One and Only Boxed Set Page 7

  “Nate. Nate. Wake up.” The hand was on my shoulder again, this time shaking me insistently. I opened my eyes, for real this time, but it took a moment for the fog to clear. I propped myself up on my elbows and blinked at Emme, who stood there—alas, fully clothed—holding Paisley in her arms and looking at me curiously. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” My voice was scratchy, so I cleared my throat.

  She smiled. “You must have been dreaming.”

  “Really? What makes you say that?” I swung myself into a seated position so fast my head spun.

  “You were moaning and groaning and squirming around.” She looked at Paisley and rubbed noses with her—an Eskimo kiss. “Wasn’t he, peanut?”

  The whole shirtless scenario came back to me in a heartbeat, and my skin felt hot beneath my clothes. Well, my pajamas, since I hadn’t gotten dressed yet.

  “What were you dreaming about?” she asked me.

  I feigned ignorance. “I can’t remember. Did you just get here?”

  “About ten minutes ago. Paisley was starting to fuss, but you were sound asleep, so I picked her up and changed her. I’ll get a bottle going while you shower, if you want. It’s been about four hours since she last ate.”

  “Has it really?”

  She laughed. “Yeah. You guys had, like, a three-hour nap. I’m jealous. Mine was only about an hour.”

  Emme headed for the kitchen with Paisley in her arms, so I stood up and quickly headed for the stairs, hoping she wouldn’t notice my erection. I went up to my bedroom, undressed, and got in the shower, feeling increasingly bad about the dream I’d just had—especially since she’d been watching me have it. It felt like getting caught doing something inappropriate.

  But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I stood under the spray, letting it pummel my face and chest for a solid five minutes as I relived that magical moment in my dream when Emme had removed her shirt. Had I ever wanted to touch someone so badly, even in real life? Had I ever been so frustrated that I couldn’t? Had I ever felt so guilty about wanting to know what someone’s curves felt like beneath my palms? My lips? My tongue?

  I turned around and braced myself on the opposite wall, letting the water hit my back and rain down my body. I wasn’t used to feeling guilty about wanting anything. Not money, not status, not success, not women. Not even about fantasizing about Emme, which I had done plenty of times before without really thinking twice.

  So why did I feel bad about it now? What was different? Was it because she was helping me? Was it because I was a father now and fathers weren’t supposed to act that way? Was it because I suddenly didn’t know who I was or how I was supposed to think or what to do with these strange feelings that were threatening to upset the careful balance of my life?

  Stop it, I told myself. This kind of self-pity is beneath you. Yes, your world is different, but you are still you. Maybe this fatherhood thing wasn’t in the script you wrote for your life, but you still have control over your actions.

  Control. That was the key. I wanted a measure of control.

  I straightened up and took my rock hard dick in my hand, determined to feel like my fucking self, even if it was for five stolen minutes in the shower. I pictured Emme on purpose, reclaiming the dream, the way she’d looked last night sipping a martini on my couch, leaning back on the counter in my kitchen, sleeping next to me in my bed. Behind closed eyes I watched her come down the stairs this morning in my T-shirt, her legs bare, her hair messy.

  But she doesn’t stop there. She comes over to where I am lying on the couch (I slept there because I’m such a gentleman, although there is no baby in this fantasy, so I’m not sure why she slept over at all but this is my fantasy dammit and I say what goes, and also I am naked) and this time, when she takes off her shirt, she stretches out above me straddling my hips with her thighs, taking me inside her, rocking her body over mine. She says my name softly, over and over again, her long hair grazing my chest, her eyes locked on mine, as she works us both into a frenzy, and gradually my name gets louder and louder and louder, her hips moving faster and faster and faster until —

  “Fuck…” The orgasm hit me suddenly and ferociously, and I groaned all the way through it, my hand yanking furiously on my cock.

  A few minutes later, I was toweling off and feeling much better about myself, even if I was still slightly out of breath. Clearly that was all I needed—to feel in command of my thoughts, my body, my life.

  Everything was going to be fine.

  Five

  Emme

  “Are you sure I need all this?” Nate looked suspiciously at the two full carts of baby gear we’d collected in our two hours at Babies“R”Us and shook his head. “She’s only one baby. How can one baby need so much stuff?”

  “It’s not that much stuff. It’s the basics.” I pushed the cart that held Paisley and some of the smaller things, while Nate followed behind with a cart full of bigger items. He had decided on a Pack ’n Play with a detachable bedside sleeper instead of a crib, a swing, a stroller, a changing table, and a video monitor system. In my cart were bottles, formula, diapers, wipes, diaper cream, onesies and sleepers, baby shampoo, detergent and dish soap, baby wash, bottle scrubbers, burp cloths, towels, sheets for the sleeper, a few baby care books, and a sling.

  “What is that?” Nate asked when I added the sling to the cart. “Some kind of backpack?”

  “It’s a sling,” I explained, “so you can carry her around but still have your hands free.”

  He took it out of the cart and put it back on the shelf. “No way. I am not wearing my baby. I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”

  I took it down again and put it back in. “Just get it. If you don’t want to use it, fine, but you are going to get very tired of carrying her around all the time, and there won’t always be room to push a stroller.”

  He grumbled, but he let me keep it in the cart. What he did insist on was a little brush for her hair.

  “It looks silly all sticking up like that,” he said, frowning at his daughter. “I think I can do better.”

  Paisley did well while we shopped, fussing only once or twice, but she seemed to like the car ride and fell asleep on the way there. As for Nate, he was holding up pretty well, I thought. His color was good, he had lost that wide-eyed, I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening look, and outwardly at least, seemed to have accepted his new reality. There was a moment of panic at the checkout, however, as he watched all of the bath items being scanned.

  “I don’t even have a bathtub,” he said, his voice shaking a little. “What am I going to do?”

  “Kitchen sink,” answered the elderly woman ringing him up. She shrugged. “That’s how we always did it in my family.”

  “Kitchen sink. Right.” At that point, Nate went a little pale. He looked at me, desperation in his eyes. “Are you… Can you help me the first time?”

  I checked my phone. It was going on two, and I really needed to check in with my bride. The ceremony wasn’t until five, but there were pictures at four, and I had to be there. “Maybe,” I told him. “Let’s finish up here, and see what time it is when we get back.”

  He nodded, handing over his credit card when everything had been rung up, and he didn’t even blink at the total. Whether it was because his pockets were that deep or he was simply distracted by the terrifying thought of giving Paisley a bath in his kitchen sink on his own, I had no idea.

  Back at his apartment, I changed, fed, and burped Paisley while he unpacked the bags and assembled the swing and the Pack ’n Play. They looked totally incongruous in his bachelor pad living room. “I have to say, I never saw this coming,” I told him with a grin. “Nate Pearson putting together baby furniture.”

  He grimaced. “I didn’t either.”

  “I think she’s ready for a nap,” I said, looking down at Paisley in my arms. “And I have to go. Want to try the swing?”

  “Aren’t we going to give her a bath?” His expression was a little panick
ed.

  “We don’t really have time, Nate. I’m sorry. I have to get to work.” But at that moment, I wished I could blow off work and stay here with him all night.

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “You’ll be fine, I know it. You’re so gentle with her, and babies are actually pretty resilient. Just fill the sink up a little ways with warm water, keep her sitting up with one hand, and use the other one to wash her.”

  “What about her hair?”

  “Use a cup. Tip her back, let her lean into your inner arm, and pour the water over her hair to get it wet and rinse it afterward. If you get a little water in her eyes, it won’t hurt. And Nate?”

  He looked over at me as if he were afraid to hear what was coming next. “Yeah?”

  “You really have to wash her well. All the…nooks and crannies. Know what I mean?” I looked at him pointedly. “It’s really important for a baby girl so she doesn’t get infections.”

  Nate went completely white, but he nodded.

  “You okay? Maybe you should sit down.” For a moment I was afraid he might faint again.

  He took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I’m fine, and you can go.”

  He didn’t look fine, but I couldn’t stay any longer. I walked over and placed the drowsy Paisley in his arms. “I’ll check in on you tonight, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I squeezed his shoulder. “I’m really proud of you. A lot of guys would not be doing this.”

  “Truth?” he asked quietly, his eyes on the baby in his arms. “Right now, I wish I was more like a lot of guys.”

  “Well, you’re not.” I slid my hand from his shoulder to his back and rubbed it, trying to ignore the way my heart quickened at the feel of his solid, warm muscles. “But you know what? It’s okay to admit that.”

  He looked at me, and my hand stilled. “Thank you,” he said.

  Kiss me, I thought. And before I could do anything stupid, I took my hand off him, gave him an encouraging smile, and got the hell out of there.

  Resisting Nate Pearson, handsome playboy, was one thing.

  Resisting Nate Pearson, handsome single dad, was quite another.

  I wasn’t sure I was up to the task.

  I went home and changed into work clothes, trading my jeans, tank, and cardigan for one of the understated suits I wore to client weddings. I tucked my hair into a low chignon and refreshed my makeup, keeping it subtle and soft. My job was to blend into the background, not stand out. While I got ready, I thought of nothing but Nate and Paisley across the hall, and I had to stop myself from knocking on his door to check on him before I got in the elevator. I still couldn’t believe he had offered to keep her for an entire month. A month. What had possessed him?

  I kept thinking about it as I headed for the Ford Piquette Plant, where the wedding was being held. Was it Rachel’s insinuating that he wouldn’t be able to handle it? Was it her accusation that he would have tried to pay her off instead of support her? Nate had only given me the bare bones of their conversation on the way to Babies“R”Us, but even from his thirty-second explanation, I thought I had a decent feel for what had been said. Nate had felt insulted enough to go on the offensive, to make an outrageous offer that he’d probably thought she would never accept–I imagined him operating much the same way in divorce arbitrations.

  Or was there more to it? I know it sounds crazy, but the way he’d looked at me the entire time he’d been on the phone with her made me feel like his posturing might have had something to do with me, or at least what I had said to him the night before. Was he showing off for me? Could he possibly care that much what I thought?

  Maybe I was reading too much into this. Maybe he was just a hot dude with a big ego who couldn’t stand for anyone, especially a woman, to get the better of him. And maybe all these fleeting romantic feelings on my part were a silly, biological response to seeing a man with a baby. After all, I hadn’t had these urges around him before Paisley showed up. Not very many of them anyway. A handful—okay, a couple dozen maybe, and I blamed good genetics for that. Who wouldn’t be attracted to him, with that face and that body? Of course, there was also his sense of humor, his brain, his reliability, his generosity, and his knack for mixing the perfect dirty martini, but those were all good qualities in a friend. And that’s what we were. Friends.

  That’s why he cares what you think, silly. Because you’re friends. He knows you were being honest with him last night, because there has never been any bullshit between you. No sex to cloud judgment. No jealousy. No reason for either of you to cut the other down.

  And we had, hadn’t we? As much as we liked to bicker, last night had been our first real fight, the first personal insults hurled, the first hurtful “punches” thrown. But we’d gotten through it.

  That’s true, you did. So when are you going to deal with what he said about you?

  I frowned as I signaled and changed lanes on Woodward Avenue. Since last night, I had done a good job ignoring the voice in my head demanding I take a closer look at what he’d said about me. I really didn’t want to, mostly because it was sort of true. I did tend to fall in love with anyone I slept with. I did want each lover to be the one. Why else would I be with him?

  My sisters had all kinds of opinions about this. Analytical Stella thought I chose the wrong guys on purpose, some crap about my subconscious self being afraid the kind of love I wanted didn’t really exist. She thought this probably stemmed from our parents’ divorce, but I constantly reminded her that their split had been amicable, and no one blamed Dad for leaving, least of all Mom. For crying out loud, he was married to a man now, a wonderful guy named Roberto, who we all adored—even our mother. Free-spirited Maren thought I was simply trying too hard, moving too fast. She was always telling me I needed to take time for myself, turn my focus inward, and concentrate on achieving harmony within my body and mind. Sometimes I tried to do what she said, but it never worked. For one thing, the inner workings of my mind were kind of frightening at times, and I never enjoyed examining them up close.

  I pulled into the parking lot next to the old Model T factory, gathered my things, and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror one last time. Then I couldn’t resist taking my phone out of my bag and texting Nate.

  How’s it going? Everything okay?

  I gave it a minute but he didn’t reply, and I really didn’t have any extra time. My professional reputation was very important to me. Dropping my phone back in my bag, I got out of the car, locked it up, and hurried through the cold March wind into the building.

  But when it was five o’clock and the ceremony was about to start and he still hadn’t answered my message, I started to worry. Which was silly, right? He’d have called or texted if anything was wrong. Still, I was nervous enough to shoot off a quick question as the grandmothers were being seated.

  You two okay?

  Nothing.

  The processional music started and I had no choice but to slip my phone into my pocket and concentrate on pulling off a smooth event, pleasing as many people as possible with as few delays or hitches as possible, answering everybody’s questions, and ensuring that everything from the flowers to the music to the timing—the fucking timing—to the food to the drinks to the photography to the toast to the first dance to the cutting of the cake went off exactly as the bride had envisioned it. This was a fairly big, high-profile wedding, and pictures of the event were sure to make it into the glossy pages of local press. Since Coco wasn’t here, I was working by myself, and felt the weight of our business’s reputation on my shoulders. For that reason, I didn’t get a chance to even look at my phone again until much later in the evening.

  When I did, I gasped. I had 42 messages. All from Nate.

  Many of them were questions.

  Why won’t she eat?

  She’s supposed to sleep on her back, right?

  When do I give her a bath? Should I wait until she’s messy?

  How often am I supposed to change her?r />
  Is it safe to leave her in that swing while I go to the bathroom?

  Why won’t she stop crying?

  Why is her poop that color?

  Fuck am I supposed to trim her nails?

  Why doesn’t she like naps as much as I do?

  Sometimes they were just frustrations.

  She won’t go to sleep.

  She won’t finish her bottle.

  She won’t burp.

  She hates me.

  She threw up on my sock.

  I can’t do this. Help me.

  HELLLLPMEEEE.

  Then he must have gotten her to go to sleep and started reading his new books because his messages were full of things he was learning.

  Did you know babies get acne?

  Did you know you can predict how tall a baby will be?

  Did you know she is supposed to be gaining half a pound a week?

  Did you know most babies are born on a Tuesday? Did you know you could tell if your baby is the Dalai Lama or not by checking for large ears, long eyes, eyebrows curving up at the ends, streaks on the legs, and a mark in the shape of a conch shell on the palm of one hand? (Note: I do not believe Paisley is the Dalai Lama.)

  Then there were actually some positive messages.

  I take back what I said about the sling.

  I think she just smiled at me.

  She definitely likes my singing voice (she might be the only one).

  She finished her bottle!

  She is trying to roll over already, I think she might be a genius.

  She’s sleeping!

  I was about to text him back when I heard the mother of the bride calling my name. Sighing, I dropped my phone into my jacket pocket and went back to work. Overall, it sounded like Nate and Paisley were doing okay. I’d check on them when I got home.

  It ended up being close to midnight by the time I left the reception, and by then my phone was dead. I hadn’t charged it last night at Nate’s and I’d been so tired this morning that I’d neglected to plug it in. As I approached Nate’s door, I could hear the sound of Paisley crying. Wincing, I knocked.