Bad Love (Modern Romance Book 2)

by Piper Lawson

  I flash her a smile that makes her blink. "Mrs. Talbot. I'm Logan. I'm here for Rory."

  "Rory?" Her voice sounds faint, and I frown.

  "Kendall said she was gonna call you."

  She sucks in a breath. "Yes. She did. Please call me Anita."

  "Sure thing, Anita." I follow her in, shutting the door.

  Women like me. In track pants, in a suit, or in a button-down, like today. It’s not women I’m worried about.

  It’s a kid I’ve seen once, with judgment in his eyes. And fair enough because his mom was in my lap the first time we met. I don’t have much experience with children—since most of my friends are still single—but I’m guessing that was something of a shock.

  I’ve been to two dozen countries but have never felt as out of place as I do surveying the entryway. Hanging on hooks are a bunch of sweaters that look small enough to fit a dog. Books litter the floor. Off to the right is a kitchen with stacks of clean, brightly colored dishes. Around the top of the room, instead of molding, is a banner with letters.

  I shove my hands in my pockets, trying to look more at ease than I feel. "Nice alphabet."

  "Thank you."

  The reality is I don't know what I’m going to do with Rory. If you’d told me twenty-four hours ago I’d be spending time solo with Kendall’s kid, I’d have laughed you out of the room. But the way Kendall's face transformed when she got that call, the worry and pain that seeped into my bones just from watching her, I couldn't say no.

  A redheaded kid appears in the doorway, pulling up as his eyes latch onto me. His hair’s short, making his eyes seem even bigger. He has a little nose like Kendall and a pointy chin not like Kendall. He's wearing a sweater with some logo I don't know and cargo pants over red socks.

  I force myself to swallow. I’ve stared down casting directors for global brands. I can take this half-pint with eyes like Kendall’s.

  I squat. "Rory, I'm Logan. Do you remember me?"

  He nods.

  "Great. Your mom said she called to let you know I'd be getting you." I'm not getting any responses. "Ah. That cool with you?"

  Eventually I start for the door, but he doesn't follow.

  "We have to pack up his things," Anita translates.

  I wait while they disappear, returning a moment later with a brown leather backpack.

  "Figured you'd have a cartoon bag or something." I nod toward the three other backpacks arranged by the door, each of which is brightly colored.

  He doesn't answer. Just looks at me with the most serious version of Kendall's eyes.

  Shit. What if the kid doesn't talk?

  Did I ask Kendall if her kid was a mute?

  Did I ask her anything about her kid?

  Guilt blurs with discomfort.

  "Are you taking transit?" Anita asks, jerking my attention back.

  "Nah, I got a ride."

  The kid follows me out the door and stops by the curb. The babysitter drops another sentence that sounds less kid-friendly than "oh my" as she spots my Maserati.

  The town car I call on a moments’ notice is more practical for day-to-day, but I prefer driving my car when I can. It’s the one indulgence I gave myself from my modeling earnings.

  I hit the button for the doors, and I hear an indrawn breath. I glance back to see Rory watching the door of my yellow Maserati as if he expects aliens to leap out at him.

  His gaze scans the black leather interior, landing on the backseat. "Where do I sit?"

  "Shotgun. It's you and me, kid."

  Something tingles in the back of my mind. Don't kids have car seats or something?

  I debate, realizing I'm screwed on that front and Kendall probably didn't think about it.

  He slides in and buckles his seatbelt, settling the backpack between his calves on the floor and craning his neck to peer over the top of the door.

  I drive more carefully than I've ever driven.

  Women look over and check me out. It's not new, but when they see Rory, their gazes turn to molten heat.

  "Cute kid," one says at a light. "Cute dad."

  The light changes before I can correct them.

  Go figure. Women think I'm more attractive with a kid while I thought Kendall was less. It’s ignorant. Hell, my grandmother was a single mom. There's no reason I should've freaked out.

  I’ll prove to her I’m not ignorant, I resolve.

  Which I want to do why?

  Because I want her to like me. It’s the simplest answer, and the most concerning. It has nothing to do with the fact that she made me come hard enough my jaw still aches and everything to do with the fact that I like her.

  That’s why I freaked out in that meeting earlier today.

  Sure, I don’t like men who won’t respect women in business. But I lost my shit. It took everything I had not to punch a wall, not to mention one of those execs.

  But then she crawled into my lap, shutting down my fury as if she’d turned a hose on it. In its place, desire sprang up as if I’d been suppressing it for months. When she pressed that sweet mouth to mine, drowning me in her peach taste and smell, and ran her palms up my body…

  I was done.

  I wanted to tell the driver to take us on a never-ending loop of Manhattan. Maybe throw Jersey in for good measure.

  The desperate quickie was both hot and the most unsatisfying experience of my life. Because it left me fucking starving for her.

  We get to Kendall's place, and as I cruise around for a public parking spot that costs less than a hundred a day, I push that from my mind.

  When we reach Kendall’s door—it's a fourth-floor walkup that makes me think I should hit the gym more despite my six-pack abs—I go to use her keys, but Rory offers his. I tuck mine away and watch him unlock the door.

  "How old are you, Rory?" I ask as we go inside.

  "Nine minus a little."

  Words, hallelujah. I want to throw a parade. "Minus how much?"

  "Twenty-two days."

  "That's basically nine."

  I watch him carefully untie his shoes. Next, he rummages in his bag and holds out a slip of paper and a clear bag.

  I didn't expect homework.

  It better not be math.

  I blow out a sigh of relief as I read the sheet. "It says you have an art project to create something that represents you."

  He hands me the bag.

  I take it from him, tilt it to get a good look at the dried pasta, glitter, and colorful paper cut into shapes inside. "This is homework?"

  "Most of the class did it in school. I didn't want to."

  He goes to the kitchen, gets a glass, and fills it with juice from the fridge.

  "Do you want a drink?" It's stilted, as if his mom told him to ask me.

  I recognize the cups from when Kendall and I drank beer. Guilt kicks at me.

  "I'll have what you're having." I cross to the kitchen and take the glass he passes me, but I fill it myself, then take a sip.

  He has a tentative smile, and I grin in return. "It's pretty good."

  His smile fades, and I wonder what I've done now when his gaze glues to my mouth. "What is that?"

  Oh. The piercing. "It's a tongue ring."

  I open my mouth, then stick out my tongue so he can inspect it.

  He frowns, reaching out a finger, then sucks in a breath when I grab it out of the air. "Bloody hell. Does it hurt?"

  I swallow a laugh and shake my head.

  “Stainless steel?” he asks.

  Weird question. “Um. Sure.”

  But he looks satisfied. “I wondered if it got hot. Probably not. Stainless doesn’t conduct heat like aluminum or copper.”

  Who knew the way to get to know this kid was through my body piercing?

  "Why do you have it?" he asks.

  Because when I was twenty-two, I thought it was cool AF, and the college girls did too.

  Go fish, Hunter.

  "Ah. Because sometimes people like to express themselves. It'
s like wearing clothing. Or tattoos. Though with tattoos, you want to make sure it's something meaningful." I think about Monty getting a tattoo every year since he turned eighteen. "So, why don't you want to make something out of macaroni? You got a problem with pasta?"

  "No." He goes to the cupboard, opens it, and reveals fusilli and fettuccini and shells.

  "Damn." I shake my head. "You have everything except tortellini.”

  He cocks his head. "You can't buy stuffed pasta."

  "Sure, you can."

  "You have to make it yourself. It's easy. Flour. Water. Egg. Stuff it with ricotta and spinach." He passes me, jerking open the refrigerator door while I stare. He holds up a brick of cheese. "No ricotta. Gruyère."

  Rory looks at me expectantly, and that’s when everything clicks.

  This pint-sized redhead in front of me with serious eyes is not only into cooking—whatever that means when you’re not yet nine—he’s a damned foodie.

  The muscles I didn’t know were still tight in my neck relax. Oh, it’s on now.

  I fold my arms, bracing against the counter. "Why d'you want to skip this macaroni project if you're so into food?"

  He mimics my posture. "Because you're not supposed to cook it," he says as if it's obvious.

  I reach for the sheet of paper. "It says 'create something you love using pieces of pasta and other accessories.’"

  "But it's what they mean. You can't ignore what they mean to say."

  His eyes glint as I reach for the cuffs of my shirt with a grin. "Wanna bet?"

  16

  Things never go the way you plan.

  Not that I had a plan for my mom to fall off a chair and be rushed to Yale New Haven Hospital.

  But traffic seems to know it’s keeping me from my mom, that my heart is pounding out of my chest, and is flipping me an extremely rude gesture despite it.

  It's Thursday, not Friday, but it seems as if the entire state is on the road as I drive my rental car toward Orange, Connecticut. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel the whole way there.

  As I pass Orange on the turnpike and continue to the hospital, I call my father. "I'll be there in fifteen.”

  When I arrive and park, I run through the endless halls. The hospital is an impressive facility, but it’s hard to be grateful for that right now. Either you’re there visiting someone, or you’re there as a patient, and usually the donor plaques and fake greenery aren’t foremost on your mind.

  The last time I was here, I had Rory.

  It brings up all kinds of feelings I’d thought I'd buried.

  I find the right waiting room, and my dad.

  "Kendall." He hugs me, some of his usual “what will be will be” replaced by a pale face. "Thank you for coming. We called your brothers but only reached Robert. William’s working."

  I don’t say that it would’ve made my whole day if he’d called me first and not as a plan C. Instead I squeeze his hand. “I’m glad to be here.”

  We go in together to see my mom, and my first thought is how small she looks in the bed. Like me, she's not short, but she looks as if she's lost weight since I saw her last. She’s also hooked up to some monitoring equipment, a machine that blinks silently behind her.

  Her lips curve when she spots me and I try to focus on her, not the machines.

  "Nice place you’ve got here,” I tease, looking around the two-person room with one empty bed.

  Her eyes crinkle. “Slow day apparently.”

  I take a seat next to her, smoothing down the blanket without taking my gaze from hers. “What were you doing?"

  "Trying to fix something on the top shelf in the garage."

  "You shouldn't do that."

  "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

  Her life hasn't been easy. She does so much for my dad. She's his rock. From the look on his face, I think he's realizing that. Maybe more than he ever has.

  I take her hand. "I'm glad you're okay."

  I sit with her for a while, talking about nothing, keeping up my end of the conversation so she doesn’t feel as if she has to.

  Meanwhile, I can’t help but notice the panels and screens behind her.

  What would I have done if her fall had gone differently?

  I would feel guilty, for one. I spend so much time worrying about them judging me, but maybe I judge them a little too.

  After my mother falls asleep, my father sits with me. "The doctors think it was a stroke."

  "A stroke? She's fifty-five." I shake my head. "What else did they say?"

  "They're looking into medication. But keeping her stress low will help. They're hoping to send her home tomorrow. Will you stay tonight?"

  I shake my head. "I need to get back to Rory. Do you need some of her clothes? Toiletries?"

  The expression crossing his face says he hadn't thought of that. "That would help very much. Thank you."

  I drive the backroads to their house—the house I grew up in—checking the clock on the way. It’s after pick-up time. Logan will have gotten Rory by now.

  I don’t know what I would’ve done if he wasn’t there.

  As a single mom, I do everything I can to cover my bases, but I’m usually working without a net. Having someone to catch me—to catch us, really—means the world.

  It’s only for today, I remind myself. Logan happened to be there. He offered.

  Don’t get used to it.

  Though I'm running late, I can't resist taking a moment to look at the photos in the hall. Me, my brothers, my parents. Our community, the church. Sometimes it felt as if they were all our extended family. For good and for bad.

  In my dad's office with their challenges. At the church, bringing food.

  A life of service is a blessing, my dad always said. And I believe it. Helping others through this life is the greatest honor there is.

  Growing up as a PK, I was extra aware of the pressure. People expected me to behave at a higher standard. Not just like a good kid. They wanted me to be like an adult. Of course, not too much like an adult.

  And when I let them down by marrying Blake, then divorcing him…

  I look at the pictures of my brothers. Robert with his family. William with my parents. There are so many of them and so few of us, but I refuse to count them.

  I pack a few of my mom's things in a duffel bag. Pajamas. Two T-shirts, including one with a pretty collar, and underwear. Makeup, because she'd shoot me if I didn't bring it. The lone pair of sweatpants I have to dig out of a bottom drawer. My mom usually tries to look put together, but she might want something cozy.

  Besides, if anyone visits her, her legs will be under the sheet. No one will know she isn't wearing slacks.

  After packing, I blow out a breath and pull out my phone. Rory should be home from school by now.

  Hunter: How's your mom?

  Kendall: They think she’ll be okay.

  Kendall: How are things with you? I'm sorry I'm running behind.

  Hunter: We're fine. Don’t rush.

  Relief and gratitude flood me. I always thought of Hunter as dodging responsibility, but lately, I’m wondering if I was wrong. Like the way he covered that big job at work so his friend didn’t end up in trouble.

  And the way he had my back today. Not just by taking Rory, but in that meeting.

  By the time I tuck the phone away, a smile lingering on my lips, and head back outside, a figure is striding up the driveway. One that stops and leans against the driver’s door of my car. My heart kicks, and I lower the duffel, preparing to swing it at his head if I need to.

  But then I realize the shape is familiar.

  "Kendall."

  "Blake."

  I don't loosen my grip on the bag. I haven't seen him in almost three years. He's filled out.

  "I heard about your mom," he says. "I'm sorry."

  That familiar voice is smooth on my skin, reminding me how he used to sing in youth group. How I’d stare at him while he did.

  "She'll be fine."<
br />
  He shoves his hands in the pockets of his Levi’s.

  I always found him handsome, but I don't appreciate it anymore. It's under layers of resentment and pain.

  I nod toward the house across the fence. “Looks like you’ve been busy. When did you move in?"

  "A week ago." He shrugs. “Mings did a helluva job on the yard, but the carpet in there? Think it hasn’t been replaced since the seventies.”

  "Why?"

  “Dunno, guess they had other stuff going on.”

  “I mean, why did you buy that house?”

  He spreads his hands. "I came home. Can’t I want to see my kid and my girl?"

  There's a dig in his words, but I'm too stressed and tired to play games. “I’m not your girl. I haven’t been in a long time.”

  He rubs a hand through the waves of his hair, darker brown than Logan’s. His face is leaner, and I don’t know why I’m comparing them all of a sudden.

  “Coming back to this place made me remember everything. Including camp that summer.” His lips lift at the corner, as if he’s reminiscing with an old friend instead of a woman who wants nothing to do with him.

  “I’m creating a future for my son. We can’t change the past.”

  He looks hurt. “You wouldn’t want that. We had some good times.”

  “And some bad ones,” I remind him, lifting my chin.

  He sighs, folding his arms over his chest. "I’m gonna see my son."

  The hairs on my neck stand up. Not because I’m afraid he’ll hurt Rory—if I was, there’d be a restraining order and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. The risk to my kid is more subtle than that.

  "You can see him, but we need to be on the same page. The last time you spent time with him, you promised him things you couldn’t deliver on.”

  “I only couldn’t deliver on them because you wouldn’t let me.”

  “You said you’d take him on a trip without consulting me.”

  “You would’ve said no.”

  “It was during the school year!” He shakes his head as if I’m the one being unreasonable. “And even if I’d agreed, you left before you could make good on it.”

  He groans. "I got a new job out of state. I couldn’t exactly tell them, ‘Give me a month first to play hooky with my kid.’”