He clears his throat. “I don’t know for sure. Axel keeps better tabs on that. A lot. Thirteen? Fourteen?”
That has a genuine laugh falling out of me. Noire antics are always a great distraction, so I go with it. “Jax is the artist, Remy. He’s so funny, and his hair is blue.”
He murmurs something unintelligible around his mouthful of pancake, and Ryker assures him it’s true while sponging his chipmunk cheeks clean and instructing him to chew before he cuts up the other pancake for him.
Fascinated by the scene, I sip my coffee, breathing in the chicory and ignoring the pang in my chest. “Maddox and Cash still keeping things colorful?”
“Always.” Ryker smiles, his eyes creasing to alert me that something good will follow. “We recently accepted shipments of Vaseline and pigs, so I’ll let you imagine how colorful they keep things.”
I shake my head, trying not to choke on my coffee as giggles gurgle out of me, and wave him off, entreating him not to expand because that visual is already too much. Finally, I pull it together. “Anything new with Axel?”
He twirls his fork in front of him, but doesn’t look at me. “He misses you.”
Deciding to breeze past that heaviness, I move on to the little spitfire that causes Ryker’s blood pressure to spike. “And how’s your little pest? Is she making you crazy? Convinced you guys to let her date before she’s forty?”
He pushes his pancake around his plate, making everything suddenly awkward. “Rena’s … married. Last spring.” His icy blues rise to my face. “Would’ve been nice to have you there.”
It’s evident by his expression that he didn’t mean to hurt me with that, and yet it spears me. I don’t know how to navigate this. It’s too tangled. And while I know I did what I needed to, guilt snakes around me.
So, I try my best to engage. “That’s wonderful. Who’s the lucky guy? I can’t picture you approving of anyone.”
“She married Ty,” he says, and in yet one more simplistic bomb drop, my world implodes.
One of my closest contacts married a girl I love like a little sister, and I knew nothing about it. Because I’m not Mercy Phillips with those relationships. I’m an abuse victim who is a client of Ty’s, not someone he shares news with. And I’m no one to the rest of them. I’m no one to anyone because that feels safer.
Fucking. Shards.
Somehow, I resist the urge to crumple to the floor and push out a sincere, “I bet they’re perfect together. I wish I’d been there too.”
He skims his hand over mine in a tender gesture that is both best friend-ish and more than friend-ish—of which, by his own admission, he’s neither. “I think we want a lot of the same things. Did you think about the contract? I have the Docusign ready.”
That is not the ideal segue. I’m too emotional. Too off-balance. He can’t come in here and wave this fictitious life in front of me, expecting the past to, what, disappear? For menotto be scarred and shattered and haunted?
I rise from the table, kiss Remy’s head, and blow it off. “I have no idea what I want. I can barely figure out dinner most days.”
“Ramen,” Remy cheers with a softR.
I bloom an adoring smile for my sweet tattletale before pinning Ryker with a don’t-push-this glower. “See? My indecisiveness has amounted to salty noodles as fine dining. Risk of heart disease and an unrefined palate are as good as it gets.”
He stands, wipes Remy off, clears his plate, slides the custom-made toys in front of him, and saunters over to the sink, like a whirlwind of fairy-godmother magic in my damn kitchen. “He’s three, clearly well cared for and loved. Ramen noodles,hot dogs, and chicken fingers are five-star cuisine to him. You’re doing an amazing job. And you know what you want. You’re just afraid to ask for it.”
At the sight of his arrogant head tilt, I wave a game-show-host hand. “By all means, Mr. Noire, tell me what I want.”
“A hot bath, a nap, a night out. Some quiet time with a good book. A career that lights you up. Someone to cook and help with the day-to-day tasks that feel insurmountable. A sense of safety and a place you’re allowed to fall apart. How’s that for starters?”
Well, fuck.
“On the nose.” I glare the glare of freaking glares at my non-friend. “But while that might be right, so much about our interactions the last twelve-ish hours was not.”
Ryker turns to Remy, sets him on the floor, and plucks the toys off the table, flying the plane toward the front room with sound effects and calling over his shoulder, “C’mon, bud. Your Lego guys should fit in these,” as if he’s running the show.
“Mama will be right here,” I add in a weak one-upping move before Ryker returns without him.
He lugs a chair to the center of my drab, tiny kitchen and issues the order, “Sit,” while situating his own chair across from mine.
I refill my coffee, but take the seat, thankful that it offers me a glimpse of Remy.
Ryker crowds me, sliding so close that our legs are entwined, which blurs lines and makes my head foggy. “Tell me you’ve realized signing my contract is a no-brainer. We’ll fly back today, get you and Remy settled, and have you lawyering by next week.”
