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Chapter Eight
Patrick
Fury.
That was the only word to accurately describe Marlow as she burst into my office, Gerard on her heels. Her eyes searched for Blake, a brief moment of relief in them when she spotted him safe and sound in a playpen with Ella.
She scooped him up and cradled him to her chest, whispering against his head.
“It’s all right,” I said to Gerard, who appeared almost as irritated as Marlow. He scowled at her before marching from my office with disgust.
“Why didn’t either of you call me?”
“There was no reason—”
“I should know where my son is.” Her face turned red. “You’re not capable—”
“He’s in one piece, isn’t he?” I questioned acidly. She examined him, like she couldn’t see he was fine. Well, screw that. “Oh, and you’re welcome, by the way. He was no trouble at all.” I could actually see why Mr. Dixon liked hanging out with these two kids. They were good company.
“Where are his things?”
No thank you would come in my direction from her.
“On the sofa.” I pointed my chin to the diaper bags. What an ungrateful witch. Had she ever hoofed it across Manhattan with two kids in a wide-load stroller, a foldable playpen, and all their shit? “Blake’s fed. I didn’t get to the bath part.”
“Don’t act like you’ve done me a giant favor. I didn’t ask for this.” She yanked the bag onto her shoulder.
I hadn’t either, but when Mr. Dixon called with a hint of desperation in his voice, I couldn’t turn him down. He didn’t exactly explain what his emergency was, but I didn’t exactly demand to know either. Some part of me liked that when he’d needed something important, he’d thought of me. Unfortunately his daughter didn’t feel the same.
“It would probably be too much to ask if you could take Ella home.” I pushed at the papers on my desk.
“She’s not my responsibility.”
I gaped at her. “What the hell is wrong with you? She’s yourniece.” She was unbelievable.
“Not my biological niece,” she corrected to my astonishment. “And what the hell is wrong withme? My father left my son in your care without consulting me—”
“Stop bitching.”
“Like I’d ever listen to you again.”
“Like you ever have.”
“I’ve showed up at Holt’s and all I’ve gotten is an aching back.”
“It’ll take more than two days.”
She should know better than anyone that pain didn’t heal overnight.
“He didn’t even speak to me today.”
“What did you say?”
“It’s always my fault, isn’t it?” She hefted Blake in her arms. “Where’s his stroller?”
“At your dad’s.”
She growled something unintelligible before shooting daggers at me. I leaned back in my chair with a slight satisfaction. Score one, Whitley.
