Her mouth pops open, and I swirl the wine in my hand. Male satisfaction rolling through me.
“You could always come to one of my games. You used to with Scott.”
She considers my suggestion. “Are we talking me coming to a game alone or with my dad?”
Alone. I always want you alone.
“Either. With your dad would probably be the safest bet. If Freya would take Blake for an evening, you could come to one of our night games and sit in the box with Collins and the rest of the girls.”
She looks excited at that, and I’m instantly making plans to ensure it happens.
“With Scott, of course,” I add.
Billie just smiles, and I love it.
Handing the glass back to her, I reach for my phone and type out another text to my closest friend, feeling like the worst person on the planet for the shit I’ve spun him all night.
Me
Sorry again about tonight, buddy. But how about you head to one of the games next week? The family box will be accessible for people on crutches, and if you want, you could bring Billie along. Just like old times, eh?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BILLIE
Unlike my place, Emmett’s floor doesn’t creak when I tiptoe down the hallway with Blake at just past five a.m.
To my surprise, Blake slept-in this morning, even if the dark circles under my eyes tell the real story of how I managed less than four hours last night.
I was painfully aware that just across the hallway, Emmett was sleeping only a few feet away. It felt a strange combination of foreign and comforting, staying overnight in his place. With his penthouse set so many floors above street level, everything is eerily quiet, a stark contrast to my apartment that never seems to fall silent.
And speaking of stark, Emmett really needs to start thinking about turning this place into a home. A single small plant in the corner of his living room is really the only color in an otherwise bland box. Everything is neat and tidy, but nothing feels lived in. I remember visiting the place he shared with Maria for the holidays, and I half expected to see some of the same soft furnishings scattered around in here. But I don’t recognize a single item from his previous marriage.
He really meant it when he said that the divorce was a clean break for him, the empty walls a reminder that Emmett truly is rebuilding his life.
Adjusting Blake in my arms, I lift my nursing top so she can take her morning feed. The floor-to-ceiling windows provide a breathtaking panoramic view of nighttime Brooklyn, the whole city still smothered in darkness.
I pad across and take in the view, dropping my face to the top of Blake’s head so I can inhale her fresh baby scent. She had a ball in Emmett’s oversize tub last night, splashing around until her tiny limbs were fresh out of energy.
Maybe that’s why she slept so well. Or maybe she simply enjoyed the peace and quiet of Emmett’s luxury apartment. Maybe it’s neither of those things and everything to do with the man she loves to be held by. The second Blake sits against Emmett’s chest, it’s like her whole world goes still, eyelids drooping, chest rising and falling a little slower. At first, I thought it was a preference for men, but by the way she squirms in my dad’s arms, I think my daughter might follow after her mom when it comes to Emmett Richards.
“We can’t catch feelings, Blakey,” I whisper into her hair, closing my eyes as she continues to suckle on my breast.
For so much of my pregnancy, I dreaded motherhood. A real fear that I’d fail ate away at me in the dead of night. Being honest, I’m still not sure if I’m pulling it off. Mom is convinced that I’m killing it, although I’d argue that the credit should go to Blake. She’s the easiest baby in postnatal classes, drawing envious comments from other new moms about how they wished their babies would learn to chill out.
When I think about it, it’s hard to believe that she’s Tucker’s daughter. That boy wouldn’t know the meaning ofrelaxif it slapped him right across the face. A tempting thought and definitely an accurate one.
Reaching into the pocket of my robe, I pull out my phone andtake a quick selfie of me and Blake, attaching it to a message for Clara.
Her reply is immediate, but that doesn’t shock me. She’s likely pulling an all-nighter, the queen of leaving assignments until the final minute.
Clara
I have a couple of questions. One, why do you not send me more photos of that stunning baby girl? Because … wow! Two, where the fuck are you? Buckingham fucking Palace?
I blow out a laugh as she returns a photo of her, sitting alone in the library, papers stacked around her, along with three cans of Alani energy drink.
But as my laughter fades and Blake slips into a milk-induced coma, I’m hit with an emotion I wasn’t expecting to feel when I first messaged my friend.
