Game Ender, page 9
“Well, we’ve been having an awesome time while you’ve been sleeping. You should really work on this overwhelming need for a nap. You missed out on playing in the pool with me and the other kids. You would’ve loved it too. It’s just like a giant bath tub with loads of water.”
I undo the snaps of his onesie and like the pro that I now am, have the dirty diaper undone, and his pee missile covered for my protection in the blink of an eye.
“Then I shook my head like a shaggy dog all over the mommies—well, Abi’s not a mommy but I bet Uncle Cade will get one past the goal sooner or later—and they shrieked like a bunch of girls before you saved me by waking up. So good on ya, buddy, I owe you one.”
A quick twist of the wrist and a flick of my fingers and he’s changed, re-snapped, and cradled back into my arm. Then I do what any normal man would do, rolling his dirty diaper into a ball and announcing, “He shoots, he’s scoooores,” when I make the cool electric bin shot on my first attempt.
“Should we go downstairs now?” I ask him, reaching my spare hand out and opening the bedroom door. “Because the way you’re trying to bury your face in my chest tells me you’re starving and wanting milk and sorry to say, little dude, I’m totally the wrong person to be expecting anything to eat from.”
I know something’s up the moment I step out into the backyard with Brody because everyone—and I mean kids included—are watching me with variations of shock, surprise, and amusement on their faces.
“What?” I ask just before they all burst out laughing. All except Amy whose eyes are warm—one could almost say heated—as she watches me walk toward her.
“Ah, hey,” I say, somewhat self-consciously, wishing I knew what the hell was going on.
“Do I have something on my face?” I say quietly when I reach her and hand the baby over.
Now it’s her turn for her lips to twitch. “Let’s just say that you say the cutest of things to my son while changing his diaper.” She manages to get that out before letting out a giggle as she kisses Brody’s head.
“What do you—” I ask cutting myself off when it hits me, my head snapping up to meet my friends’ amused grins.
“Yeah, buddy,” Daniel says with a laugh.
“He shoots, he scoooooooores,” Cade mocks.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“Thomas!” Amy growls. “Language.”
“Shit . . . I mean . . . schnitzel.”
“I prefer firetruck,” Mia announces with a huge smile.
“Fudge also works well,” Zoe adds. “Except maybe when Nate tells his grandmother that Mommy likes fudging with Daddy.”
“What?” Abi gasps. “He didn’t?”
“Unfortunately he has a mind like a sponge and the mouth of a parrot. So when he very unfortunately heard Mommy say something on the phone to Daddy, he decided it was only fair that he share it with Grandma. Thankfully, she thinks I like baking with her son.”
“Um . . .” Noah says, walking up to his wife and squeezing her shoulder, like his personal parrot resting on his shoulders eating a Popsicle of all things. “About that . . .”
Zoe’s head snaps around toward her husband. “Oh shi . . . schnitzel. What did you do, Taylor?”
“Mom may have asked me about the fudge we made . . .” His expression turns to a wary one under the intense glare of his wife’s narrowed eyes.
“And . . .” Zoe prompts.
“And . . . well . . . I told her I’d never baked a day in my life.”
“Dammit . . . I mean . . . donut!” Zoe mutters, shaking her head.
“Donut! Donut! Donut!” her son Nate squeals excitedly from Noah’s head.
“Ever noticed that all of your substitute curse words are food, Zoe?” Mia says with a laugh.
Zoe just scowls before reaching up and grabbing Nate. “I want donuts, Mommy,” he demands, smooshing his mom’s cheeks in his hands, totally forgetting about the Popsicle he was holding. The Popsicle that is now also squashed into Zoe’s hair on the side of her head.
“I want a fudge donut. Can we have a fudge donut, Mommy?”
“Go see Aunty Meems, I bet you she knows all about fudge donuts,” Zoe says with a grin, dropping her son into her sister’s lap with a knowing grin.
“It’s Dani that’s the donut queen. She told us, remember?” Mia says, making all the women laugh.
“What’s that about?” I ask Amy under my breath as I sit down in the chair beside her where she’s nursing a now very happy Brody.
She grins at me and shakes her head. “You really don’t want to know about that conversation. Believe me.”
“You saying that tells me I really do.”
“Think about what this group is like, what your friends do with their wives, and then tell me if you want to know what fudge and donuts and Dani knowing all about them, means.”
It takes only a few seconds for everything to click in place. “Oh, fuck no.”
Amy giggles, leaning into my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s only when she freezes and a little ‘shit’ escapes her lips that she realizes what she’s done.
It’s when she goes to move away that I shoot my arm around her shoulders and stop her in place.
“Stay,” I say quietly, and it’s only when her muscles relax again that I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Thomas?” she whispers but I don’t answer her, I just give her a gentle squeeze of my fingers before pulling her into my side, making it clear that it’s where I want her to be.
And it is.
I just need to make it so it’s where she wants to be too.
The next Thursday after Brody’s christening and Thomas’s weird snuggle maneuver, I’m standing half-dressed in a Nordstrom changing room when Mia drapes yet another dress that I could never afford—let alone need—over the top of the door.
“Mia, since when do you need my help buying a dress?” I ask, still confused as to why I’m her real life Barbie doll for the day.
“Because it’s a special dress and it has to be right,” she announces matter-of-factly.
“Is Matt taking you somewhere? Did I forget your anniversary or something?” I swear it wasn’t that long ago they got married. Or was it . . .
“No, nothing like that. Can you just hurry up? It’s weird yelling through a wall at you. Come show Mama what you’re made of.”
“I feel weird trying on a dress that you’re going to wear. I don’t understand this at all.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’ve said that already. Just get your butt out here.”
I pop my head out of the changing room to where she’s sitting outside waiting for me to model a dress she demanded I try on for her.
“It’s shark week. I can’t try on clothes when I’m feeling fat and bloated.” Quirking a brow, I’m beginning to wonder what drugs she might be on and where I can get some.
“You’re the smallest I’ve seen since you had Emma.”
“Look,” she says, putting one hand on her hip. “I’m good at hiding the monthly bloat. Just go with it.”
“Fine,” I huff, taking one last look at the mirror and smoothing my hands down the front of the dress Mia threw in my arms the minute she saw it on the rack.
Granted, this is the third shop she’s dragged me into and the sixth dress she’s made me try on ‘for her.’ But I think this is definitely the one. It’s a chiffon wrap-around dress that falls down into a floaty skirt that sits about three inches above my knees, the soft dusty pink fabric showing off my newfound curves—thanks, Brody—and hiding the small jiggly pouch I have in my abdomen. To be honest, it’s the type of dress I’d love to own, or more aptly, have a reason to own.
It’s the perfect dress for a date, and I know Mia will look spectacular in it.
I draw back the curtain and step out into the changing room at large, standing flat footed in front of Mia and a sleeping Brody in his stroller. “So?” I ask.
Mia tilts her head and scans me head to toe, a slow smile growing on her lips the more she studies me. “It’s perfect,” she whispers, sounding almost choked up.
“Meems? Are you all right?”
“It’s perfect. It’s the most perfect dress.”
“Meems. . . . What’s going on?” I say warily.
She opens her mouth but then snaps it shut, her eyes going from soft and warm to almost shuttered and cagey. What the fuck is up with that?
“This dress is the one,” she announces and I grin at her.
“It’s so swishy,” I say, giggling as I sway my hips from side to side.
“And clingy,” she adds, taking a step back and scanning me again.
“I bet Matt will love it on you.” Her eyes going wide before she blinks and nods.
“Great! Let’s go. We’ve still got lingerie and shoes to buy yet.”
“What?” I ask to thin air because in the blink of an eye both Mia and my son have disappeared and I’m left standing in a pretty dress—no a beautiful dress—in an empty changing room.
With nothing left to do and obviously needing to go rescue my son from a crazy woman, I shrug and go back behind the curtain. Reverently taking off the perfect pretty pink dress, I cross my fingers that one day I too will have a reason to wear something so beautiful and more so, that I’ll have someone worth wearing it for.
Having slept through most of the day’s shopping shenanigans, Brody is still wide-eyed and bushy-tailed by the time Thomas arrives for Takeout Thursday. I open the door, my phone hooked between my head and my shoulder as I answer the phone.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, sweeping my arm out as Thomas walks through the door, food bags in hand.
“Hey, pumpkin. How’s my favorite girl and boy doing?” God, I love my Dad.
“We’re good. How are you guys?” I say as I study Thomas’s ass as he moves into the living room.
He places the takeout bags on the coffee table before dropping to the ground and lying down beside Brody.
“You know us, busy, busy.”
I giggle. “Yes, retirement must be so hard.”
“You watch it, missy, or else I’ll sic Kristy onto you.”
“That’s not much of a warning, Dad. I love her.”
His voice goes soft. “We’ve got that in common then.”
“Yep. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“Well, I was wondering if you had any plans for Saturday night.”
I frown, walking while talking. “Not at this stage. Why?” I ask, suspiciously.
“Kristy and I were talking and it’s time you had a night out, sans baby.” My eyes widen and if my father was standing right in front of me, I know my mouth would be gaping. This is the last thing I expected him to say.
That’s not to say I’m adverse to the idea though because I promised myself before Brody was born that I would always be a mom first and foremost, but I’d also always make time for me.
“Dad, that would be awesome. But I have no plans and it’s kinda short notice.”
He’s quiet for a while, so much so that I’m about to check that he’s still on the line when he replies. “I’m sure you’ll find something to do.”
I watch Thomas and Brody out of the corner of my eye as I contemplate my options. Worst case scenario, I could always go to a movie by myself. Or see if Thomas wanted to do something.
Not a date of course, just as friends. Friends go to movies, or drinks, or dinner . . . wait, that’s going into date territory.
Abort. Abort.
“Okay. Sounds good. Brody does a good six-hour stretch at night right now so he’ll be asleep most of the time, and I can feed him before I go.”
“Yeah, let’s not talk about nursing. I may be a down to earth, hip grandpa but I still don’t want to think about that. Deal?”
Now that definitely makes me laugh. “Sure. No breast milk talk.”
“Amy . . .” he says in his well-practiced ‘dad’ voice.
“You’re so easy to wind up, old man.”
“And you’re a brat.”
“Always have been, always will be,” I muse. “Dad, can I call you tomorrow to sort out the details? It’s just that Thomas has arrived with dinner and I need to get Brody settled for bed.”
“Sure, pumpkin. We’ll talk tomorrow. Say hi to Thomas from me.” Okay, now that’s weird.
“Will do. See ya, Dad.”
“Bye. And remember, make some plans for Saturday.”
“Yes, Dad. Bye,” I say before hanging up, a goofy grin on my face. I really got lucky with my dad. When Mom passed away fifteen years ago, Dad had to step up and play the role of both parents, something he totally rocked.
When he met Kristy six years ago, he was worried about how I’d take it. But Kristy was exactly what Dad needed at that time in his life. For a man who’s always given me everything I ever needed and worked his ass off to make sure of it, I was over the moon that he met someone who wanted to do exactly the same thing for him.
Kinda helps that Kristy is awesome too.
“Hey,” I say, dropping the phone on the table. “Sorry about that, Dad called just as you arrived.”
“No problem. I was just having an enthralling conversation with Brodz here about a new client I met today. Year-long contract, performance bonus, and a real challenge for me. It’s going to be great, isn’t that right, buddy,” he says, rubbing his hand on Brody’s tummy.
“This is totally turning into a boys’ club,” I muse, walking past them to grab some plates from the kitchen.
“I can’t help it if your son is as irresistible as his mother.”
Try as I might to ignore the fluttering butterflies in my stomach, I’m still wearing a goofy grin when I return to the living room.
“Irresistible, huh?” I say, tapping his shoulder with my foot as I pass them on the floor, Thomas lying on his side and Brody lying on his back underneath his activity gym.
Lifting his head up, he shoots me a devilish grin. “Yep. Totally.”
“I’m starting to think you only like me for my baby,” I tease.
He rolls onto his back and folds his arms behind his head, his eyes locking with mine. “Nah, I have a thing for his mom too.”
Alert the media. My ovaries are set to detonate in 3, 2, 1 . . .
Needing a diversion to stop myself from acting on my first instinct which is to jump him then and there, I decide a subject change is in order. “So . . . ready to eat?”
His lips twitch and I know he can see straight through me. Thankfully, he lets it slide and pushes himself up to standing. “It wouldn’t be Takeout Thursday if we didn’t actually eat.”
“Then it would just be a normal Thursday, and I kind of like our new tradition,” I say, shooting him a wink and bending down to grab the baby.
“I could’ve done that for you, you know?”
“Yes, but then I wouldn’t have gotten bubba cuddles,” I say, burrowing Brody into me.
“I see I’m not the only one who likes cuddling.” And as if I could ever forget, I’m reminded of just how good it felt to wake up in Thomas’s arms two weeks ago.
I open my mouth but snap it shut again. I mean, what can I say to that?
“Ah yeah,” I murmur. Why is he acting weirder than normal? Not weird, per se. Maybe more . . . comfortable. Yes, totally comfortable like he comes to my house every night to lie down on my floor with my son.
Dinner eaten, mindless television on in the background, and I’m giving Brody a last top up of the night before putting him down to bed.
My comfort level around this man continues to surprise me, as does his nonchalance to the fact that I’m sitting here with my boob out, nursing my son. A son that isn’t his but amazingly is more his than anyone else’s.
It’s one of the things that freaks me out about my rapidly growing feelings for Thomas. I don’t just have to think about me anymore, I have Brody. At seven weeks old, he’s already connecting with Thomas—maybe even as much as I am—and it’s obvious that Thomas has a bond with him too. Maybe it’s that same link that he’s forged with me, although ours was born from a shared experience, the bond he has with Brody has been nurtured. And fuck do I love that he wanted to do that.
When Brody is milk drunk enough for my liking, I pull him off, quickly tucking my boob away.
“Let me put him down and you can choose the movie,” Thomas says, closer to me than he was before. I nod as he gently slides his arms against me and underneath Brody.
“Say good night, Mommy,” Thomas says softly, bending down to lean over the two of us, looking down at my son.
Dipping my head to kiss Brody’s cheek, I nuzzle my nose against his temple before one last quick peck on his forehead. It takes everything in me to avoid thinking about how close Thomas is to me right now and acknowledging the heat that I can feel coming from him.
When he lifts the baby up, the scent of his aftershave surrounds me, threatening to send me into an instant orgasm-inducing haze and suddenly I’m penciling in plans to buy it in bulk. Other than the smell of my baby boy’s skin and maybe donuts fresh out of the oven, I can’t think of anything better.
If it was at all possible, I could definitely fall in love with this man. Part of me is cursing the STD that friend-zoned me all those months ago.
Then the pregnancy bump clam-jammed any chance of anything happening between us.
Oh and his abstinence, that also would’ve been a thorn in the side of any potential anything too.
“I’ll be back,” he says quietly, moving Brody to his shoulder. “I dare you to choose a movie that isn’t superhero or superhuman related,” he says with a grin.
“So chick flick it is then,” I tease.
“Whatever you want, sweetness.” And I watch with no small amount of admiration as he walks my son out of the room and down the hall.
I’m in soooooo much trouble.
It’s after watching The Notebook—I did warn him he’d have to watch a chick flick—that everything I thought I knew about Thomas and the ‘friend-zone’ between us is blown to smithereens.
