But bills coming from the human baby front?
If Brad were a betting man, he’d say those would be coming soon.
Heidi turned into the driveway, and he followed her, making sure to leave enough room between the cars so the doors could open all the way. They’d need all avenues of maneuverability in order to get these presents out of the cars and into the house.
A moment later, Heidi was out of her sedan and ladening herself with packages.
He popped his door.
“Will you use the keypad and open the door?” she asked, gift bags lined up on her arms like oversized bracelets. “The code is—”
“I know it,” he said, grabbing a few boxes before high-tailing it up the walk.
He punched in the code, pushed inside, and dropped his burden with the rest of the presents in the living room then went back outside. Along the way, he made sure the latch was open, but not the door—because he didn’t want to be responsible for kitty escapes.
Heidi was coming up the steps, so he doubled-back, opened the door for her, did his whole latch but not wide-open procedure, then returned to his car.
They repeated the process, unloading the presents and stacking them inside the house, until that front room appeared to have become the landing ground for every shade of sparkling silver wrapping paper and the entire stockpile from the tissue paper industry.
When they were done, Heidi set the alarm and they closed the front door behind them.
“The pet-sitter will be here in the morning.”
“Hopefully the cats don’t get into the bags.”
She winced. “I didn’t think of that.”
“How much trouble can they get into?” he asked.
Another wince. “Have you met the Terrible Two?”
“No, why?”
Her lips twitched. “They make the Fuzz look like the most well-behaved rooster you’ve ever seen.”
His brows lifted.
“I’m not joking.”
“Shit.”
Her shoulders slumped as she turned back to the door. “Maybe I’ll lock the cats in Jaime and Kate’s room, and tomorrow I can come back to move the presents into the spare bedroom and lock the door.”
“I can help you move them now,” he offered.
“I’m tired,” she said, chin dropping to her chest. “And my feet hurt.”
He nudged her toward her car. “Go home,” he ordered.
“I—”
“You took care of Cake-Gate,” he said. “I can deal with Present-Gate. Plus, there’s no telling if we’ll be able to find or catch the cats.”
Her nose wrinkled. “That’s true. But I should really—”
“Go home and rest?” he said, guiding her to her car. “Yes, that.”
“But—” He opened the driver’s door, and still she hesitated.
Another nudge had her sitting in the seat, and he closed the metal panel as soon as her feet were clear, trapping her inside.
“Drive home. Get sleep,” he said loud enough so she could hear him.
She made a face but didn’t protest further, just turned her car on and backed out of the driveway. Brad watched the taillights disappear down the street then went back into the house and got his workout moving those packages from the living room into the guest bedroom, making sure he closed the door securely to prevent any kitty escapades.
Then he drove home.
And when he finally made it into bed, after a long, hot shower that washed the remnants of cake and frosting from his body, he dreamed of silken brown hair fanning out on the pillow beside him.
The Monday following the wedding, he pulled into the underground parking garage then made his way up to his apartment.
His lonely, empty apartment.
Funny how he’d never much minded the tiny unit with its drab lighting and noisy upstairs neighbors. Usually, it was just a stopover to the next adventure.
Except . . . he didn’t have any more adventures planned.
And the itchy feeling, the one that usually crept in after a few weeks home, coaxing him off into the sunset, was noticeably absent.
Instead, he was drawn in a different direction.
Drawn toward one person in particular.
“Which just confirms what you already know,” he muttered, fighting with the old lock for a moment before he managed to let himself into his apartment. “Heidi is the best thing you’ve ever come across.”
Small and dark were the apartment’s best qualities—aside from kickass internet, that was. The rest of it, he’d done his best with. A cheap couch that was covered in a tapestry he’d picked up in Peru. Several prints from a local artist in Iceland on the far wall—mostly so he could pretend there was another window there. His bed was behind a screen he’d purchased in Japan. His shelves were made by an artist in Indonesia, who’d collected driftwood washed up onshore.
His life in objects, and yet none of them could fill the hole inside him.
None of them told him who he was.
But then again, why did he need to be told?
Now there was the itchy feeling, rearing its ugly head, making him think too much, feel too much.
Jaime was the caring one. Tammy was the smart one. Penny was the go-getter. And he was . . .
What?
Driven by fancy? Lacking attention and focus?
He knew neither of the last two were true, and if there was any fancy involved, it was from simply wanting to make the most of every moment, because he undertook a great deal of planning with his trips, ensuring he didn’t waste his money or his opportunity to visit.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, going to the one window in the space. It was half-blocked by the refrigerator, but it provided fresh air and sunlight, and most importantly, a way out.
A fire escape that led up to the roof.
Yanking open the panel, he clambered ungracefully out the frame, grasping onto the metal ladder and climbing.
It was late, and he didn’t want to be that creeper outside of someone’s apartment, freaking them out, so he moved quickly and quietly up the ladder, past the other windows, until he’d ascended the three floors above him and reached the roof. Not too long ago he’d stashed a blanket
