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“I’m serious. I can’t wait to be an aunt. Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?”
Again with those sad, brooding eyes that came out of nowhere. Was he hiding something from me? Was it the same thing I was hiding from him?
“A boy,” he said, kissing my neck. “You?”
“A girl.” I rubbed my nose against his in an Eskimo kiss.
When we got back to our apartment building, he escorted me to my door, wheeling both our suitcases, and when I was about to turn around and close the door to my apartment—because there was absolutely no way we were sleeping together, I was too tired to take a shower after the wedding, and it had been twenty-four hours since my body and soap shared a hot date—he shoved his hand and stopped it from closing shut.
“I think we need to make a few rules.” His voice was businesslike.
I opened the door a crack, peeking through it sheepishly.
“You do?” I grinned.
“You fucking bet. Rule number one: I’m allowed to use my key for your place and vice versa.” He dug his hand inside his pocket and produced a key, which he put in my palm, curling my fingers over it. “Rule number two: your dating days are over. You’re mine now.”
“Are you mine, too?” I arched an eyebrow.
“Always have been, Baby LeBlanc. This cock was just a rental that’s now being used by its legitimate owner.” He continued. “Rule number three: no secrets. If something bothers us,” his tone turned a shade darker, “we talk about it. We fucking address it. And we don’t shy away from the bad shit, because I know there is going to be some bad shit down the road, and I’m still all in. Understood?”
“Sounds fair.” I nodded, about to close the door again. I really was tired. And even though I was happy, I also needed a shower and to clear my airways after the flight.
“And, sweetheart?” He looked over his shoulder, pressing the elevator button.
“Yes, Mr. Bossy Pants?”
“Congratulations, you have a new boyfriend.”
“You’re not my boyfriend.”
“Your Facebook status claims differently.”
“What?!”
Ping. He walked into the elevator, a cunning smile on his face as the door slid shut.
“Like the fucking post, Rosie. Goodbye.”
I had a tech guy with a lot of free time (and probably wasted sperm) on his hands who made things happen. That was how Dean Cole and Rose LeBlanc became in a relationship on Facebook, even though they weren’t even friends two days ago. I wanted to make sure Rosie knew that this wasn’t another drawn-out fling, and that the next time someone out of our group was going to go down the aisle, it would be us, and it would be us in every sense of the word. She was going to wear flip-flops, and I was going to wear her out until they had to surgically remove my dick from her body.
How did it feel to find out my ex-girlfriend was having a baby? It felt like a thousand knives to my stomach, but not because she was knocked up by the guy I grew up with.
“I can’t have kids.”
Every time I thought about the way she whispered it into my ear, I felt like polishing off a whole bottle of whiskey. It was unfair. Unfair that fucking Nina could have a baby but Rosie couldn’t. Rosie was the definition of mother material. She had enough compassion to last for five people. How could she even volunteer at a children’s hospital? Fuck if I had a clue, but I did understand why Millie didn’t want to tell Rosie about it until the time was right.
“Mr. Cole.” Sue breezed into my office, offering me a nod. It was a Tuesday, but Sue looked like a Monday morning. Her attire black, head-to-toe and she wore a frozen smile of a cheap porcelain doll. “How are you today? How was Mr. Spencer’s wedding?”
“I’m great, the wedding was eventful, and I am not in the mood for small talk, so let’s cut to the chase.” I rolled a tennis ball in my hand and watched her from my executive chair. Out of all the shit that had happened, the best part was that Rosie finally realized that Millie didn’t give a damn about us. Relief washed over me when Baby LeBlanc told me her sister was okay with us. Not because I cared about what Millie thought. But because she did.
I thought Millie was going to warn her about my manwhoring ways. Not that I was a manwhore. I was just…a man. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for Rosie to realize it was always us?
“I need you to call all the florists on this block and send every single rose they have, no matter the color, to The Black Hole on Broadway. Addressed to Rose LeBlanc,” I told Sue. Her eyes darted up from her iPad for the first time since she got into my office, and they zeroed in on me like a target.
