The Copper Valley Bro Code Series: Volume 1, page 35
“Holding up okay?” I don’t know shit about being a single parent, or about grieving someone close to you, but I know it’s work. A fuck-ton of hard work.
“I’m effing tired.”
“You need a nanny.”
He shakes his head. “Just overnight. It’ll pass. She’ll eventually sleep a full six hours at a time. She’s just…adjusting.”
They all were. Tripp losing his wife to the flu over the winter is one more reason my schedule keeps getting lighter. No place like home, especially when people need you. Though I’m frustrated as hell at basically being grounded right now, at least I’m here.
“What’s the story with your new girlfriend?” he asks before I can push any harder. “Levi bet me ten grand you’re falling for her, so this better be a publicity stunt.”
“You guys are assholes,” I tell him.
He clears his throat and looks at James.
“Ah. Right. Sorry. You’re crashmoles.”
He’s known me too long to think I’m funny, and he stretches his legs out while he studies me. “Davis says you’re quitting.”
“Why the fugglenuggets would he say that?”
“C’mon, man. Ellie’s accident. Your schedule. A self-sabotaging tweet, followed by a PR stunt…”
I bounce Emma on my knee and make funny faces at her. “Your daddy’s talking funny.”
“So Davis is right and Levi owes me some cash.”
“You remember that foundation I told you we were working on? The one with Vaughn Crawford?”
“Sports programs for kids?”
“We were supposed to announce it next week.”
He winces. “Ah.”
“Yeah. Need to clean up my mistake so Vaughn doesn’t bail, and I need to keep making money to fund all my favorite projects. It wasn’t self-sabotage. I love my job. I was just a dumb-dumb head who hit the wrong button on my Twitter app and got a little too full of myself to assume mistweets couldn’t happen to me. Happens when you’re fabulous and haven’t slept in three days.”
He sucks in a grin as he shakes his head.
I get that a lot.
“Miss sleep that much, do you?” he asks. “Want to hear about a teething toddler with diarrhea?”
Emma smiles at me. Her stomach gurgles.
“She’s in an industrial-size diaper, right?”
“Baby roulette, dude. You want to hold her, you take the consequences.”
I eyeball the blond-haired, round-cheeked cutie.
She smiles so big that drool drips down her fingers and arms, and she pumps her chubby legs.
The elevator dings, and I rise.
Because odds are good that’s my mom. She’s been dropping by once or twice a day—usually with food, because she loves me—and she’s a master at baby diapers.
Another ominous sound comes from Emma’s midsection. She screws up her lips and mouth, and oh, fuck, here we go.
I rush toward the kitchen and the penthouse entrance, and as soon as I see a body, I shove Emma toward it. “Hey. Baby?”
A single blink too late, I realize my mistake.
That’s not my mom.
Or my sister.
Or even Charlie, who would probably turn around and take my credit card back to the store, because Emma does, indeed, have an intestinal disorder, and she lets it all go as soon as Sarah latches onto her.
It’s a long, slow-drawn-out letting go, and that’s not an industrial-strength diaper, but that is definitely sheer and utter horror on Sarah’s face while she silently asks me what in the holy hell I’ve done now.
Fuck.
I just handed my fake girlfriend a baby poop bomb.
And it went off.
All.
Over.
Her.
“Oh, fungusbubbles,” I croak out.
And if that look on her face is any indication, those will be the last words I ever utter.
21
Sarah
So far today, I’ve learned many, many things.
I’ve learned that it’s hard to concentrate at work with people talking about me shoving Beck’s face in a funnel cake and wanting to know if they can get his autograph, and also I guess I never would’ve picked you as his type.
I’ve learned my parents will drop by my office just to see your desk, sweetheart and that my father takes an obscene amount of joy in prepping for roles in public if it’ll embarrass me.
And now I’ve learned that Beck is king when it comes to winning wars.
“Are you shi—” I start, but he clamps a hand over my mouth.
“Virgin ears,” he hisses, and then his nose crinkles, and then I inhale and find out why, and—
“Oh my god, what is that smell?”
We’re not alone.
Past the kitchen, there’s a toddler—preschooler?—running a model car up and down the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park and the mountains while watching all of us with very serious blue eyes, and there’s also an adult male rolling on the ground laughing his ass off.
“I—you—here—we should—”
For once, Beck’s apparently at a loss for words.
Even made-up nonsense.
“I thought you were my mom,” he finally blurts.
The guy on the floor laughs harder.
“Do I look like your mother?”
Beck’s ears go pink. “No, I just—I wasn’t expecting you, and—not that you’re not welcome. You’re welcome. Anytime. Day or night. I—we should put her in the sink.”
The guy on the floor rolls to his hands and knees and makes an effort to stand up.
“She’s Tripp’s,” Beck adds with a head jerk at his other guest. “Really cute. Most of the time.”
His hands hang in mid-air like he’s afraid to take the dirty squirming toddler from me, but feels like he should, but isn’t sure where to grab on her soiled yellow dress.
Because the stuff shot everywhere.
Down her legs. Up her armholes. Up her neck.
Her sweet baby smile comes with a squeal, and she pumps her legs, which sends the stuff dripping all over my shoes.
I love these shoes.
Loved.
They’re my fearless shoes. Boots, really—the only thing I’ll do fashionably. Low heel, leather, in theory washable, but does leather absorb smells?
Also, I can’t actually work up a really good mad here, because the baby—toddler? I’ve never spent much time around kids—is freaking adorable with all those big grins.
Beck gestures awkwardly to the kitchen.
I hold the baby out while she smiles and squeals and flails her arms and legs and leaves a trail of baby goodness from the foyer to the kitchen sink, where Tripp finally meets us.
He’s wiping his eyes.
“Smooth, man. Smooth,” he says to Beck before taking over with the gooped-up child. “Tripp Wilson. Pleasure to meet you,” he says to me.
“Likewise. Although I do try to dress up better when I’m meeting new people.”
Beck winces, totally missing the joke that I don’t actually dress up for anyone. “I’ll, ah, call Charlie. She’ll get you some…” He trails off and gestures to my clothes.
“Fashion sense?” I deadpan.
“Fu—uddlesticks, that’s a custom order T-shirt, isn’t it?”
We all look down at my Einstein shirt, including the baby, who blows a juicy raspberry that sprays us all with spit.
“I may not have taste, but I have consistency,” I say.
“You have awesome taste,” Beck assures me.
The elevator dings again. “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?” a woman calls.
“I told you I thought you were my mother,” he mutters. “Also, brace yourself. And I’m sorry.”
Tripp chokes on another laugh as he strips the baby.
“Oh, good, you’re all—oh my. Is this Sarah?” A brown-haired, blue-eyed woman stops on the other side of the island and utterly lights up with joy. “Oh, it’s so good to meet you! Ellie’s been telling me all about your bees and your mission to save the giraffes. And you work for Plantwell? We have so much respect for Gary and Jonathan.”
She smothers me in a hug before any of us can get out a syllable.
“Um,” I say, because I’ve never really done the meet the parents thing, and do his parents know, or are they totally in the dark?
“Mrs. Ryder, you might want to ease up on squishing Emma’s work of art there,” Tripp says.
She pulls back, looks down, and laughs.
Laughs.
“I haven’t had baby poop on me in years. I remember the first time Beck had a blow-out.”
“Mom—” he starts.
“Shush, I want to hear this,” I say.
“He was eight months old, and he was so blocked up—”
“Mom—”
“I definitely want to hear this too,” Tripp agrees.
Emma squeals as he starts hitting her with the sprayer.
I mean showering her. Not actually hitting her.
“—So blocked up that when he finally exploded in the car, we were finding bits of it on the ceiling weeks later.”
“Adorable,” I say.
“Guess you’re lucky Emma got you and not Beck, because otherwise, we never would’ve gotten that story out of her,” Tripp tells me, and I decide he’s good people.
“Oh, you.” Mrs. Ryder gives him a one-armed hug and boops Emma on the nose. “Is your tummy upset, noodle-poo?”
“I might have a T-shirt and sweats that’ll fit you,” Beck says to me while Tripp and Mrs. Ryder discuss Emma’s intestinal issues.
I can’t exactly go back to work in a T-shirt and sweats, but I can’t drive home and change like this either. Nor do I want to go home, or back to work, which is why I’m here. “Great. Thanks.”
“Right this way.”
He takes me to a bedroom that’s too bright and clean for it to be his.
I think.
I guess it could be his. It’s bright and cheery enough. But I didn’t peg him for the flowery comforter, impressionist-style paintings, pillowcases with his own mug, cardboard cutout of himself with a thumb tucked into his briefs type.
It’s far more likely he has a Pac-Man comforter and at least three Game Boys at his bedside table.
Plus pictures of his family.
I’ll bet he has pictures of his family everywhere.
“I was trying to not lose at baby roulette,” he confesses, lifting that long, long arm to scratch his neck. “But I wouldn’t have handed her off if I’d realized it was you.”
“Just to your mother?” I ask.
He opens his mouth, then blushes.
Again.
“I’m a real shit to the women in my life, aren’t I?”
“Mm.”
“I would’ve handed her to my dad too. He just doesn’t usually drop by to fuss like Mom does.”
“Mm.”
“Oh. Hey. I didn’t even ask what was up. Everything okay?”
It takes me a half-second to remember why I thought coming over here was a good idea. And the fact that despite the baby poop, I’m feeling weirdly happy.
It’s the residual Beck Ryder glow. Has to be. Like I’m soaking up his happy vibes.
“Too much gossip at work,” I tell him. “And my boss was uncomfortable with the photographers staking out the building.”
He winces. “Sorry.”
“Not your fault. I mean, not entirely. My parents thought it was visit your daughter at work day. I think they’re still there signing autographs.”
His wince is getting wince-ier. “Will that be awkward?”
“Do you go to your parents’ business and sign autographs?”
“Nah, I usually just wait for the charity auction they do for the children’s hospital and then send in signed underwear.”
And once more, the man’s surprised a laugh out of me. “Seriously?”
“Oh, yeah. Nobody wants to bid on it, because Dad runs the auction, so usually a guy will win them for like eighteen bucks and mumble something about donating them to a bigger fundraiser at his wife’s office.”
He’s totally shameless. But I don’t think he actually has an overinflated ego. He’s too self-aware about the awkwardness of the underwear thing for that.
Plus, as noted, his underwear is really freaking comfortable.
I angle a pointed glance at the life-size cardboard cutout in the corner, and once again, he blushes. “That’s…for shock value.”
“You should get one of the rear view. Without the briefs. I have this weird feeling your friends would appreciate playing pin the dart on Beck’s butt cheeks.”
He chuckles and squeezes my shoulder. “Brilliant idea. And here I was worried about what to get them all for Christmas. Glad you had a place to escape to. I promise I won’t baby-bomb you next time. Bathroom’s through that door. Should have soap and stuff in it. Let me go get some clothes. Be right back.”
He does indeed have clothes that fit me, though the RYDE sweat pants are tight in the butt and have to be rolled to my ankles—but so, so soft—and the T-shirt he finds me—a Half-Cocked Heroes T-shirt he says Levi sent him as a joke—is like wearing a dress, but I also get to shower in his orgasmic shower with the wall nozzles and rain spout that are utterly scrumptious and luxurious and about the only thing I miss about life in LA.
And I’ve never used SHYNE shower gel before—his body care line—but holy crap, it’s delicious. And smells just like Beck.
When I finally emerge from his guest room, buttloads of people have joined the crowd.
He introduces me to Levi Wilson, Tripp’s brother, who’s impossible to miss because he’s Copper Valley’s version of Justin Timberlake, and also Hank, Waylon, and June Rivers—Cash’s siblings, who all have identical eyes to the boy bander who went on to be a movie star—and Davis Remington, the fifth former member of Bro Code whom I never would’ve identified without the introduction thanks to the tattoos, beard, and man bun.
“They’re on your side first,” Beck assures me. He has the little boy up on his shoulders, and I’m guessing the kid’s seat of honor has something to do with the crayon marks all over the windows and removing him from further temptation.
“I always take not-Beck’s side,” Levi agrees. He’s holding Emma, the little girl whose bowels like to make their own introductions, and appears to have no concerns whatsoever about the possibility of his white pants becoming the proud owner of doodoo stains.
And on a related note, how do men get away with things like wearing white pants?
It’s mind-boggling. But I realize they’re RYDE jeans, so I assume they’re comfortable too.
Actually, is anyone here not wearing Beck’s clothes?
“Not-Beck’s side is usually the safer side,” one of the Rivers guys agrees.
Charlie arrives with a grocery cart full of food, and I take one whiff, and my feelings for Beck Ryder might just step firmly over that line that I’ve been wrestling to keep them behind, which is bad, because I do not want to go back to a full-time life in the public eye.
Plus, who says he’s even into me for real? I’m a geek who tasered him.
And all he wants is to rescue his reputation.
Still—“Did you order out Moroccan?”
“Oh, Hersheys, yeah,” he replies with a grin, and I realize he’s censoring himself for the kids’ sake, and could he be any more real and down to earth?
His mom frowns. “Is Moroccan spicy?”
“It’s flavorful. You’re gonna love it.”
He doesn’t wait for Charlie to unload the cart, but instead dives right in with everyone else grabbing cartons and bags and pulling out plates and silverware. “Hey, Charlie, Sarah, you guys go first,” Beck calls.
Charlie gives my clothes a once-over. “Do I want to know?”
“Emma’s teething,” Tripp tells her.
“She mauled you with drool?”
“Other end,” Tripp corrects.
“That’s a thing?”
“Yep.”
“I’m never having children.”
“Sometimes they throw up on you too.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Yes, he is,” Beck calls. “If you have children, you might leave me.”
“Dude, you have dependency issues,” the Rivers guy that I think is Hank says.
“Job security isn’t a bad thing,” Charlie retorts with a glare aimed at him, and hello, tension.
Beck swings James down onto a stool at the island and while I fix myself a plate, he talks the boy into trying a kefta kebab. “It’s like a hamburger on a stick.”
“I eats ketsbup on my hambagurger,” James says.
“Little man, you have taste. Hank, grab a ketchup bottle while you’re in the fridge.”
“I didn’t know he was having a party,” I say quietly to Charlie.
She snorts softly. “Unplanned, but once you’ve been around long enough, you learn to anticipate it. If it wasn’t a workday, they’d be all over the game room and Ellie and Wyatt would be here too. And Davis isn’t usually here on a weekday. That’s odd.”
“Night shift,” he tells her while he grabs a spoon and dishes up some couscous. “Remotely.”
She’s still squinting at him like it’s weird.
“He’s a secret agent,” June tells me.
Davis rolls his eyes.
“Double major in computer science and nuclear engineering,” June adds. “Total recipe for him to be a secret agent. But we pretend we don’t know and buy into his story about working for that nuclear reactor south of the city to keep the feds off our tails.”
“You’re insane,” Hank tells her.
“You’re just mad you didn’t come up with the conspiracy theory first,” Charlie says.
June nods. “What she said.”
Hank grunts and turns his back to the women to grab a plate.
Levi and Tripp demand I sit between them in the airy dining room, which also has floor-to-ceiling windows, but these overlook the rest of the downtown skyscrapers. Mink Arena peeks through the buildings, though I can’t see Duggan Field at all.
The brothers pepper me with questions about where I went to school, how long I’ve been in Copper Valley, where I lived in town before I bought my house, how long I’ve kept bees, and when I started blogging.
