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“No.”
“Is the father involved?” he questions, and I shake my head.
“No, but it’s a really long story that I’m not going to get into with you because it’s none of your business.”
“So…you’re taking care of Maria’s baby. A woman who is an old friend but is also single…and you’re protective over her business? I take it back—this is starting to get very interesting.” He waggles his brows. “Give me the scoop, Rem. I’m all ears.”
“There’s no scoop.”
“Oh, there’s scoop. I can tell. We’re already well on our way to my two favorite tropes of all time—friends-to-lovers and second chances, baby.”
“You have to stop reading romance novels, bro.”
You might think I’m kidding, but I’m not. Thatch is a lover of romance novels. Hell, I’ve heard rumors about a book club that my brother-in-law Wes was even roped into, but I’ve still yet to get the real truth out of him.
Thatch laughs like I’ve just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Get real, son. Besides my wife’s t-i-t-s and p-u-s-s-y, there’s nothing better in this world than a good romance novel.”
In order to achieve the entire reason Thatch had me come to his office today, I know I’m going to have to get this crazy train back on the rails. “So…are you planning on holding the baby the entire time we’re sharing information, or should I put her back in the carrier?”
“Fluff that,” he huffs out on a snort. “I’m not giving up this little cutie until I have to.”
“You say Cassie is the one who wants another baby and you don’t,” I retort. “I call bullshit, bro.”
“Yeah, well, I’m calling bullshit on you too, bro.”
I quirk a brow. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t think I noticed the careful avoidance. The pointed distraction you just provided. C’mon, Rem. I know what’s up.”
I roll my eyes. But also, I ignore the metaphorical carrot he’s dangling in front of my face. One comment about what he just said, and I might as well settle in for a three-hour tour.
So, I do the only thing that’s going to prevent me from having to tell Maria I can’t bring Izzy home tonight because we have to sleep in this lunatic’s office because he won’t shut up. I pull my phone out of my pocket and hold it up toward Thatch and Izzy.
“Mind if I take a quick picture?” I ask. “Winnie would get a kick out of this.”
What I really mean is…Cassie would get a kick out of this because there is no way my sister wouldn’t share this with Thatch’s wife.
His eyes flare. “You motherfluffer.”
“What?” I feign confusion. “My sister would love to see you holding this baby, looking like a man who wants another baby.”
Checkmate, bro.
“Put the phone away,” he says and walks around to his desk, still holding Izzy in his arms. “And give me the rundown on what you’re thinking next quarter. If I like what you have to say, I’ll share some of my secrets too.”
I grin. Yeah. That’s exactly what I thought.
Maria
I stand inside the massive living room of a six-thousand-square-foot penthouse located smack-dab in the middle of Manhattan while my client bitches at someone on the phone.
Just another day at the office.
“Anna, I already told you I want an exclusive with Page Six. Why are you coming to me with this Cosmo stuff? It’s like you think I’m pathetic or something. Fix it. Now.” Eleanor Waverly scoffs and hangs up her phone, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder.
This is the fourth phone call she’s taken since I started this showing. The first three were about some kind of emergency menu change for a charity function next month. Apparently, salmon is an atrocity she wouldn’t wish upon her worst enemies.
Back to her penthouse scrutiny, she narrows her eyes as she takes in the expensive floors that sit below her red-bottomed heels. A sigh escapes her lungs as she adjusts the white Hermes Birkin bag hanging prominently on her arm. “Hardwood is so overdone these days.”
With a point of her nose toward the air above her, she moves into the kitchen.
Her heels click-clack across the floor with precision, and I try to maintain a neutral but happy expression on my face despite the reality that I’m dying a slow death in this woman’s company.
For the third time since we stepped into this penthouse, the kitchen receives the same scrutinizing attention from Eleanor. Silence stretches across the room for a good five minutes until she breaks it with more critiquing commentary. “I like it, but I wish the kitchen were all marble.”
I look around, confused, my eyes scanning across the marble counters, kitchen island, and floors. “Just out of curiosity, what else would you like to see in marble?”
“Everything, Maria,” she retorts with pursed lips. “Everything.” She points toward the ceiling, cabinets, even the fridge.
