Chapter 23

23

Lila

I wake up disoriented in a brightly-lit bedroom with a homemade quilt on the bed and family pictures smiling down at me from the opposite wall.

But they're not my family.

They're Tripp's family.

Last night comes rushing back, and I simultaneously want to sink back into the bed and bask in the happiness of being here, in this bed, where Tripp made love to me, and also throw up.

I lunge for my phone.

And, naturally, there's a message that totally kills my buzz.

I don't like the Wilson kid. Say the word, and I'll get him fired.

I text him back a single picture, one that I have to dig deep into my phone's archives to find, one of the very, very few that I have, with one simple message.

She would be so ashamed of you .

It's a dirty trick, but it's the only thing Uncle Guido will understand.

I don't think he knows that I know just how much he loved my mom. But all you have to do is listen to him talk about her, and you can hear it.

If there's another person left in this world who loved her, I don't know who it is. For that alone, I can't cut him out. Because no one who loved my mom could be totally bad.

She wasn't perfect.

But we loved her anyway.

And isn't that what most people want?

It's basically the same thing Tripp himself said to me last night. I know you're not perfect, but you don't have to be for me.

I pull myself out of bed, make the most of finger-combing my curls and tying them up in a sloppy bun, rush through a shower, brush my teeth with the spare toothbrush I find in the guest bathroom, and make my way through the house, following the music.

I know the song. It's an old Bro Code song that I've heard Parker and her band perform. I don't know what it's called—"Party on the Avenue" or something like that—but I know it's happy and upbeat and reassuring.

Songs like that aren't regret songs.

I step through the butler's pantry between the dining room and the living room, and I draw up short at the sight before me.

Tripp's standing at one counter in the massive kitchen, making waffles and shaking his ass in gray sweatpants, crooning along to the music while his kids have a dance party.

He's shirtless, giving me a view of that tattoo of an eagle clutching a rose.

I'll have to ask him someday when he got it and what it means.

Someday .

Because I'm not leaving. And neither is he.

We have a someday .

Emma's in a princess nightgown, stomping her feet and giggling and throwing her chubby little arms in the air, showing off a saggy diaper.

James is in navy blue pajama pants stamped with trucks, and he, too, is shirtless. He's singing the words, doing fancy dance moves for a four-year-old that involve looking like a drunken monkey leaping from black floor tile to black floor tile.

" Tequilaaaaa ," Tripp and James croon together. "Party on the Avenuuuuuuuue ."

My heart swells.

My feet itch to dance along.

My arms want to lift to the sky just like Emma's.

And I suddenly understand what love feels like.

It's not that I've never had love. I fall in love every time I read a book. I see love every day that I'm hanging out with my friends. I feel love from them, and I give them back all the friend-love that I have.

But this is different.

Probably because this time, it's the real me doing the falling. And not in a platonic, safe way, but in a my heart could get broken but it's worth the risk kind of way.

"Break it down, Emma." Tripp's grinning at his daughter as he spins with waffles on a plate. And his smile grows when he sees me.

"Dada, waffa!" Emma shrieks.

In one smooth move, he sets the plate on the island and scoops Emma onto a stool. "Climb up, James. Yours is ready too."

"I wantsa dance," James says. "Can we see the kangaroo? Can I go to school? Emma has a booger."

Emma bursts into tears. "No booga!"

"Bacon?" Tripp asks, and the tears instantly dry up as she lunges for the piece he dangles in front of her.

They're all so freaking adorable.

And he's so damn patient.

He turns the music down as the next song starts, and glances at me again, his eyes asking so much more than his words. "Morning. Sleep well?"

You okay? Can I fix you a waffle? Should we set up a code word for when we want to have nookie at the office in the supply closet?

I nod.

And I swear that's relief I see in his eyes. "Good. We have lots of work to do."

"Daddy, why she here?" James asks. He follows the question by wiping his nose on his bare arm, then coughing all over his waffle and bacon.

Tripp moves in for a full-body wipe with a tissue. "Since Daddy can't go to the office, the office is coming here today."

"Can Smushy come to the office?" James pulls a thing out of his jammies.

A moving green thing that Tripp pounces on with reflexes of steel. "Smushy needs—" he starts, but his phone rings loudly on the island, and he cuts himself off to balance the frog in one hand and the phone in the other.

I dump the fruit from his fruit bowl onto the counter and offer it to him.

He stops mid- hello to the phone, eyes going momentarily round before a grin overtakes his face.

"I'm a quick study," I say quietly.

He sets the small frog in the bowl, leans in like he's going to kiss me, and stops just as quickly.

Because his kids are watching.

Right.

Slow and easy.

"Yeah, let them in," he says into the phone.

"Unka Wevi?" James asks.

"Uncle Beck."

The alarm system beeps, and a minute later, there's a loud crash, followed by someone yelling a profanity in the front hall.

"Dat a bad word, Unka Beck!" James slides off his stool, waffle in hand, and darts out of the kitchen.

Emma reaches over and takes his bacon, then grins at me like she knows exactly what she just did, and exactly how mad it's going to make her brother, and yep.

I'm done for.

I slide onto the stool next to her. "Did you just steal your brother's bacon?"

She's still grinning when she chomps into it.

Tripp winces. He's holding a bottle of hand sanitizer over his palm, but he glances at me, goes a little pink, and slowly pockets it again, turning to the sink instead. "Emma, your brother sneezed on—never mind. Grandma says it's good for your immune system, and I'm trying not to be crazy paranoid. As much."

She ignores him and points to her ear while she looks at me. "Money ee-ah."

"You have money in your ear?"

She nods.

Crunches bacon.

And stares at me with those big eyes over her chubby cheeks.

So I pull a quarter out of her ear.

She squeals and claps and starts to topple over backward off her stool.

My heart freezes, but the rest of me leaps into action, lunging for her as she tumbles, and I steady her before she's all the way off the stool.

"Sorry," I gasp. "Sorry, I didn't?—"

But the words die as she wraps her little arms around my neck. "Hugs!"

And she laughs.

"Okay, hugs," I sputter.

But it's not just hugs.

It's Emma climbing into my lap, her little nose running while she touches the button at my collar. "I aay awa bay-bay."

Tripp's watching us both, and I can't make out the expression on his face.

It's something between relief and panic and so this is my new normal . He blinks twice, and the grin comes back. "More bacon's coming, Emma. Ask before you touch, okay?"

"I touch? Pwease?"

I've read hundreds of novels with kids in them, everything from sweet little babies to moody teenagers.

None of them have prepared me for how much I want to not let go of this little girl on my lap. How much I want to understand her words and give her everything her little heart needs. "Yes," I tell her softly. "You can touch. Do you have shirts with buttons?"

"I a pin-sess!"

"You are definitely a princess," Tripp agrees.

"Wi' a penis," she adds.

He pours himself a refill on coffee, then lifts the carafe to me. "Energy drink?"

"Do you have sugar and cream?"

"No, but?—"

A herd of voices makes their presence known, getting closer, and I look up as Beck, Sarah, and Davis all file in, with James on Beck's shoulders.

"They will," he finishes.

"See my frog?" James cries while Beck ducks through the doorway so James doesn't get his head banged.

Sarah smiles at me and mouths morning .

"I'm here for meetings," I blurt.

Davis brings up the rear with a box that smells a lot better than cardboard should. His brown eyes settle on me, and there's something lurking in there that makes my heart shiver.

He knows .

And I'm not talking about knowing that Tripp and I had sex last night, which I swear Beck and Sarah are figuring out too, based on that sly look they give each other.

That's fine. They can judge my sex life.

But they can stay out of the rest of my secrets.

Just as quickly as the sensation roils through my body, Davis nods an easy greeting like me being here is normal, and he sets the box on the island next to me "Hope you're hungry."

Beck leans over the bowl. "James, dude, that's the most awesome frog I've ever seen. You want to build him a house outside? Uncle Davis has that box we can use, and we can order some frog furniture, but it's gonna take a week or two to arrive. Shipping, man. It takes forever . You know what I mean? But while we're waiting, we're gonna let that frog here play the greatest game of pretend ever known to man. It'll be like Dream Castle: The Frog Era . You know what I'm saying?"

"His name's Smushy."

"Awesome. Airplane ride for Smushy!" Beck lifts the bowl, and the two of them vroom vroom their way to the covered porch.

"I think I understand Emma better than Beck," I whisper to Tripp while he puts a plated waffle and a cup of coffee in front of me.

"Welcome to the club." He grins, then looks at Sarah, who's laughing. "More food? You just brought a month's worth two days ago."

"Beck's using you as an excuse to trick his mom into making cinnamon rolls as often as possible. This is all I could salvage from what we picked up at her house this morning. Hey, Emma." She leans over and boops Emma's nose, and the little girl giggles, but she doesn't reach for Sarah.

"Money ee-yah," she says instead, then looks at me expectantly.

I'm out of quarters, so I do the next best thing, and I pull a small piece of bacon out of her ear.

Emma pumps her legs and shrieks in glee, and I grip her tighter, both because I don't want her to fall and also because I love the feel of her little body in my lap. She doesn't have preconceived notions of who I am or what I want, and she doesn't care about secrets and the CIA. Or even baseball.

She just wants friends who pull things out of her ears.

Sarah tilts her head. "Can you teach me to pull food out of people's ears?"

"No," Tripp answers.

Davis gives her that same I know secrets look he leveled on me a minute ago. "Didn't need that mental image."

"Oh, please." She rolls her eyes. "Like you two have never wanted to know magic in the bedroom."

Tripp definitely knows magic in the bedroom.

I squirm.

He squirms.

Sarah grins.

And Davis points to the back door. "Someone needs to monitor the children, and you're grossing me out. Go away."

She's laughing as she retreats. "Enjoy the snuggles, Lila. She's a fickle one."

"Bye-bye, Sawah!" Emma cries.

"I'll be back after I check on the boys."

"Boys icky," Emma proclaims.

Tripp nods. "That's exactly right."

And Emma spills her orange juice all over both of us, prompting her to burst into tears and me to leap to my feet with her still in my arms while Tripp dives across the island with a roll of paper towels that he apparently pulled out of his ears.

He's quick .

Davis leaves us to the orange juice mess while he moves the food box to a clean counter and starts digging through it. "Know what you need?" he says to Tripp while Emma squirms out of my arms and darts out to the back porch.

"There's no right answer to that question."

"Waylon."

"Translation?"

"Waylon. Waylon Rivers. Cash's brother? Six-one, one-ninety, likes basketball, numbers, cheesecake, and just got laid off because of a merger?"

"What? When?"

Davis's gaze flits between Tripp, who almost has the entire orange juice mess mopped up, to me, who needs to go back to my hotel and get a fresh change of clothes.

Which I needed to do anyway , because I smell a little like horny woman even after the shower. It's seeped into my clothes.

"Two weeks ago," Davis reports. "Not really broken up about it. But dude's in denial about what he needs to do with his life."

"Is this The Man Bun acting like a spiritual guide for the rest of us again?"

Davis levels a glare at Tripp.

Tripp's smiling though.

He's enjoying himself.

And I think I might've helped with that.

"Waylon can handle everything from chipmunks to frogs to baby alligators." Davis piles his plate with eggs and fruit. "Also likes cooking, is an expert in tricking kids into picking up their shit, won't hit on you, but will happily be hit on while he takes your kids to the park."

"The Man Bun speaks." Levi strolls into the kitchen in those white pants and a paisley button-down, and my face goes hot, because how is it that I ever could've confused these two men? "Oooh, are those Mrs. Ryder's cinnamon rolls? Dibs on the leftovers."

Tripp's smile legit couldn't get any bigger, and I want to hug him and do everything in my power to make sure he smiles like that every day.

"Thought you were still in New York," he says to his brother.

"You haven't left your house in six days. Someone had to make sure you're showering and eating."

Tripp's gaze locks on mine.

My cheeks go hot.

Levi glances at me, does a double-take, and starts grinning.

Davis smirks. "Think you're a day late, Frosted Tips. And, Tripp, hire Waylon before someone else does. Dude was born to be a manny."

"Hey, Bruno, text Waylon, will you be my manny? " Levi says.

" Texting Waylon Rivers ," Tripp's phone replies on the counter. " Will you be my manny? "

Tripp lunges for it. "No. Stop. Dammit, Levi, don't?—"

" Message sent ," Tripp's phone says.

Older brother turns a glare on younger brother, who's grinning a shit-eating grin that even I can't help laughing at.

"Hey, Pixie, text Mom, I'm getting back together with Violet ," Tripp orders.

Levi drops his plate and scrambles for his pocket while his phone announces it's sent the message. "Motherfucker!" he yelps.

"Take it back," Tripp says. "All the bad word permits have been handed out for the day."

Levi flips him the bird and stalks back through the butler's pantry, phone to his ear, undoubtedly calling their mom to tattle and take the text back, which strikes me as utterly hilarious. "Your phones don't know your voices?" I ask Tripp.

"You don't think they sound alike?" Davis asks me.

"Not in the least."

There it is again. That lingering, penetrating, I know your secret look.

And I don't think he's talking about the your mom worked for the CIA secret.

Two weeks ago—hell, two nights ago, I probably would've squared my shoulders and stared right back.

But I don't want to fight with Tripp's friends.

I could pretend that all I want is a solid working relationship with the man I was forced to hire as my president of operations.

But the truth is, I want more.

And I could pretend I don't know how I could balance more with my obligations in New York, except I don't have any more obligations in New York.

I've been hiding there. Working remotely while I denied what I wanted here. Working a ton , because it turns out I've put a lot on Tripp's desk, which became more evident every day he was out.

I need to make up for that. And I have no kids, no family, and no reason that I can't pull duty doing the hard work and sacrificing sleep.

Won't be the first time. Won't be the last.

"No comments on what they named their phones either?" Davis asks.

"Mine's named Boris," I lie. It's actually the factory name, because I'm not creative at all with phone names.

And I swear Tripp's grin means he knows it.

"Tripp, man, go get dressed." Beck pops his head back inside the kitchen. "Sarah and I have your kids. You should get out before you go stir-crazy. Also, if the Fireballs suck next year because you never hired a team manager, I'm gonna kick your apples, and you know how much I hate having to kick your apples."

Tripp studies Beck.

"Dude. You know we'll call if either one of them start sneezing more. And Sarah has fever-radar. Plus, you know your mom's gonna stop by seven times, and we can make Levi stay too. We got your back."

"You don't have to come to the office today," I tell Tripp. "I already decided I'm hiring Pete Jackson."

His reaction is exactly what I expect it to be to my news that I'm hiring the manager of the second-worst team in baseball who was also just fired.

"The hell you are," he erupts.

"Oh, fuck, no," Davis adds.

Beck's just gaping, horrified, which actually makes me feel bad.

Of course I'm not hiring the second-worst manager in baseball. But I cross my arms and lift a brow anyway. "I'm sorry, are you all forgetting who's the boss?"

Tripp's shoulders go back. His nostrils flare. His eyes go hard.

He sucks in a breath?—

And then he stops, his entire bearing going from I will end you to I'm onto you, and I'm only pissed that I didn't see it sooner .

"You little devil," he murmurs.

I'm smiling as I back toward the door. "Or possibly I'll see if the third-worst manager in baseball is available. One hour, Mr. Wilson. I'll see you in the office."

And honestly?

I can't wait.