His brows go up. The smile on his face grows devilish as he tucks the book under his arm. “What kind of dress was she wearing?”
I blanch at his ridiculous question. “I have absolutely no idea. Why would it matter?”
He takes five steps forward, closing the space between us. My shoulders push back on instinct, and my chin rises. His cocky stature hovers above me as he looks down, making my heart race.
“You remembered what I was wearing but not the woman?”
“It was a green towel. Hardly a detail difficult to remember.”
“A seafoam-green towel,” he says as he saunters past me and toward the door, stopping to open it and glancing back. “Offer still stands. Come over if you need a break.”
The door closes behind him, and I let out the breath I was holding since he uttered the word seafoam. It’s not even a sexy word, and yet the way he said it, like it was the code word to his secret lair, has me falling to my couch with my hand over my eyes, wondering why I’d had to go and knock on my neighbor’s door tonight.
Because he was playing loud music. Which he turned down and then brought me a glass of wine.
Either Jake is the nicest person on the planet or evil incarnate in Ferragamo shoes, trying to butter me up.
Well, I guess one thing was accomplished tonight. I can, without a doubt, confirm the hero on my pages is a dud because I’m more inspired by the words from the man next door than the fictitious one I’m currently trying to create.
Chapter Two
“Auntie!” The pitter-patter of baby girl feet comes from the hallway.
“There’s my Bree Bree!” I place my purse on the entryway table and pick up my favorite girl, squeezing her tightly as I kiss her cheek.
“Wook at my dow-ee,” she tells me, holding up a toy I haven’t seen before. This one is a baby doll with pink hair and purple eyes, wearing leopard-print pajamas.
“Why, this is the sweetest baby I’ve ever seen. Is she new?”
Aubrey dramatically nods her head before hugging it, closing her eyes, and loving on her new toy.
“Looks like my favorite little lady has been a good girl,” I say as I tickle her belly.
Her laughter is the best sound I’ve ever heard.
The toddler is giggling and squirming in my arms as her mom—and my best friend—Charisse walks into the hall while wiping her hands on a rag.
“Don’t let that tiny ball of sunshine fool you. She’s a house-wrecker. This morning, she took my lipsticks and made a mural on the bathroom wall,” Charisse says, giving her daughter a stern expression.
My eyes pop with surprise as I try to hide my laugh when I turn to my goddaughter. “Aubrey Claire, you do not use Mommy’s makeup for art. You’ll ruin the walls—and Mommy’s expensive gloss. If anyone is going to waste it, it’s going to be me.”
Aubrey’s lip pops out with a pout. I hold her closer, shushing her in comfort before she cries.
“You know, when you tell a child she’s done something wrong, it’s usually not followed by a hug,” Charisse says with a grin.
I wave her off. “I can’t stand to see her little lip. It’s the saddest—and cutest—thing in the world,” I explain. “Besides, I’m the fun aunt. Your job is to ground her, and mine is to be the shoulder to lean on, so she can talk about how awful her mother is.”
Charisse whips my butt with the dishtowel in her hand. “Just make sure you let me know on the sly when she eventually comes to you, talking about boys, sex, and smoking pot.”
I cover Aubrey’s ear with my hand and bring her head to my chest to cover the other ear. “Don’t let my sweet girl hear you speak of such things,” I say sarcastically.
Charisse is laughing while her wife, Melody, walks into the room.
“Hey, Lacey. You’re just in time for drinks.”
“Sounds good.” I follow the ladies into the living room.
Charisse and Melody have the kind of home people aspire to create. Located in the western suburbs of Chicago, their house is a Tudor style with wood-beamed ceilings and large black-paned windows. One look around reveals wall upon wall of family photos, many of them black-and-whites of their parents, grandparents, and themselves growing up.
If there ever were a home that told a tale, it is this one. And this home is about love, especially when you see the picture frames on table after table of their baby, who entered their world three years ago.
I put Aubrey down on the floor in her toy corner, and she immediately starts playing with her doll, putting her in a cradle and rocking her to sleep. I pat her silky black hair and give her a kiss.
On the coffee table is a photo of Charisse and me, taken about six years ago. She was the first friend I made when I moved to the city. We were working at a production company when we hit it off as great friends. Fast-forward a few years later, she told me she was sick of waiting for the perfect woman to come around and wanted to have a baby on her own. Being a mother was the only thing Charisse had ever dreamed of, and she didn’t want to put it off for another moment. I gave her my support and my time, even meeting her during her lunch breaks to give her hormone shots for her fertility treatments.
Two months into the pregnancy, she met Melody. Not only did Melody not care that this fabulous woman she was falling in love with was pregnant, but she also wanted to be part of the journey. They married a year later, and the rest is history.
“Wine or water?” Melody asks as I take a seat on one of the barstools around the oversize island that separates the kitchen from the
