“I didn’t realize that’s what went down between Crew and Anne-Marie,” I say and scratch the back of my head. “That’s fucked up.”
“It is. She is.” Nash shakes his head and stares at his feet like he’s never seen running shoes before. “And so is he. What you also don’t know is after she left he dragged that bed out into the driveway and lit it on fire.”
“What?”
“My dad’s media machine made sure no one found out,” Nash admits. “I mean, coach knows but he gave Crew a pass. His only pass. So he better get his shit in line. I’m so over his recklessness and so is everyone else.”
He stomps off before I can think of what to say to that. It was harsh. And shocking. Crew never told me the mattress story and I'm a little uncomfortable that Nash did without consent. I don't have time to dissect the Westwood family dynamic though. I have to get home, have my pre-game nap, and eat a decent pre-game meal before heading back here. And I also have to make sure everything is cool with Dylan and Mallory at the new place.
Crew and I exchanged keys first thing this morning when we walked into practice so I head straight to my car and drive to Crew’s House. Which is now my house. This is going to take some getting used to. Crew’s house… my house… is a beige, three-story Tuscan-Spanish creation with dark wood balconies on every floor and a decent gated patio garden area overlooking the canal. Like every house in this area, it’s long and narrow and the only thing on the first floor that’s facing the street is the garage.
Above the garage is a door with a Juliet balcony, which was a room Crew called ‘the office’. Anne-Marie had been a lawyer and she worked from home a lot. I park in the short drive and walk along the left side of the house toward the front door, which is kind of in the middle of that side. I unlock it and step into the front hall, which almost immediately opens up to the left into the open-concept living-dining-kitchen area that overlooks the canal.
The floors are rich wood, the walls are white with a plaster finish, and there are ceiling beams that match the floors. I walk toward the living room, which has an incredible stone fireplace I can’t ever imagine needing in Southern California, and see all my furniture is perfectly placed. But also, there isn’t nearly enough of it. It looks ridiculously empty in this enormous room. My dining room table would be particularly teeny in such a cavernous space, but it’s not there. Crew’s giant farmhouse table with a resin and wood top is still here.
Mallory is at the kitchen island digging in a box on the countertop. She's wearing cut-off jean shorts and a white tank top. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head. She's barefoot, makeup-less, and so damn pretty I can't help but stare.
“All good?” I ask, trying to fight the smile just seeing her brings to my lips.
“I have never had movers pack and unpack for me. It’s glorious,” Mallory announces. She holds up a plate from the box in front of her. “I asked them to let me do the pots and pans myself because I wanted to make sure they’re in the right place for the space.”
“There’s a feng shui to pots and pans?’ I smirk.
She levels me with a deadly serious stare. "There is nothing worse than being in the middle of cooking and having to ruin the buzz by hunting down a pot."
“I don’t cook all that much or anything too complicated so…” And then it hits me. She’s doing it because of her, not me. She will be cooking here. This is really going to be her kitchen. “You do whatever works for you. I want you to be totally Zen or in the zone or buzzed or whatever when you cook. Even if it’s just popcorn.”
I walk up behind her and circle her waist with my arms, pulling her into my chest and kissing the back of her neck. She lets out a little sound like a gasp and arches her back, but then slips out of my arms. “Your sister is here. Well, she’s in Venice. She took Dylan for a walk.”
“Brave considering the results the last time she tried that.”
Mallory smiles. “Tenley isn’t known for being easily scared off.”
“You’re not wrong,” I reply and walk over to her. She holds the plate she’s carrying out in front of her like a shield.
“She could come bursting in here at any second,” Mallory tells me. “I figure you don’t want her to know about… this.”
“I don’t want her to know I exist on most days, let alone who I am existing with and how,” I joke, kind of. Mallory shoots me another smile before turning to stare at the cupboards and drawers, which are all open.
“Doyouwant her to know?”
I don’t know why I asked the question. Mallory inhales sharply but doesn’t exhale for a long beat. “It’s your life, Tate. You make the decisions. Just like with this kitchen.”
"Nope. The kitchen is most definitely your decision," I reply firmly and move so I'm standing beside her. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and hold her there when she tries to step away again. This is relatively harmless. If Tenley walked in right now, it would look friendly. "You will be cooking for Dylan and yourself a lot. I'm on pre-made chef-delivered meals for playoffs. And I want you to be as comfortable here as possible."
"I guess your permanent nanny can reorganize when that time comes," Mallory muses as she pivots on her tiny bare feet and puts the plate in a drawer in the island. "But you would have to be insane not to want the dishes next to the dishwasher. Super easy. Also love that Crew has… well, nowyouhave… quiet closing doors and drawers. Felix used to slam the cupboards sometimes when Dylan was napping and he’d wake him up. Diana would get so pissed off.”
Mallory hasn't talked much about this guy who was about to pretend to be my son's father. I have this very odd, slow-burning rage for the dude. It simmers deep inside my chest when I think about him. Not only because he was willing to steal my son, but because he just as easily was willing to abandon him. "Was he a total asshole?"
Mallory pauses, five more dinner plates in her hands. Her eyes find mine. The amber in them is really popping today. I think it’s all the natural sunshine that fills this place doing the trick. “No. Honestly, Felix was great for Diana, and to Diana. He was also amazing with Dylan.”
Mallory places the plates on top of the other one she put in the drawer and then walks back over to the box. Her motions as she gathers more things out of the box—drinking glasses this time—are slower. She bites her bottom lip. “I owe you an apology for not telling you about Dylan. I could have reached out and don’t think that I wasn’t torn about the whole thing. But by the time I showed back up in Diana's life, she was engaged and almost to term and she didn't even confirm it was yours until she was literally writhing in pain and he was crowning."
"What?" I blink and try to push the image out of my head. Thinking about Diana is still equal parts sad and upsetting. Thinking of my child's birth, which I was given no choice but to miss also sucks. "Where were you while she was pregnant? You both went to England together, I thought."
“We didn’t.” Mallory shakes her head and walks past me to put the drinking glasses in a cabinet by the farmhouse sink. “I left for England on an Au Pair visa. She followed two weeks later, but I didn’t ask her to. I wasn’t even talking to her. It had been our plan to do it together but after that weekend with you, here… I stopped talking to her.”
She glances over her shoulder and our eyes lock. She’s searching for something in my face. Understanding? Like I would ever forget that weekend. God, it bugs me she talks about it like we committed murder or something else unspeakable.
