16. Brett

Brett

"Brett?"

I wake up on the couch to the sound of someone hammering on my door, and for a wildly terrifying moment, I think I overslept and missed practice and Coach is here to burn my house to the ground.

But a second later, I recognize the voice. And I hear the baby crying.

"Fallon?" I open the door to her. She pushes inside immediately, basically falling into my arms. I hug her carefully so I don't smash the baby, who is red-faced and crying loudly.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"The lawyer came to my house !" Fallon cries, her voice shrill and only just louder than the baby's. In an instant, I can see part of the issue—there are heavy bags under her eyes, and she looks like she hasn't showered since our impromptu wedding.

Days after, I'd stared at my phone and tried to think of a reason to see her again. A valid reason to get her back in front of me before we would inevitably have to sign our divorce papers.

Even though I wanted to see her again, I didn't want to see her like this .

"Okay, okay," I say, stepping toward her and putting my hands on her shoulders. "It seems like there's a lot going on, and a lot that you want to tell me, right?"

Fallon nods, taking these little gasps of air that are too close to sobs for my liking.

"Okay." I reach around her and gently unclip the baby. I watch how her body relaxes when the weight is gone. I lift the baby into my arms, letting the carrier drop to the floor. Getting my hand on her back, I start to soothe her while meeting Fallon's eyes.

"Brett—" she starts, but I shake my head, relief flooding through me when the baby starts to calm down a bit.

"No," I say, and watch as her eyes widen with the tiniest bit of surprise. "Before we chat, you need a second. Down the hallway to the left is the bathroom. If you want to take a shower, you can borrow some of my stuff."

Fallon stares at me for a long moment, then nods, turning and heading for the bathroom. With the baby in my arms, I walk to my closet, looking for old clothes I wore in high school. They'll still be too big for her, but anything I'm wearing now would just fall right off.

I find an old pair of sweatpants and a shirt from a hockey summer camp and knock on the door.

"Come in," Fallon answers softly.

When I open the door, I can just see the tops of her shoulders and her face, her hair wet and slicked back, as she stands in the shower. The sliding glass door is frosted up to a point, so the details of her body are hidden from me, but I can still make out her figure, how her legs stretch out, her feet moving as she turns toward me.

"Hey," I say, clearing my throat and averting my eyes. I raise the clothes up a bit, then set them on the counter. "Clothes."

"Thanks."

I turn, hurrying from the bathroom before the feeling in my chest can expand and burst through the rest of my body.

After rifling through the baby's diaper bag, I find a binky and pop it into her mouth. I don't know a lot about kids, but from taking care of nieces, nephews, and my little sister, Grace, I know better than to set the baby on the couch.

Grabbing blankets and pillows, I make a little fort on the ground and lay her on her back right outside the kitchen where I can glance over and see her. She can't crawl yet—can't even roll over onto her stomach—so I don't have to worry about her getting away.

In the kitchen, I grab a pan and some eggs from the fridge. I might not be Joey, but I know how to make the staples, and by the time Fallon wanders out from the bathroom, wearing my things, I have an omelet on the counter for her.

"For you," I say, swallowing when I see how my shirt nearly falls off her shoulder.

"When are these clothes from?" she asks, climbing on the stool and meeting my eyes. To my relief, she picks up the fork and starts eating, scooping mouthfuls of egg into her mouth.

I grin. "High school. I have a problem with getting rid of things, it seems."

"Well." She swallows. "You've got a big enough house for it! Jesus, Brett, you could have mentioned that you live in a freaking mansion !"

"It's not—"

But she holds up a hand. "You've seen where I live. Let's not get into semantics."

After sliding my omelet out of the pan and onto the plate, I grab a fork and lean with my elbows on the counter, raising an eyebrow at her.

"So," I begin, wanting to get away from the house and money talk, "you were saying something about the lawyer?"

Fallon's expression immediately flattens. Her hair is damp, and she pushes some of it over her shoulder. I can smell that she used the guest shampoo and conditioner—something the housekeeper suggested I get. I'll have to thank her later, because now Fallon is sitting at my breakfast bar, looking freshly scrubbed and smelling like oranges.

She stabs her fork into the omelet with a little more force than what's necessary and looks up at me. "The lawyer came to the house this morning, unannounced, looking for me. Joey tried to stall, but he didn't do a great job. I don't know why I didn't see this coming—he practically told me that they would be investigating the circumstances of the marriage. For the trust."

"Okay," I say, nodding. "So, what does that mean?"

"Well, I'm assuming it's weird that we don't live together."

My heart jumps to my throat.

When she meets my eyes again, she looks slightly panicked, raising her hands up, palms out. "Not that I'm suggesting anything! I just think we need to—"

"Move in with me," I say, unable to keep the grin off my face. I shrug when she shakes her head. "I've got a big enough house for it."

"I wouldn't want to impose…"

"If it's between you moving in here or going to prison, I'd much rather choose the former."

"Fuck, Brett," Fallon exhales, dropping her head into her hands. "I'm so sorry—I should have thought this through, and now we're in this mess—"

"Hey." I reach over the counter and loosely wrapping my fingers around her wrist, pulling it back from her face. When her eyes meet mine, I try to show her through my smile that it's not a big deal. The truth is that the moment she mentioned living together, something unlocked in my chest, opening up immediately.

The thought of not being alone in this huge house is refreshing.

"It will be fun to have you here," I tell her. "I mean it. Really."

"A hobby," she says, but her voice is still a little flat.

I jostle her wrist a little. "Exactly. We're friends, right? This is what friends do for each other."

"This feels like extortion."

"Do you have something to blackmail me with?" I ask, laughing, glad that she's finally loosening up a bit.

"Not yet," she says, glancing around. "But I love to snoop, so I don't think it will take long."

"Snoop away," I say, finishing the rest of my omelet. I take her plate and stack it with mine, putting them both in the sink. "So, what do you think this investigation will be?"

"I don't know," she sighs, dropping her head into her hands. "Cassidy made it sound like it might be similar to an immigration assessment."

"What do you mean?"

"Like, if two people get married and it gives one citizenship, they might investigate it to make sure it's a legitimate relationship, you know? Ask them a bunch of questions to make sure they…love each other."

I clear my throat and glance away from her when she says love . "Okay, no problem…" I pull my phone out and look up immigration marriage questions . "So we just need to study up a bit on each other. You move in here—how would they know any difference?"

"It's just—I don't understand how you can be so calm about all this," Fallon says, shaking her head and running her fingers through her hair. They get caught at the end, and she gently undoes a knot before running her fingers through again.

"Oh, shit," I say, staring at her fingers in her hair. "I don't have a brush for you."

"It's okay, I came with practically nothing—"

"No, it's not." I tap over to make a grocery order. "I want to make sure you have everything you need."

I slide the phone across the counter to her, cart open. She glances at it, then at me, shaking her head.

"You are rich rich, aren't you?" she asks, picking the phone up gently. "Actually, I did bring some stuff—Chloe packed a bag for me. But I completely forgot about it. Thanks for letting me borrow your clothes."

"They look good on you."

I watch a blush form over her cheeks, and I step forward, opening my mouth to speak.

What am I going to say? That I'm glad she's staying? That I'm glad we're friends? That I like how she looks in my stuff?

It doesn't matter, because at that moment, there's a little hiccupping cough from the hallway, a precursor to a full-throated wail that comes from the baby a moment later.

When Fallon starts to get off her stool, I hold my hand up and walk toward the baby myself.

I pick her up off the bed of blankets and look around for the diaper bag, that familiar competitiveness rising in me at the challenge of soothing her and calming her down.

As I look into her little face, patting her back, I decide I'm going to be the best damn person on this planet at making her happy.