Defying Our Forever (The Baker’s Creek Billionaire Brothers Book 3)

by Claudia Burgoa

  “Thanks,” I say, wondering if he heard any part of my rant.

  I peek inside the first bag and inhale the delicious scent of salty fries.

  “I brought you two pints of mac and cheese. The brisket looked too dry. The pork…well, you don’t eat it. There’s chicken if you want to try it, but,” he shrugs. “Are you still not eating chicken?”

  “Sorry, I can’t anymore,” I remind him. “It’s like telling the girls, ‘You’re next.’”

  “Hens aren’t as yummy as—”

  “Don’t say it,” I order, glaring at him. Ever since we got the chickens, I can only eat eggs. “We have roosters, too.”

  “By the way, there’s plenty of land to start an orchard,” he states. “Whatever you need to be built has to be ordered ASAP. There’s only one construction company in town.”

  “How about the indoor and outdoor arenas for the horses?” I ask.

  He pulls out a sandwich and nods. “Fuck, I forgot to ask the contractor to build those. Before I fly back to Colorado, I’ll talk to him.”

  “Thank you. They’ll appreciate it. We need to make sure Ally’s pen is secure,” I remind him.

  He nods and then says, “Do you mind if I ask about that call?”

  “How much did you hear?”

  “Listen, I’m not going to get upset, because what’s done is done, but…did you apply to adopt a child as a couple?”

  I nod once and stare at the hot, crispy fries that look delicious, but I can’t eat because my stomach is full of anger and sadness. Maybe this is why nothing has happened, because I was a bit deceiving. Or because nothing ever goes my way—ever.

  “Again, no judging here or getting upset,” he continues, and really, he’s not upset at all. “What were you going to do when I had to sign the papers?”

  I swallow hard. “I wasn’t deceiving anyone. We weren’t divorced, so it was okay to apply as a couple. Once I was chosen, I planned on telling them that we were separated and probably would be divorcing.”

  “So, I wasn’t part of the plan at all?”

  “I thought about doing that for one hot moment. Including you and imposing the kid on you,” I accept. “You were reluctant about Buster, but…a baby is different, and I understood that almost immediately.”

  “Why not sign the divorce?”

  I shrug. “Other than the baby, I really need to do it in my own time. Do you know that divorces are pretty similar to a loved one dying? You lose a piece of yourself. It sounds stupid, but I’m working on it. The anger, the pain, what I lost. It’s different for everyone. I’m losing the kids I dreamt about. It sounds a bit crazy, but for one moment, they seemed so real to me. Did I tell you I have a life coach?”

  He laughs, but it’s so fake I almost cry because I’m not sure what he’s thinking or feeling. Is he upset? Annoyed? I don’t ask, and when he says, “No, you didn’t. That’s different. What did your therapist think about this move?”

  “The old therapist is gone, since August of last year. I now have a life coach, yoga, meditation, and I also have this therapy that…” I stop and look at him. “It doesn’t matter. The point is that it’s been helping me with my PTSD and my life in general. I promise that once I’m ready, I’ll be gone forever.”

  He stares at me for a moment, and the silence between us is excruciatingly painful. My silence means: I miss you desperately; if only I knew why you disappeared; if only the old you could be back so I could say goodbye.

  “Well, at least I understand the boxes in the back,” he says, looking toward the windshield and breaking the moment. “I’ve been wracking my brain since I moved them to this car. What the fuck is 0-6 MGP.”

  “Zero to six-months girl pink,” I answer.

  While we eat, I tell him about all the places I applied to adopt and also about my foster parent certification. He’s silent while I give him all the details about the room I have in my apartment. I show him some of the pictures with the crib, the changing table, and the walls I painted. He thinks it’s adorable and can’t believe I found soft farm animals that matched. I explain that most of the stuff is custom ordered.

  He finishes his food, places the trash in an empty bag, and points at my food. “Eat. Being upset with me, the agency, or how fucked up life is shouldn’t take away your appetite.”

  “I’ll save the mac and cheese. I’m sure I’ll get hungry later.”

  Pierce sighs and says, “I hate to tell you this, but unless you go back to Colorado, all those applications are about to become useless.”

  “They are still processing,” I explain.

  He frowns. “When did you apply?”

  I pull out my phone and give him a detailed description of the agencies, dates, and statuses. When I’m done speaking, he says, “I’m impressed you’ve documented everything with so much detail.”

  “I’m not sure if it’s because I’m getting older and becoming more responsible, or because I want a kid so bad that maybe if I remind them every now and then what I’ve done and since when, I might get the chance to be on their waiting list.”

  “Hmm, so you’re not on a waiting list for any of them? They are still processing your application,” he confirms.

  “That’s right. Which seems so weird, doesn’t it?”

  He nods. “I’ll have someone take a look. I’m sure it’ll happen soon, and you’ll be able to show them how amazing you are.”

  I want to believe him, but the way his jaw tenses makes me wonder what he’s thinking.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “You’re hiding something,” I protest. “If it’s that deep down you don’t want me to have this chance, just say it. I won’t change my mind.”

  I grunt, “Why do I even bother with you?”

  “Think whatever you want, Leyla,” he says, exasperated, and pushes the button to turn on the engine. “Maybe you should start looking into adopting someone in Oregon—you can also foster there.”

  I stare at him, dumbfounded. “First, you don’t give a shit, then you seem against it, and now you’re giving me advice. You never make sense. Why do I bother to get along with you?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Pierce

  “I need a favor,” I say, looking over my shoulder as Leyla walks the dogs around the rest stop.

  We should be in Baker’s Creek soon. Hopefully we’ll arrive at the same time as the other kids. One of the drivers who is transporting them texted me earlier to let me know they should be at the mansion within an hour.

  “What do you need?” Vance growls.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” I greet him, and I don’t hide the joy of knowing that I pissed him off. “Do you know anyone who can investigate a few adoption agencies?”

  “That’s a weird request. We could do it,” he pauses. “I’ll text you my email address so you can tell me who we’re checking out,” he confirms. “I’m about to go off the grid, but I can look around once I’m done with this mission. Do you mind if I ask you why me and why that?”

  I crane my neck, spotting Leyla coming toward me. “It’s a long story,” I answer, trying to cut the conversation. “Can’t talk more. You better be here next week.”

  Things between Leyla and me were good enough until she told me about the whole adopting-fostering-being-a-mom deal. My response made her think that I’m not supportive. She thinks I don’t want her to have a child.

  She’s wrong. Nothing would make me happier than to see her happy. It’d be useless to convince her that she’s mistaken.

  I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t trust myself after all the shit I’ve been pulling since we got married. I let work come between us. Grandfather and Mom put a lot of pressure on me. They doubled my load of cases, set new responsibilities, and even gave me the promotion I had been waiting for—but I no longer wanted it.

  I just didn’t know it until now that I’m leaving that life for good.

  The sad part abo
ut this whole shit show is that I do care about Leyla. More than she can imagine—a lot more than I ever showed her.

  I love her.

  She’s the oxygen I breathe.

  The thing about her is that even though we’re over, I’ll love her beyond the tragic end of our lives together.

  I’ll love her forever.

  What I couldn’t tell her when I heard her story is that an application shouldn’t have taken that long. I know the process. I can’t mention that three of those agencies use the same legal team—Bryant, LLP. My family is in charge of making sure the families have the assets, they run the background checks, and even set up the interviews with the applicants. In other words, we handle most of the adoptions for them.

  The fact that they have lost her paperwork is already a red flag. Someone isn’t doing their job or…they are fucking this up for Leyla.

  Until I know more, or I have proof that my family screwed with my wife, I don’t see the point of telling her.

  Am I fucking angry?

  Yes, but not with her. I’m upset at those assholes because they can’t let people be happy. I fucking swear, if I discover that they were the ones who lost those applications, I’m going to fuck them all the way to hell and make sure none of them practice law again. I don’t care if they are my cousins—or my mom.

  I could ask Nyx to do this for me, but the less she knows, the better. When I left, I asked Mom to put her in charge of my department. Hopefully, she’ll make her a junior partner early next year. She’s so close to getting that promotion that I can’t tell her to leave the firm just yet. There’s a lot of stuff going on at Bryant, LLP that could damage her career, but as long as I keep a watchful eye on her, she should be fine.

  She’s not thrilled that some of our clients have left the firm. It’s my fault, though. The moment I quit, I began to see that place from a different perspective, and it is fucking scary, to say the least.

  I owed it to them to give them the best service. Part of that was referring them to another firm because I don’t trust my family. They’d be better with me, but I can’t take them as mine. My grandfather made me sign a non-compete agreement.

  He explained to me not once, but five times, that if I ever want to come back, I’d have to start as an associate and work my way up to the top. He implied that I am no longer eligible to run the firm after he and my mother retire.

  The kicker is that Leyla told me several times to leave the firm. She said I seemed unhappy working for my family. I didn’t see it that way, and every time she mentioned it, I got angry at her. In my stupid mind, I thought she was just saying that because she didn’t like them. There were too many things in place that pushed me to behave stupidly, starting with having to please my mother because I hate when she’s unhappy.

  It’s now, when I’m thirty-four years old and almost divorced, that I realize it’s not my responsibility to make her happy. She always implied that my behavior affected her mood. I have to say, Nyx’s sister is a good therapist. Who knew I should’ve gone to a counselor years ago?

  When Leyla told me about the new things she’s doing to get better, I wanted to say that I started seeing a counselor too after my younger brother said he goes to therapy.

  I started it because of that competitive shit we have had going on since we were younger, but now I see that it’s all for me. Not even for Leyla.

  “Ready,” she says as she slides into the passenger seat.

  “We should be there soon. I’m not sure if the house is ready, but there’s a place for them in the barn,” I announce. “Are you sure you’ll be fine on your own for the next week?”

  “Yeah,” she answers, not sounding okay.

  She bites her lip while closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

  “Blaire is nice,” I assure her.

  “It’s fine. You should stop worrying about me,” she says with a yawn. “I’m just too tired. Unlike you, I’m not used to waking up at five in the morning anymore.”

  I work hard not to grind my teeth. I’m sure there’s a lot more to that statement. We have to stop telling each other lies, half-truths, and bullshit. I understand I started it. Maybe I need to be the one who stops it. At this point, I don’t even know what we’re pretending. That I don’t love her, that I am not upset by how she is trying to make me pay for what I did, or that I don’t want to let her go.

  Some days I want to ask her, how much longer until you are satisfied that I’ve paid my dues?

  I know that I deserve more than her not signing my freedom and pushing my buttons when she finds those perfect moments.

  She’s not even cruel to me. She just knows when to piss me off. I get it. She needs time to let me go, and then there’s that I don’t want her to fucking let me go.

  Why can’t I be just as important as that child she wants?

  She’s fighting hard to get it, isn’t she?

  Because even when she was more important than anything in the world, I took her for granted.

  Leyla gave you so many chances, but you didn’t notice her. Your priorities were fucked. You didn’t stop being cruel until you saw her broken and thought it was easier to push her away. You could’ve told her about the vasectomy, but you hoped that her determination would wear off.

  She wanted to learn more about me, but I never let her fully in because what if she left. But I’m the one who left her long before we said it out loud.

  These are some of the things I have been telling myself almost every day for the past couple of weeks. I’m not sure what I want to do with what I know or about my future, or how to convince her to stay with me.

  When we arrive at the house, the trailers are just pulling close to the gate, and the construction crew is already inside.

  “This is bigger than our land,” Leyla says, taking a deep breath. “It’s beautiful.”

  When I park, I point toward the lake. “Hayes taught us to fish during the summers we came by. We used to challenge each other on who’ll be climbing the tallest tree. Mills and Vance always won.”

  “You liked it here,” she concludes.

  “The answer to the question wouldn’t make sense,” I sigh.

  She blows out a long breath. “I wish for once you wouldn’t stop mid-thought, mid-sentence, or mid-conversation. It’s pretty taxing,” she complains. “It feels as if you’re going to give me a precious gift, and then you take it away because I’m not deserving of it.”

  The way she says it tears at me a little. To learn that every little fucking thing I have done has hurt her upsets me on her behalf. I want to ask Vance to punch the shit out of me for inflicting so much pain on the one person I swore I’d never hurt. And where does this leave us now?

  “You’re deserving,” I state. “I just don’t think it’s important or transcendental. My terrible behavior has nothing to do with you and a lot to do with how I was raised. My feelings never mattered. My experiences, what happened here, my friends…I just learned to keep everything to myself. The little I’ve shared with you is as much as I’ve shared with anyone in my life.”

  Her eyes open wide.

  “Exactly,” I tell her. “That’s pathetic. It really wasn’t you but me. So, to explain further, I liked to come here. It was perfect during those Sundays when I arrived. I hated it the next Sunday when I had to leave because I would not see my brothers for another year. I didn’t like the funny feeling in my stomach when I got home because my mom would be upset that I spent one week away from her. She’d be nicer to my cousins for days, if not weeks. I worked hard to make her happy again. Every year, that week was bittersweet for me.”

  She frowns, touches my hand, and smiles. “I’m sorry she treated you like that. Hopefully this place will help you heal.”

  Her words are beautiful and tragic all at once. This woman is imperfect, and she recognizes it, but everything inside of her is pure and healing. Now that I’m about to lose her, I have come to learn that she’s a priceless gift, and I wasted most
of my time with her. She could’ve helped me grow into someone better, but I didn’t allow her to do it because I couldn’t see beyond the greed and resentment that was built around my heart. What’s going to happen to us?

  “This is a long shot, but while you stay here, we should find a way to become friends,” I propose.

  “Friends?”

  I nod. “Yes. We’ve been many things, but we were never friends.” Then I laugh, “We barely know each other.”

  She smiles and nods. “In a way, I know you too well, but you’re right. We have never been friends.”

  “So, what do you say, Leyla Gaumont, would you like to be my friend?”

  “I do, big guy,” she answers, and I grin because it’s been so long since the last time she called me that. “Just know that our friendship won’t get you off the hook, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m not doing it to get off your shit list,” I argue. “I understand that you’re working on your anger and that one day you’ll leave.”

  My words are almost shaky. This conversation is harder than any of the fights we’ve had in the past. Even harder than saying let’s get divorced. Is it because it feels like the end is near?

  This is different from anything I’ve ever told her. I wish I could tell her that I still love her. I’ve loved her from the moment she looked at me wearing those ugly Snoopy scrubs. That I love her even more because she loved me regardless of my fucking flaws.

  She just said it. It’s time to heal and let everything go.

  So, I clear my throat. “Afterward, I want to be able to call and ask how you’re doing. That you know you have a friend who will bail you out of jail if you try to steal a horse because he was mistreated,” I joke to lighten the atmosphere. “Maybe you’ll be one of those moms who send pictures of their kids every day to their friends. I want to be the recipient of those texts.”

  Before she says anything, I leave the car and head to speak to Easton Rodin, the contractor, who assures me that everything is ready. He gives me a quick tour and shows me the coop that Blaire built. Buster and Daisy catch up with me. I show them the barn. There’s a special place for them in case they want to be with the other kids.