I tried to remember if I knew he had siblings, but if Lucy’d ever mentioned it, I’d forgotten.
“How many siblings do you have?” I ask, getting up to skirt the island and get myself more coffee.
“I’m the oldest of five,” Brady tells me after downing the second smoothie. “So I did everything, from changing diapers to screening my little sister’s dates.”
“I bet you scared a lot of guys away from her,” I comment, eyeing his muscles again admiringly.
Stop it, Izzie. This is not helping.
Brady grins. “Let’s just say that being the star quarterback of the high school team didn’t hurt when it came to keeping the losers away from her.”
Like you? The thought comes to me suddenly, and I feel myself getting pissed off, a wave of anger washing over me.
I’d love to tell him that he’s the same kind of loser, leaving Lucy pregnant with his kid so that he could have this lifestyle.
Yeah, he didn’t know, but still…the dick who killed my sister.
I rejoin Liam, who has actually eaten everything on his plate, even the toast. I focus on the coffee in my mug until I can feel the anger ebbing a little.
I look up and find Brady studying me with a slightly perplexed expression. I guess he could tell that my mood had changed. Probably an expert at that, with all the women he’s been with. His PMS detector is probably pretty well-honed.
“Are you finished, Liam?” I ask. “If you are, you’d better get dressed for school. We don’t have much time since I overslept.” I shoot Brady a look. “Since you let me oversleep.”
Brady shrugs. “Hey, it’s not my fault if you don’t know how to set an alarm. I might cook, but I’m not a wakeup service.”
“I’m done.” Liam pushes back from the island and hops down.
“Thank Brady for making you breakfast,” I remind him.
“Thanks!” Liam says, then to my surprise, he adds, “Maybe sometime I can try one of those green drinks? If it’s going to make me as strong as you are,” he adds.
“Sure thing, guy,” Brady says easily, and Liam scampers away.
“Clean clothes,” I call after him.
Brady watches him leave, then says, “He’s a good kid.”
“He is,” I say lightly, also standing up.
This is definitely a conversation I want to avoid. Dangerous territory, especially when I’m still feeling pissed off at him. Even if it’s not fair to be pissed off for something he has no frigging idea about.
And he is letting us stay here, after all. Ugh, what a mess. Things just keep getting more complicated.
I make a big deal out of glancing at my phone for the time. “Thanks again for making him breakfast. Now I’d better get ready for work…”
Brady looks lost in thought, and for a moment, I actually feel a tinge of sympathy. How would he feel if he knew that Liam was his good kid? Or is he thinking how glad he is that he doesn’t have to cook for a kid every morning?
“Do you want me to help you clean up?” I say finally into the awkward silence.
He shakes his head. “Naww. The cleaning lady will do it. I’ve got to get ready for practice.”
“Then I guess I’ll see you there,” I tell him as I leave the kitchen. “I’ll get you that diet plan today, okay?”
“Great,” Brady says. “Thanks, Izzie.”
I look back, meeting his eyes. “No, thank you, Brady,” I say. “For letting us stay here.”
He smiles at me, and I turn back, feeling a little twist in my heart.
Damn you, Brady Thomas. It’s a whole lot easier when I can just think of you as a bad guy.
Chapter 16
Izzie
Rushing into work, there are a million things on my mind. So much stuff is going on right now—dealing with the termite people, living with Brady, and trying to take care of Liam in the middle of this mess.
As I dash through the hallways of the stadium to my office, I nod and smile as I pass everyone, hoping they don’t notice my tardiness. Yes, I’m only fifteen minutes late, but for me, that’s, like, an eternity. I’m usually always thirty minutes early, sometimes more.
Reaching my office, I collapse into my seat as if I‘d just ran a marathon. I already have a mountain of work to do, and I still have to call the exterminators.
And yet, why do I still have flashes of Brady’s sweaty body in my head?
God, I need a lobotomy.
There’s way too much going on for me to get sidetracked over some immature attraction, which, once again, is gross because he’s a jerk.
A really nice, generous jerk, though...with the softest sheets…
But, seriously, I can’t lose track of what I need to get done. I get the termite people on the phone.
“Hey, it’s Isabella Williams from yesterday. I’m just calling to see if you guys can still fumigate my house?”
“Yep, hey.” The guy’s voice is smooth and breezy like he just finished catching a few waves. “We’re confirmed. I’m sending out my guys to go there next week.”
My whole body convulses.
“Wait, next week?”
“Yep, that’s when I have you on the schedule,” he says, so oblivious and calm.
“No, I need someone to come over this week.” My face is burning with so much anger right now, I feel like I need to undress.
And now Brady’s in my head again. Great...just freakin’ great.
“Oh, no, that’s impossible. We’re booked for the rest of this week.” The man on the phone is completely unaware of the emotional breakdown happening on the other end of the phone.
“So there’s nothing you can do?” It’s times like this where I really try to fully take advantage of the woman in distress stereotype. “It’s really important for you to come to my place as soon as possible.”
“Yeah, sorry.” The man is impenetrable to my womanly wiles. “There’s just no way we can do it any earlier than next week.”
I silently scream to myself and then take a deep breath.
“So after you guys come over to fumigate, how early can I expect to be back in my house?”
“Hmmm,” the man ponders, “probably three weeks from now.”
My body convulses again. If I keep this up, someone’s going to call an exorcist.
“Three weeks?” So I’ll be living with Brady for almost a whole month. This can’t be happening. It’s like my worst nightmare come to life.
Or my best fantasy?
Ugh, shut up, Izzie! My brain sees a sweaty Brady, and suddenly, it can’t function anymore.
“Yeah, sorry about that, but that’s standard procedure.” The man still sounds as calm as a monk. “After we fumigate, we’ll need to tent the house for a week. And because I hear you have a young son, it’ll probably be best for you to wait another week before you move back in.”
“Yes, he's actually my nephew,” I correct. “But yeah, I get it.”
“Once again, I’m sorry we can’t be out earlier, but we’ll definitely be there next week to get the whole process started. Got any other questions?”
Yeah. Can you make my life any more complicated?
“No, that’s it,” I sigh. “I’ll call you next week to see how the fumigation’s going.”
I hang up before he can say anything back.
Next week? The house will be eaten up by then. The termite guys will show up and only see a pile of wood and a bunch of fat termites.
Well, if I’m going to be around Brady so closely over the next few weeks, I should probably finish up his diet plan already.
I spend a few hours typing it all up and then email it to Brady.
But as I sit at my desk, I’m starting to feel apprehensive, and I’m not sure why.
Does Brady even check his email? I bet he doesn’t. It just seems very like him to avoid important emails like that. And he is never a big fan of the idea of me forcing some diet on him.
I mean, I’m pretty much his new roommate now,
so I’ll see him later. I can just give it to him then.
But…I don’t know. Should I be mixing work with our personal relationship? Ew, did I just say relationship?
Honestly, if Brady’s already out on the field, it makes sense for me to just hand-deliver it to him now. That way, he knows what to eat for lunch and can head to the grocery store after work to plan for dinner.
I print out his diet plan and head out of the office.
On my way there, I stop and stare at my reflection in a glass window.
I have my hair up and instinctively take it down for some reason. I give it a little shake, which makes it look even messier than the crazy bun I had before, but somehow, it works. I then head out onto the field.
From a distance, I can see Brady. He has his helmet on, but his number is unmistakable.
He’s running with the football in his hand, and he throws it to the wide receiver, who makes an embarrassing fumble. You would think the ball was coated in butter with the way he caught it.
The coach blows his whistle as Brady takes off his helmet and throws it on the ground. He runs up to the wide receiver and screams something. The wide receiver yells something back.
It’s probably all very tense on the field, but from where I’m standing, it just looks like uniforms chest-bumping each other. The coach blows his whistle again, and the two break it up.
Brady walks away with his hands on his hips, his torso slightly in view and beaded with sweat. I swear, they could make a mold of his abs and frame it in a museum. They’re that perfect.
Honestly, watching him in practice reminds me why he’s one of the best quarterbacks right now. He’s actually amazing at this. Not that I didn’t know, it’s just that I haven’t taken the time to sit and seriously watch him in his element—he’s incredible.
You can tell right away that he plays differently than his other teammates. The other players are good but hesitant, never fully committing to a pass or to a throw. You can tell with the way they raise the ball over their head and look around wildly, like they’re looking for permission what to do next.
Brady’s the opposite. He commands that field with confidence, and there’s nothing you can tell him—a true star.
Why have I never noticed before?
As Brady plays, I notice he’s staring at someone behind me. I look around, and don’t see anyone, but that’s when I realize he’s looking at me. I’ve been standing here so long that I’ve forgotten I was even visible.
Brady waves at me, and I shyly wave back. Although he’s far away, I clearly notice his smile. It’s beaming and bright, like he’s genuinely happy to see me.
For whatever horrible, awful reason, this makes me happy, too. I suddenly feel myself smiling along with him, which I quickly stop and replace with my usual cold and professional mask.
But, it’s too late. That weird, tingly feeling starts ricocheting through my stomach, and I can barely stand it.
I panic and rush off the field before Brady can talk to me.
I crumble up the diet plan and stick in the trash can.
As I pass by my reflection in the mirror, I put my hair back up in my messy bun.
I don’t know what’s going on with me, but it needs to stop. It’s not even cute anymore for me to be feeling and acting like this.
I walk up to my office and try to finish my work as quickly as possible. I turn on Spotify to drown out my insane, unreasonable thoughts—from those images of Brady’s body flashing inside my head to his perfect smile, all cozy and familiar.
I mean, Brady’s an attractive guy, and that’s obvious to anyone with two eyes. But he’s Liam’s father. He’s off limits, and definitely not worth the risk.
It’s crazy enough that I’m even entertaining the thought.
After I wrap up my work, I practically run out of the stadium to the parking lot.
As I power walk to my car, I see one of my co-workers who tries to wave at me and get my attention.
“I can’t,” I call after them. “I have to pick up Liam from school.”
And with that, I climb into my car and flee.
Chapter 17
Brady
Normally, when I get home from work, I go straight to the fridge and drink a beer or two—okay, maybe three. Then I order some pizza, watch ESPN, do sit-ups, watch porn—whatever—because that’s what you do when you’re a single guy.
But today, as soon as I walk into the house after work, I’m smacked in the face with the most awesome smell coming from the kitchen.
Cooked food? In my house? That’s a first.
As I turn the corner into the kitchen, I see Izzie standing by the stove. She’s throwing it down, blending shit up. She’s a machine.
“Honey, I’m home,” I call out in my best Fred Flintstone voice.
Izzie whirls around, her eyes all wide-eyed before collapsing back into her usual polite, evasive self.
“God, you scared the crap out of me.” She turns her attention back to the stove and starts stabbing broccoli with a fork.
A part of me wants to sneak up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist, inhaling her smell. But I’m pretty sure she’d turn around and throw boiling hot oil in my face or something.
“What are you whipping up there?” I keep my distance and lean against the doorway. I might as well play it safe.
“It’s your anti-inflammatory diet.” She throws some chickpeas in a bowl. “Didn’t you get the diet plan I emailed to you?”
Whoops.
“Uh, sure, of course,” I lie.
“I figured you didn’t.” She eyes me accusingly. “So I decided to pick up the ingredients myself. And then once I got here, I figured I might as well cook it, too. You’ll like it. It’s really good.”
Judging by the delicious smell filling the kitchen, I don’t need her to convince me of that.
“Sit down.” She nods toward the dining table. “It’s about done. Liam’s already sitting there, waiting. You can keep him company.”
I walk to the dining room and see Liam slouched in his chair, his head down and focusing on some handheld video game.
“Yo, whatcha playing?” I yank the game out of his hand and hold it high above his head.
“Braaadddyyy!” He stands up on the chair and tries to yank it out of my hand.
“You gotta try harder than that.” I start moving the game all around his head, out of his grasp. He’s jumping and giggling like a fiend, which causes Izzie to shout out, “Cut it out, you two!”
Seconds later, Izzie emerges from the kitchen like someone’s angry mom. I can’t help but laugh at seeing her with her one hand on her hip, the other hand holding a bowl of salad. She’s fucking adorable.
“Sorry, Mom,” I joke, sitting down in my seat. “We’ll behave.”
Izzie sighs and places the bowl on the table. “It’s chickpea salad. Dig in, guys.”
She disappears and comes back with a pan of special anti-inflammatory meatballs and broccoli made with ginger and turmeric.
As she explains the food, it all sounds like a foreign language to me, so I tune her out and just start shoving things into my mouth. Hey, food is food, right?
As we all sit around awkwardly chewing, I decide to break the silence.
“So, Liam, you like football?”
The kid practically chokes on his food as he drops his fork and looks up with me with excited eyes.
“Yes, I love it! It’s my favorite sport. My whole family loves it, too!”
“Oh, yeah?” I’m genuinely surprised. “That’s awesome. Do you play football at school?”
“No.” Liam gets really quiet suddenly. “Well, my family, they used to like football, but they don’t anymore.”
I give him a strange look. What an odd thing to say.
“Why’s that? Are they Cleveland Browns fans or something?
“Uh, Liam,” Izzie chokes out. “I’m sure Brady doesn’t want to hear about our boring family.”
She sta
rts chuckling awkwardly as she nudges Liam with her elbow. “Tell him about the other clubs you’re in.” She then looks up at me and adds, “He’s in a lot of them actually...a lot of interesting ones.”
I look over at Liam who shrugs and doesn’t look all that excited to talk about his other interests. I wonder why Izzie seems so desperate to change the conversation.
“Well, if you ever want to check out one of our games,” I tell him, ignoring Izzie, “just let me know. I can get you at least two free tickets and even a free team jersey.”
Liam’s face beams like the Northern Lights. I’ve never seen a kid look so damn happy. I truly made his whole day—possibly his whole life.
“Thanks, Mr. Brady!”
I give him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, kid. It’s no problem.”
I look up at Izzie, expecting her to look pleased and happy with how nice I’m treating her nephew, but instead, I see the exact opposite. She’s mad as hell! She’s looking at me as if I just told Liam to drop out of school, do drugs, and become a pimp.
Izzie puts her fork down and folds her hands as if she's about to make a speech.
“That’s not necessary, Brady.” She eyes me like she’s annoyed. “You’ve done enough for us with rolling out the red carpet and making us feel welcome, but you don’t have to throw free things at us. Trust me, you’ve done enough favors for us. Besides, Liam can’t go to the next game because it’s a school night, and he has a ton of homework. Don’t you, Liam?”
Liam looks deflated as he sinks into his seat. His dreams have been doused with gasoline and set on fire.
“Right,” he mumbles into his plate.
“Anyway,” Izzie starts. She clearly wants to change the subject. “So I called the termite people today, and I have some bad news for everyone.”
“Did the house get eaten?” Liam asks.
Izzie rolls her eyes. “No, of course not. But the termite guys are booked all this week. The earliest they can come to the house to fumigate is next week. And then, after that, they told me I’d need to wait another week to make sure the poison is all gone from the house. So, yeah, it looks like we won’t be back in the house for at least three weeks.”
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