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CHAPTER 13
Aspen
Lily has fallen asleep by the time we dock, the afternoon sunlight casting a hazy glow over Lake Lanier behind us. I move to pick her up, but Caden beats me to it, scooping her up easily from where she has dozed off in the lounge chair. The little girl doesn’t flinch, obviously accustomed to the feel of her guardian’s stronghold, and I’m a little jealous of the security she’s experiencing.
She has three men who would die for her. They love her so much. She’s such a lucky kid.
I wish I’d met Ryker and Alexandra. I don’t understand the bond that Caden, Flint, and Pike shared with them, either, but who am I to comprehend anyone’s close relationships when all of mine had gone to hell?
“Are you coming, Aspen?”
I shiver and pick up the pace to join the pair at the waiting Range Rover where Ryan stands with the door open.
The three of us pile into the back, and Ryan retreats to the front, driving away from the marina with no instructions from Caden, who keeps Lily on his lap. The sight of this grown man holding a little, delicate child warms my heart.
“She’s wiped,” he chuckles after a minute. “Maybe I should take her home.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “We’re not going home?”
“I wasn’t planning on it yet.”
“Where are we going?” I ask nervously, unsure if I have any adventures left in me for the day.
“Shopping. The kid needs some new stuff,” he answers evasively.
My eyes narrow, but he dips his head to look at Lily, who murmurs something in her sleep. I’ve seen Lily’s closet. The girl wants for nothing.
“What does she need?” I ask suspiciously.
“Stuff,” he answers again, and I hear the faint buzz of his cell phone ringing. It’s the third or fourth time today that he’s ignored it.
“Are you going to answer that?”
“Nah. It’s not important.”
I settle back in the soft leather seat, trying to figure him out. On the surface, he appears lackadaisical, superficial, almost, but I know that’s hiding something deeper. He’s trying too hard to keep up with this noncommittal façade.
He’s really lucky that his career gives him so much free time. I don’t suppose that is normal for most plastic surgeons.
“Why did you choose plastic surgery as a career?” I ask bluntly.
His cocksure grin fades, and a scowl replaces it. “A lot of the procedures are elective, so I don’t have to deal as much with insurance companies. There’s a lot of money in plastic surgery.”
“You have to work to make money, right? It seems like you have a lot of time off,” I quip. He stares at me, and for half a second, I think he’s going to yell at me. I recoil inwardly, waiting for him to berate me, a throwback response from all of those foster parents who were best left in the past.
But to my surprise, he chortles. “Touché,” he agrees. “I have a full staff at my practice, so I pick my hours.”
I'm eager to delve deeper, to break through the façade of indifference he always wears. “Did you always want to become a plastic surgeon?”
He shakes his head. “Not always.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I continue to probe. “Did you try something else first?”
“Emergency room doctor,” he confesses. “But it wasn’t for me.” He gives me a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes.
“That’s quite a one-eighty.”
“Sure is. You lose a hell of a lot fewer people giving Botox injections than you do dealing with car accidents and suicide attempts.”
