Page 23 of The Decoy

“Okay then, you’re all set. You can pick up the blood work order at the desk when you check out. See you soon,” she says with a wave and walks to the door.

“Thank you, Dr. Chen,” I say with a steady smile, though my heart feels like it’s flapping around my chest. So many things spinning through my mind.

After I check out, collect my blood work order, and make a pit stop in the restroom, we finally step out of the building into the hazy morning light, trying to burn through the clouds.

Brody walks beside me, his strides matching my pace, his jacket slung over his shoulder instead of on, despite the cold. And I hold the medical folder against my chest, feeling a little lighter than I did walking into the office earlier.

“You hungry?” Brody asks when we reach his truck. He turns to face me, resting one forearm on the top of the passenger door frame, and looks down at me with a playful smirk. “Did you get to eat breakfast?”

“Actually, I’m starving,” I admit, looking into his eyes. “Where are you taking me?”

“I know a quiet little diner about three blocks over,” he says, his smile widening and his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Best blueberry pancakes in Manhattan. Huge portions and more of a locals-only place. So we shouldn’t have too many people bothering us.”

“You sold me on blueberry pancakes.” I smile, stepping up onto the truck runner to climb in.

He closes my door, then walks around the front of the hood while I buckle my seatbelt and pull out the ultrasound photos I’d put in the folder.

I trace a finger over the image, staring down at the perfect outline of my baby.

This motherhood journey of mine hasn’t started the way I had ever imagined. It’s a little messy, complicated, and filled with potential chaos. But when Brody opens the driver’s door, climbs into the seat beside me, and turns on the ignition, while giving me a crooked smile, the butterflies go crazy in my belly.

And I realize something with absolute clarity, and maybe a little fear.

I don’t want to take a single step of this wild ride without him. Because this friendship of ours is starting to feel a little less worklike and casual and more like something else I can’t quite name yet.

CHAPTER SIX

Brody

I spent the last four hours watching film with my offensive line, picking apart the Eagles’ cover-three shell, followed by ninety minutes of high-intensity rehab on my left shoulder. It’s nothing serious, just a lingering AC joint sprain, but after three sets of ice packs, forty-five minutes under the electric stim machine, and some aggressive deep-tissue work from one of our trainers, the joint is finally feeling loose enough that I can raise my arm past my ear without wincing.

So the rest of my day is semi-open minus the contract extension I need to sign with Overtime. As I sit on the bridge in traffic, I tap the steering wheel control to bring up Ellis’s contact on my dash screen.

Brody: How’s your day going? You feeling okay?

I roll the truck forward a few feet, keeping my eyes on this building gridlock. A minute later, a chime echoes through the cab, and her reply pops up across the display.

Ellis: Eh…back to back meetings all morning. I haven’t left my desk since 8 am.

Brody: Have you eaten?

Ellis: I’ve had my daily allowance of coffee, and surviving on tea to keep my stomach settled. Does that count?

Brody: Not even a little.

I finally make it across the bridge and take a quick detour to one of my favorite restaurants, a small, high-end Italian joint run by a couple of brothers from Florence who don’t give a damn about celebrities and serve the best homemade pasta in the city.

I double-park my truck in a commercial loading zone and step inside. The air smells rich with garlic, aged parmesan, cured meats, and fresh basil. My mouth waters instantly. I place an order with the hostess, and ten minutes later, I’m walking back out carrying a heavy brown paper bag packed to the brim with braised short rib pappardelle, fresh burrata topped with heirloom tomatoes, warm olive oil focaccia, and two glass bottles of imported sparkling water.

Twenty minutes later, I’m walking through the glass doors of Renwick Tower.

The executive offices are on the seventy-fifth floor. Employees in sleek suits rush between glass-walled boardrooms, assistants scurry down the hallway with stacks of athlete brand decks, and phones chime continuously across the room.

I walk to the receptionist desk with an easy stride, the bag of food nestled in the crook of my arm. “Hi, Brody Vaughn. I’m here to see Ellis Renwick.”

“Of course, Mr. Vaughn. You’re early, but I’ll let her know you’re here,” the attractive blonde says before buzzing Ellis. “You can head back. Do you know where her office is?”

“I believe so. Thank you,” I say, walking through another set of glass doors after a nod and a smile to the security guard, who issues a “Good luck this weekend, Mr. Vaughn.”