Yeah, I’ve got it bad. Which is not good. I know full well she doesn’t want anything to do with professional athletes. I’d heard her say that much outright at the wedding. A girl I was interested in during college ditched me for the same reason, and I’ve no interest in getting my heart stomped on again.
Which is why I shouldn’t have touched, much less kissed, Fi. Because I can’t stop replaying it in my mind. I know what she tastes like now. And she tastes like addiction.
Gripping the wheel, I turn us into Gray and Ivy’s driveway. They bought a massive townhouse in Pacific Heights. I have to admit, I’m envious. It’s the kind of place I’d love to call home. My place is a nice but fairly empty townhouse in New Orleans. I love its high ceilings, old wood floors, and natural light. But it doesn’t feel like a home. Then again, maybe it’s because I’m the only one ever in it.
We’re silent as we pull into the garage and climb the back steps to the main floor. I’m only vaguely surprised when Gray comes shuffling out of the kitchen holding a bottle in one hand and a pot in the other. He’s a mess, his blond hair flattened on the side, his sweats inside out and backwards. Deep circles shadow his eyes.
“Hey,” he mutters. “Have fun?”
He doesn’t look as though he cares much about anything other than sleep at the moment.
“What’s the pot for, man-mountain?” Fi asks him before gently taking it from his hand.
He blinks down at it. “Right. I was going to put that in the sink.”
From a flight above comes the irate squall of a baby.
“The tiny overlord demands his due,” Gray says. But he stops to kiss Fi on the cheek. His expression lightens a bit as he pulls back. “You smell like cologne, Fi-Fi.”
Hot pink washes over Fiona’s cheeks. “I smell like a nightclub.”
“Cologne,” Gray counters as he trudges toward the stairs. His gaze lands on me. “Dex’s cologne. And don’t bother denying it. I roomed with the guy for years.”
So much for keeping things from Gray. The guy might love to joke, but he’s an outright genius, so I’m not really surprised he caught me.
He doesn’t say anything more about it, though. His shoulders slump as he starts up the stairs. “I swear to God, I’d give someone five—no ten—million dollars right now if Ivy and I could just get one solid night’s sleep.”
Fi and I exchange a sympathetic look. It might be awkward between us, but at least we can escape to our beds and sleep.
“I’m going to go earn ten million dollars,” I say to her and head for the stairs.
She follows behind. “This I have to see.”
We find Gray in a nursery that would fit right into a design catalog. I know Fi decorated it, and she’s clearly talented. Gray’s slumped in a glider trying to give his agitated son a bottle. But the little guy is screaming, his tiny fists beating against Gray’s arm.
“It’s my turn to feed him,” Gray says without looking up. “So bottled breast milk it is. He hates it. I know, little dude,” he says to the baby. “I love Mommy’s boobs too, but she needs to sleep.”
From the far room, a muffled groan rings out. “Mother guilt has killed my sleep,” says Ivy’s disembodied voice. “And don’t discuss my boobs with my son, Cupcake.”
I glance through a connecting door and see her long legs sprawled over a massive bed. Fi is short, but Ivy is a good six feet tall. At the moment, she’s totally wiped.
“Hand him over, Grayson,” I say.
Gray looks at me as if I’m nuts, then shakes his head and offers me his son. His trust is something I will never take for granted. And guilt hits me anew for touching Fi. But now I have a wiggling, screaming one month old in my hands.
Walking over to the changing table, I pull out one of the many swaddling blankets they have stacked—unused—on the shelves. Leo turns a nice shade of angry red as I wrap him up tight, tucking his arms against his body. The result is a securely swaddled baby with only his head sticking out.
Gray and Fi come to watch, clearly curious. But when I pick Little G up and loudly shush him, they both flinch.