.”

  Brandon arched a brow. “In that case, I’d recommend something a little more... sedate.”

  “Maybe a practical, little SUV,” I answered as I shoulder-checked before pulling out into traffic. “One that can drive smoothly in the summer and trudge through snow in a really crappy winter. I can just borrow this car if I feel like driving something a little cooler.”

  “We already have an SUV but we can always get you another one,” Brandon mumbled, pausing as he peered out the car window. “Where are we going anyway? You’ve yet to tell me where we’re making a quick stop before I take you to where your birthday gift awaits. The backseat is crammed full of balloons and packaged leftovers. It’s starting to smell like Marlow’s kitchen back there.”

  “I have to see a friend of mine and drop off some food since he couldn’t attend the party,” I confessed. Gilles had called from Danny’s house where he’d been told by the boy’s slurring uncle that Riley was sick and had been mostly in bed the last couple of days. I told Gilles to head back and enjoy the rest of the party and that I’d figure out something for Riley. “He’s a bright but brooding twelve-year-old with a bad cold. A little bit of food will do him wonders.”

  “I’ll hazard a guess that this is the same kid you mentioned you were going to allow to stay in your house with his down-on-his-luck parent who happens to be a family friend,” Brandon murmured thoughtfully.

  I shrugged. “The kid’s his nephew but let’s just say he’s not the best uncle to be looking after the kid. He has a drinking problem.”

  “You’re harboring an alcoholic in your house?” Brandon asked in disbelief.

  “Just until the boy’s mother can come and set things right,” I assured him, aware of just how vague my answer was.

  I wish I could tell him more but I couldn’t disregard the promise Layla wrung out of me that day in the back of the car.

  I knew she was right. Brandon would do the right thing. He wouldn’t be able to help it, the same way he couldn’t help it when Nicole and Zach needed a protector, even if it risked his already fragile relationship with his cousin.

  While I knew the right thing and wished I could do it myself, a great deal of me understood Layla and the dark void of fear she was still in cowering in. I’d shrunk into that corner for too long myself to not be familiar with it.

  It was like a deep grave one was buried in alive and to claw your way out was going to hurt like death itself.

  Brandon gave our destination no more comment throughout the drive even though I could tell him quietly observing as we entered the less friendly neighborhood where Riley lived.

  “I hate to point out the obvious but you’ve clearly been here befor
e,” Brandon muttered in exasperation. “I’m hoping that you were smart enough not to have come without Gilles to protect you.”

  “Really, Brand. I can handle myself fine,” I told him a mild scoff. “I’m used to the rougher side of life.”

  “I’m fully aware of that fact, which unfortunately, is nothing that either my fortune or power could change for you,” he grated.

  I angled him a soft smile. “I know, love. I hate that you torture yourself over something you had no control over.”

  “This time around, I have some control and look at where we are,” he grumbled as we slowed down along the street where I remembered Riley’s apartment was. “At least I’m here with you.”

  I brightened as I turned off the engine. “Don’t worry, Gilles was with me the last time I came here.”

  Brandon snorted. “It’s too bad his loyalty is to you. He gives me a really moody look when I start nosing around about you.”

  I laughed at the image of Gilles giving my husband a bit of an evil eye.

  It’s been some time since Brandon loosened his leash on my security detail, not asking for a daily report as long as Gilles accompanied me to most things. Truth be told, Brandon probably got a little bit overwhelmed after getting the first initial reports. He’d muttered once about it, something about an endless cycle of shopping, social meetings, more shopping, going to the salon, etc. Being Mrs. Maxfield didn’t come without the necessary maintenance but Brandon probably realized that my days weren’t as interesting as he thought.

  “Come on,” I told him as I slipped out of the car. “Help me carry some of the stuff to the house. Don’t forget the balloons.”

  I grabbed what I could and started making my way to the front door.

  “Can you double-check that the car is locked?” Brandon said as he followed behind me, his arms loaded with a stack of wrapped and packaged leftovers, half a dozen balloons looped around his wrist. “I can’t get to my keys.”

  I raised a brow teasingly as I pressed the lock button on the fob. “If anyone wants to steal it, they’ll steal it, locked or not.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I know, but I’d rather not make it too easy for them.”

  I laughed and looked around the entrance of the building for a panel of some sort that would normally also display a directory for the different units. I wasn’t surprised to not find one so I nudged the front door slightly, shrugging at a puzzled Brandon before pushing my way in completely.

  “They’re in 304,” I said, recalling Gilles’s reminder earlier when I told him I was going to see the kid. “Stick close to me.”

  There was no elevator—the interior of the apartment building was as dire as its exterior—and to get to the main staircase, one had to go around hastily put-together seating area which consisted of a worn wicker table and a ratty sofa. Sprawled on the seat was a man with a scruffy and stained Santa beard, snoring so loudly I worried he had a garburator for dinner. The nearly empty bottle of rice wine he was clutching close to his chest though would dispute that theory.

  “He looks quite out of it,” Brandon murmured with a frown as he wedged himself between me and the sofa where it also reeked of the assaulting combination of week-old-piss, body odor and stale cigarette smoke. “Why rice wine?”

  I snorted lightly. “Because it’s cheap and packs a strong kick. It’s either that or mouthwash. Beggars can’t be choosers—even in vice.”

  Brandon’s frowned deepened. “Should we call an ambulance?”

  I waved it off. “He’s breathing. That’s good enough for now.”

  “Should we leave him some food?” Brandon asked, glancing at the stuff he cradled in his arms. “It’s not good to drink on an empty stomach.”

  I barely stifled a sharp laugh. “I doubt his stomach is still empty after he practically chugged down the entire bottle. Besides, I’d rather he wakes up and realizes his problems, including his hunger, haven’t gone away because he decided to spend the last of his money on booze instead of a proper meal. I’d hate for people to mistake alcohol as some magic potion that whipped up some gourmet food when you wake from your killer hangover.”

  Brandon just gave me a meaningful look before he sighed and nodded toward the staircase.

  It was a slow, nervous ascent to the third floor because the creaking stairs and landings didn’t feel like it would hold the weight of two people. Brandon looked grim when I paused and teased him that he’d better written up a will since we might just crash down to our deaths.

  I didn’t push him any further though because I knew he was putting up with a lot, allowing me to come here when I knew he would do everything in his power to shield me from the harsh realities of life.

  “I’m beginning to question the wisdom of this visit,” Brandon muttered as he jumped to cover me when a large crash sounded behind one door, quickly followed by a muffled stream of what I suspected to be very bad words.

  I gave a nervous laugh and patted his chest reassuringly. “It’s alright. One of us has to. Come on, let’s hurry.”

  We finally located 304.

  The wall all throughout the hallway was scuffed, scraped and sad-looking. The ugly, faded paisley wallpaper did nothing to compliment the ashy color of the well-worn carpet which looked more brown than maroon.

  “I’ll knock,” Brandon said as he tried to steer himself between me and the door. His laden arms were awkward and I didn’t take a step back, even as he glowered at me. “In case whatever greets us from behind the door isn’t very pleasant, then at least you’re out of the way.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What? You think the guy stepping out is going to be greasy-haired, slapped with badass tattoos all over and twirling a gun on each hand as he grunts a hello at us while a lit cigarette dangles from his mouth?”

  When Brandon’s eyes widened before narrowing into a deep scowl, I lost my poker face and giggled, sidling up to him so that he wasn’t blocking me from the doorway. “Oh, relax. This is not some mobster movie or something. Jeez. Not all poor people are criminals.”

  And before he could argue, I rapped a fist on the wall.

  When there was no reply, I pressed my ear to the door. Brandon started at that, shooting me a look of warning.

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to contract an incurable disease by listening through the door, silly. I can hear the TV though.”

  I straightened again and knocked a couple more times on the door.

  When there was still no response, I started pounding on it.

  “Maybe they’re not in the mood to receive guests,” Brandon ventured with a low sigh. “Let’s leave the food and go, Charlotte. I’m sure they’ll find it soon enough. I’d really rather not confront a drunk man.”

  I raised my brow at him. “Why? You afraid of the big, bad drunk?”

  “No,” he replied with a snort. “I’ve kicked some drunk asses during my wilder college days, if you must know. I don’t want to confront another one because it’s not very sporting beating up someone who can’t even stay up on their feet.”

  Trust Brandon to be noble—even in the most unusual circumstances.

  “We can’t leave just yet,” I told him, adding a swift kick to the door after another fruitless series of knocks. “Riley’s sick and I want to make sure he doesn’t need to go to the hospital or something like that.”

  When there was no reply yet again, I put down the stuff I was carrying on the floor and took a deep breath.

  “Stay back, babe,” I told Brandon a few seconds before I leapt and slammed the side of my body to the door.

  “Charlotte, what the hell!” Brandon sputtered as I winced at the sharp pain on my muscles and hobbled back a step. He somehow managed to free an arm which he used to grab me by the shoulder and haul me away. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

  “It’ll take more than a simple knock on the door to wake the dead drunk!” I protested, rubbing my throbbing elbow which I hadn’t quite spared. “Trust me, I know this for a f
act.”

  “I’m aware of that but I don’t think you should be trying to raise the dead drunk,” Brandon gritted out impatiently. He set his own stuff down and tugged at his slightly open collar before facing the door. “Let me handle this.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and sighed loudly. “Alright. If you must.”

  Brandon ignored my tone and pulled up his sleeves a little—as if he were about to get his hands dirty. “What’s his name? The uncle.”

  “Danny.”

  “Danny, who?”

  I racked my brain for a moment. Layla had given me some basic info before we parted that day, supposedly as part of our collaborative efforts at getting hers and Riley’s lives together. “Danny Andrews, I think. Andrews or Anderson—either of those two.”

  Brandon raised a brow. “Which one?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said dismissively. “Just call him Danny.”

  Brandon exhaled sharply, his exasperation plain on his face. He turned back to the door and did a calm, cursory knock.

  “Mr. Danny Andrews, er, Anderson—we need to speak with you, sir,” he said formally and firmly.

  I suppressed a giggle. “Brand, you’re not here to see the damned president.”

  He gave me a withering glance. “Appeasing a man’s pride works like magic. Trust me on this.”

  I did an elaborate shrug. “Obviously, when it comes to experience with the male pride, yours is far more substantial than mine. You permanently suffer the affliction, after all.”

  He scowled at me for about three seconds before his face broke into a naughty grin and he snatched me up in his arms.

  “Since you clearly need additional education on it, let me demonstrate its most common side effect,” he murmured before dipping me down and kissing me hard on the mouth, smothering the laugh that was bubbling out of me.

  And that, of course, was exactly the moment when Danny Andrews, er, Anderson, swung the door open.