Page 70 of His Vivacious Angel
At the front door, I lend Autumn my umbrella. I wish I could walk her across the street myself, if only so we could huddle close together for a few minutes. Maybe she’d even let me put my arm around her. “Are you coming back to help put them to bed?”
“You know you don’t have to ask.” She steps out, opens the umbrella with a snap, then makes a run for it.
I watch her the whole way home, praying for a backward glance. Just when I think I won’t get one, she looks over her shoulder. It’s only for a second, but it’s long enough to keep my hopes up that all is not lost. This plan of mine really might work.
“Ready?” Josephine asks, having changed into a paint-splattered T-shirt, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.
“You betcha.” I get the boys settled in the corner of the fourth bedroom, where I’ve created a large play area with their favorite toys.
Holding the bottom of the ladder steady for Josephine, I help her climb up to the top rung, then hand her the bucket of clean, dry paintbrushes. With the blinds open, I keep watch as I pass her each quart of paint she asks for, dodging the splatters that fall to the carpet protected by a canvas sheet. As soon as I spot Autumn and Brady about to cross the street, I tell Josephine, and she quickly hurries down, then makes a run for the bathroom to shower off the paint that’s smudged across her hands and arms.
“Come on, boys,” I say, opening the plastic gate to let Sebastian out of the play area, and I scoop Benjamin up. I close and lock the bedroom door behind us just as Autumn presses the buttons on the front door’s keypad, thrilled we’re that much closer to finishing this part of the plan.
Autumn tilts her head to the side when we meet her and her brother in the living room, and she swings Sebastian up into her arms. “Smells like paint in here.”
“Josephine’s working on a new project,” I tell her, glad that Brady’s dropped down onto the couch with his game, paying us no mind.
“With wall paint?” She smiles at my little boy, hefting him higher on her hip, the bottom of her silky top riding up her torso. I’ve missed marking all that creamy skin with my lips.
I nod, flicking my eyes down briefly to her new slippers, which I’ll be adding to my growing, hidden collection. “She wanted to try a new medium.”
Following her nose, Autumn moves past me and tries to open the door to the fourth bedroom. “Why is it locked?”
Thankfully, Josephine and I came up with an explanation that isn’t a lie. “It’s a surprise she doesn’t want you to see yet.”
“Ooooh, okay.” She backs off, much to my relief, with a smile. “Can’t wait to see it.”
Neither can I, angel.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Autumn
With my parents home to watch Brady, I no longer have to bring him with me when I go to Forest’s house, but I slip him a few bucks each night to do so. Whether or not he’s figured out I’m using him as a chaperone so to speak—more to keep me in check than Forest—he doesn’t care, because now he has plenty of money for Shayla’s swear jar.
Every day, I tell myself that I’m going to take Bryce’s advice and rip the figurative Band-Aid off…and every day I chicken out. Then I tell myself that if Forest tries anything at Thanksgiving, which we moved to Shayla’s house to take the brunt of hosting off Mom’s shoulders, I will finally spill my secret, and we’ll figure out where to go from there. But nope. Nothing. He’s the perfect gentleman who doesn’t once try to pull me into a bedroom while everyone else is distracted. All I get is a brief brush of his hand along my lower back a few times, and I’m not sure if it’s purely accidental or habitual. It’s beyond frustrating.
At the firm, he’s nothing but highlyprofessional, too. Even walking barefoot around him while wearing extra ankle bracelets so they’ll clink together doesn’t grab his attention. Believe me, I try, desperate for some kind of sign that he’s as bad off without me as I have been without him. Each passing day confirms my suspicion that whatever Forest felt for me at first has completely cooled off, and that random show of jealousy at the restaurant must have been just that—a show. It didn’t mean anything.
Why is it that I can attack any problem that comes at me with a cool and calm head, put any condescending client in their place without the slightest bit of nerves when they arrogantly think I can’t do my job because of my age or gender, but I can’t come right out and tell the man I hate being in love with that I’m going to have his baby?
What a mess.
Saturday night, following the depressing holiday break, I go in search of Brady and come up empty. Covering a yawn with the back of my hand, since I’m dead tired—one of my early pregnancy symptoms—I cross my parents’ living room.
“Have you seen Brady?” I ask Dad, who’s settled in his leather recliner with a bowl of kale salad topped with roasted garbanzo beans and some kind of sauce Mom made.
His pinched expression lets me know what he really thinks of the meal, but he eats it all the same without a word of complaint. Considering he and I both hate the texture of kale, it’s quite the feat.
“He’s spending the night at Bailey’s,” Mom answers for Dad, standing beside his chair as she lightly runs her fingers through his hair. “You might want to find somewhere else to spend the night, too.”
Dad stops mid-bite, and he twists his neck to peer up at Mom.
“Why?” I ask, then cringe when I catch a whiff of cherry pie baking in the oven. “Don’t answer that.”
Packing a duffel bag with a change of clothes, I make my way across the street and walk into Shayla’s house unannounced. For some reason, she’s already standing in the entryway, and grabs the door.
“Hey sis,” I say, stopping abruptly. “Guess Dad’s feeling better, and I need to bum a night on your couch.” I try to scoot around her, but she blocks me.
