I held up both hands. “No, no, no. Today we are communicating in sentences, not questions.” I offered Marlow a banana.
“How am I supposed to find out when I need to get him?” She peeled the skin and bit of the end.
“Wicked, I was literally dizzy after talking to you last night. My head still hurts.” I held out my coffee cup to her and she shook her head. “You still not feeling good?”
“Was that a question?”
“Fuck me.”
She laughed, and I leaned against the counter for support.
“I should be finished up at the garage around four. Does that—we’ll plan on meeting after that. At your office.” One dark brow lifted, the question mark at the end of her statement.
“If something changes, I’ll let you know.”
“I left my ponytail holder upstairs. Mind if—I’m going to get it.”
“By all means.” I spread my arm toward the entry to the kitchen.
As soon as she was out of the room, I grabbed a sleeve of crackers and stuck them in her purse, along with another banana. Blake smiled, and I tickled his stomach.
“What’s so funny, little man?”
“It’s fine for you to talk to him in questions, but not me?”
I spun around, and she bit her lip.
“I didn’t even realize I did it.”
She gave me a quick rundown of everything in Blake’s bag. “Call me . . . about anything.”
“Thank you for not insinuating I’m a dumbass.” I patted her cheek, and she scowled.
“I never said you weren’t, shithead asshole fucker.”
My ears got hot. “You frustrate the hell out of me.”
“The feeling is completely mutual.” Yet you leave your son with me . . . and I didn't mind at all. I was nuts.
I drew in a calming breath. “Let’s go before we kill each other.”
Chapter Fifteen
Marlow
“Where are you?”
Holt switched off the vacuum that was running in my hand, but I’d stopped moving.
“Why’d you do that?”
“Because you were just standing there. You okay?”
“Why does everybody keep asking me that? Of course I’m okay.”
I couldn’t stop thinking about the scene on Patrick’s bed. My pillow—no, the pillow—I’d used the night before last lay lengthwise in the center of the mattress. Like he’d been hugging it. Like he’d been hugging me. But why? How could such an infuriating man, who enticed me with his seduction when he wanted to but aggravated me beyond despair all other times, have wanted my pillow within his arms? It didn’t make sense. This whole shit-show of my life didn’t make sense.
“Lunch is here.”
“Is Dad?”
“No, Baker brought it.” He was halfway to the door when he turned around. “Did you upset him?”
I planted a hand on my hip. “For your information, I did not upset him.”
He looked at me expectantly, but gave up and disappeared.
I pulled out my phone and dialed the person I couldn’t seem to stay away from.
“Everything okay?” Patrick answered.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I shouted.
“Hey, hey. I didn’t expect you to call me. Just the texts you’ve been hurtling at me asking if Blake is still alive. We both are, in case you’re interested.”
“I only care about him,” I said, deflating a little.
“You are okay.”
I found myself fighting a smile. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved. I was about to send Gerard out to grab lunch when somebody so rudely interrupted me.”
“Get me something too.”
“What would you like?”
“Anything.”
“Uh-uh. You spend forever pouring over a menu every week at Dino’s. And then you order the same thing.”
“I might want something else.”
“Greek food work for you?”
I wrinkled my nose, but didn’t want to prove his point I was picky. “I’d love that.”
“Liar. You don’t do false cheer well.”
“A big salad would be okay. With lots of black olives, feta, dressing, oh and extra pita crisps.”
“Did you get that, Gerard?”
Someone repeated my order.
“This is a private conversation.”
“Some of us want to eat today. Hurry up. If he gets back before you’re here, we aren’t waiting.”
“Shithead asshole fucker,” I mumbled before I hung up.
“Mr. Whitley is expecting you.”
“I know that.” I marched past the reception desk to Patrick’s office.
Another chair was behind his desk, papers and laptop and phone pushed to the sides for the spread.
“Told you I wasn’t waiting,” he said around a bite of something.
“How, baby,” I cooed, picking up my son.
“How.”
Patrick pulled out the chair beside him, and I settled Blake on my lap.
“Can he eat a tomato?” He held up a grape one.
“Sure.”
Patrick held it up to his mouth, and Blake slapped at his hand. I pressed my lips together.
“You knew he doesn’t like them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, snagging the tomato from his fingers. “What’s with the guy in the lobby?”
“Gerard? He’s just . . . formal.”
“No. The client. It’s rude to schedule a meeting and then make him wait while you have lunch.”
“I don’t have any consultations today.”
“So he’s what? A groupie?”
“Fans come in all forms.” He winked at me.
“You can’t do that. My father patented it.”
“Ugh, I know. I’ve been hanging around the Dixon men for too long.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Speaking of, are you pissed at your dad?”
I paused mid-lift of my fork. “You aren’t going to automatically blame me for pissing him off?” I popped a black olive in my mouth.
“Why would I do that?”
“My brother had no problem,” I said, all the bitterness I felt in the statement.
“Want to talk about it?” He offered me a pita chip.
“I thought we weren’t speaking in questions.”
“Apparently, I’ve lost the ability to do anything but.”
“Knock, knock.” A hulk of a man tapped on the doorframe. “Gerard said you weren’t busy.”
Patrick swallowed his bite of food and wiped his mouth. “Come in. It’s fine.”
The guy swept his gaze across the scene. “I didn’t know you were married. Had a family.”
I choked on a piece of lettuce. Patrick patted my back.
“Should I be worried? I pay you to find shit out.”
“Thought I was losing my touch. Judging by her reaction, being married to you is as appalling an idea to her as it is
