Never Say Never: Gravel Hill Boys Book Two

35. Ian

While Madison napped upstairs,I finished bringing in my bags and the groceries I’d picked up for dinner, and then set about trying to put things away. When that proved impossible, I started dinner since it would need to simmer for a while.

A muffled yawn had me turning to find a beautiful, but sleepy, woman with tousled hair and pale blue circles stamped beneath her eyes. One nap wasn’t going to fix the stress and blood pressure concerns, but it was a start.

Despite all that, she really did have a glow about her.

The smile on my face was a natural response to the woman blinking back at me.

“How was your nap? Feeling rested?”

“I guess.” She shrugged and laughed. “I’m not sure I’m familiar with what being rested feels like. It’s been a while.”

I laughed too, despite the nagging concern about her health. Normally, I was about as laid back as they come. Stress wasn’t something I was all that familiar with, but I was stepping up like I’d promised my family, Liane, and Dr. Abernathy that I would. I was also starting to realize that I wanted to. This wasn’t a temporary solution to a nine-month-long problem. This was a lifelong commitment—at least to the baby. But it was also an eighteen-year commitment to my Little Satsuma’s mother.

I leaned a hip against the marble countertop. “Hear me out,” I said, preparing myself for a barrage of insults and sarcasm. “I put my things in one of the guest rooms upstairs, but I think it might be a good idea if I sleep with you.”

Madison’s eyebrows shot up so fast, I struggled not to laugh.

“Are you kidding me?” she sputtered. “Why would I want you to sleep with me?”

Why wouldn’t she want me to sleep with her? It’s not like we hadn’t done it before. Although we didn’t really get a lot of sleep that night. But this was different.

I shrugged. “For starters, we had a lot of fun the last time we shared a bed, but realistically, if I’m sleeping beside you, I’ll be right there if you need something. Like a glass of water or a cookie.”

She laughed. “I can get my own glass of water and my own cookie.” She rubbed her forehead, and I immediately worried that she might be getting a headache. “You’re unbelievable, Ian. Are you just here to try and hook up again?”

“Of course not! But I could rub your back or give you a scalp massage if your head hurts.” I wiggled my fingers. “I have great hands, and I’ve been told I’m a master at massage.” A smile spread across my face. “I could even sing to you if you’re having trouble falling asleep. Beau may be the voice behind The Gravel Hill Boys, but I’m no slouch in that department.”

Her eyes widened, and her pupils darkened. A soft pink flush crept up her neck and stained her cheeks. She tucked her messy hair behind her ears. “No one could ever claim you were modest,” she muttered under her breath.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was a little turned on by my offer, which immediately had my dick hardening. “You okay?” I chewed on my bottom lip. “You’re looking a little flushed.”

She swallowed noticeably. “I’m fine.”

Yep. Madison Enright could deny it all she wanted, but that girl was feeling the heat—my heat. My smirk was instantaneous. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

She immediately went on the attack and tried to put me back in my place. “Yes,” she snapped. “Under my feet.”

Since my pregnant baby mama needed to stay calm and stress free, I ignored her tone and attitude, and instead focused on being the concerned, attentive partner she needed. She turned away from me, but I stopped her.

“Wait a second, before you sit down.” I opened the refrigerator. “I have questions. Lots of questions.”

I took a bottle of Veuve Cliquot from the fridge and an iced bottle of Belvedere vodka from the freezer. “You have hardly anything in your refrigerator other than this champagne,” I held up the Veuve, “…which you can’t drink, a dried-up lime, a container of oat milk, a half-empty container of Chinese takeout, and some ginger ale. The only thing in the freezer is vodka.” He held up the Belvedere. “Which you also can’t drink.”

Not only had I been dumbfounded when I’d opened her refrigerator, I was a little irritated too. “Where is your food? How do you cook?”

She looked at me like I had two heads. “I don’t,” she huffed as if I’d asked if she was a crack cocaine user. “When I’m hungry, I pick up the phone. I can have anything delivered that I want. The benefits of living in the city.”

I wasn’t done. I stomped around the kitchen, pulling open doors and drawers, pausing at the tall side-by-side cabinet doors, where I’d expected to find a pantry of some sort but had been shocked at what she stored in there.

I swept my hands over the contents. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

I grabbed a pair of shoes from the kitchen cabinet, one in each hand. “What the hell are these?” I demanded.

She gave me that face that meant I was clueless. “They’re shoes, Ian.”

Any other time I’d appreciate the five-inch-heeled, red-soled, fuck-me shoes, but not in the pantry.

“I know they’re shoes, Madison,” I groused. “Why are they in the pantry? Better yet, why have you turned the entire pantry into a shoe closet?” I yanked open another drawer; it was lined with scented paper and held neatly arranged velvet boxes and flannel jewelry pouches. The same was true for the next drawer and the one after that.

Madison stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the massive island, one hand resting on the top of her small round belly. She had changed and was now wearing a matching pajama set that included the tiniest pair of shorts I’d ever seen. I followed the line of her long, smooth legs right to the tips of her pink-painted toenails.

It was my turn to swallow hard.

“Why are you going through my closet?”

I laughed and sputtered. “Closet? Madison. This isn’t a closet, it’s a fucking kitchen. Where are all your pots and pans? Your silverware? In the bedroom?”

With a frown, she stepped into the kitchen and opened a drawer in the island

“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re right here.”

Sure enough, the drawer held wooden organizers with an array of forks, knives, spoons, chopsticks, and serving utensils.

“And?” he asked, still reeling.

“And what?”

“Pots and pans?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be obtuse.”

“Me? You’re being obtuse.”

“Ian,” she said, as if speaking to a child, “I told you I don’t cook. Why would I own pots and pans?”

I scraped my hand over my face, dragging the skin with me until I was certain I looked like a Halloween scream mask. Fitting, because I felt like screaming.

“Madison.” I tried to hide my frustration. “Why are you using your kitchen as a closet?”

She sauntered back into the living room. “I needed more closet space.”

“Are you serious? What is this place? Four-, five-thousand square feet? Plus, you have three other bedrooms upstairs in addition to yours. All of them have closets. You really don’t have enough room for your things?”

“I have a lot of clothes and accessories, and I prefer to keep my accessories downstairs. It’s more convenient this way. Before it was just wasted space.”

I followed her over to the sofa, and when she sat, I tucked a pillow under her feet and draped the faux fur throw over her bare legs while she eyed me suspiciously.

“You can’t blame me for having a lot of things, Ian. My family owns one of the largest conglomerates of luxury brands in the world—from handbags to champagne to vehicles. Most of the things are gifts or samples from the designers. It’s not my fault they send me things. Besides, I have an image to keep up. First, as a representative of my PR firm, and second, as an Enright.”

Unbelievable. “You turned your kitchen and pantry into a closet,” I sputtered.

She reached for the remote on the end table and clicked a button, making a wide screen television rise out of a long credenza on the wall opposite the sofa. “I know,” she boasted. “It’s rather brilliant if you ask me.”

I was distracted over the size of the screen, which was the largest I’d ever seen. Watching the Pirates on that thing would be like sitting behind home plate.

Focus, Ian.

I shook my head to clear it. “What about your diet? Nutrition? You need food in the house. You need fruit and vegetables. Proteins. Grains.”

“Most of the time I eat out. If not, as I told you, I order whatever I want and it gets delivered right to my door. You’re creating a problem where there is none.”

I pressed my fingers into my eye sockets. I was the one getting the headache.

“What if you need a snack, and you want, say, an apple with some peanut butter? You’re going to call delivery for that? Even if you could get someone to deliver one apple and a small jar of peanut butter, how long would you have to wait for it instead of going into the kitchen and just making it for yourself in two minutes?”

“I don’t eat apples and peanut butter. Too many calories.”

“You don’t eat them or you just feel like pushing my buttons?”

She went back to flipping the channels. “Does it matter?”

“What about the baby?”

She lowered the remote. “What about the baby?”

“Babies take up a lot of room. Even if you plan on breastfeeding—and I hope you do—you’ll still need bottles and nipples, a breast pump, a bottle warmer so that I can feed the baby when you need to rest.”

She covered her breasts with both hands. I took it as a sign that breastfeeding might not be on her radar yet. “You’re here for three weeks, or until Liane gets back, whichever is sooner. Why are you thinking about months from now? You’re not staying that long.”

“Maybe not here, exactly, but I won’t be far. I told you. I’m all in. This is our baby—mine and yours—and I intend to be a presence in his life.”

“Her life.”

“I thought you didn’t know.”

“I don’t.” She lifted her shoulders in a gentle shrug. “I just feel like it’s a girl.”

Something squiggly fluttered in my chest. “Is that a thing? To feel the gender?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “You’re the baby expert all of the sudden. You tell me.”

I took a deep breath and filled my lungs until they hurt, then let it out slowly.

It was going to be a long three weeks.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, if you didn’t count the stupid reality show Madison had been bingeing. I was no relationship expert, but the people on that show were f’ed up. I hoped Little Satsuma wasn’t listening to this nonsense.

I finished setting the table with the only plates and silverware I could find.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Madison raised her head. “I have to get up?”

“You don’t have to, but walking from there to here isn’t going to hurt you.”

She threw the blanket off and stood, flashing me another glimpse of those legs, When she stretched her arms over her head, her pajama top rode up and exposed a strip of her smooth, round belly, I cursed the sudden tightness in my jeans. Dear lord, I was lusting after a pregnant woman.

Mypregnant woman. Did that make it okay?

Madison took a seat in one of the ultra-modern upholstered white chairs at the table and helped herself to the salad I’d already set on the table while I served up two bowls of the hearty stew I’d made.

“You made cassoulet?” she asked when I set the bowl in front of her.

“Cassou-what?”

She frowned. “Cassoulet. It’s a French stew.”

“Then, no. It’s good ol’ American stew.”

I sat down across from her and wasn’t in the least bit surprised at how uncomfortable the chair was. Madison took a bite of the stew and chewed as if she were mulling over whether or not she liked it.

I jabbed my spoon in her direction. “You better eat up. Half that kid in there is mine, and my half wants stew. Not some fancy-schmancy French shit.”

She rolled her eyes. “Cassoulet is not fancy-schmancy as you so eloquently put it. It’s more of a peasant stew, what you’d call comfort food.”

“Well, this here stew is about as comforting as it gets.”

We ate in silence, and I was happy that she seemed to be enjoying it. I’d gone easy on the salt, given her blood pressure, and worried that she might find it flat, which is why I’d increased the pepper.

“Didn’t your mother cook for you?” I asked, having had enough of the quiet.

She laughed. “My mother doesn’t eat. Of course she doesn’t cook.”

I gave my head a shake and frowned. “Sometimes you make no damn sense.”

“My mother is a supermodel, Ian. Supermodels don’t eat.”

My eyes narrowed. Supermodel? Madison was beautiful. Gorgeous. I’d dated plenty of supermodels, and it was true, they didn’t eat. At least none of them had when in my company. If Maddie here wasn’t so short, she easily could’ve gone that route, but the no-eating thing wasn’t going to fly with me. I didn’t care how she’d been raised.

She scooped up a chunk of beef and sweet potato. “Ever hear of Tatiana Peillard?” she asked before taking a dainty bite.

I inhaled a bit of beef and started coughing. “Yeah, I’ve heard of her,” I gasped. Fuck. “Tatiana Peillard is your mother?”

“Yep,” she said with a sigh and a pop of the P. “Don’t bother to tell me you had some photos of her hanging in your bedroom because it’ll just creep me out.”

Creep her out?The knowledge was doing a lot more than creeping me out.

The Sports Illustrated Swim Suit Issue cover that hung on my bedroom wall from eighth grade throughout high school was fresh in my mind. I could even picture the yellowing tape at the photo’s edges. Then there was the issue of Playboy where Tatiana Peillard posed half-naked on the cover and completely naked inside—including the fucking centerfold.

Stew churned dangerously in my stomach.

Madison raised her hand to stop any words from coming out of my mouth. Not that I could formulate words right now, let alone a sentence. I suddenly felt like the biggest perv. It’s not like I knew back in eighth grade that a one-night stand more than ten years in the future would end up creating Tatiana Peillard’s grandkid. Mind blown. Back then, just the thought of fucking anything other than my hand would’ve had me jizzing on the spot, let alone having fucked a supermodel’s daughter.

A supermodel I saw naked on the pages of a glossy magazine. Therapy might be necessary. Maybe hypnosis. I could have the memory of Tatiana Peillard scrubbed from my mind. I slipped my phone out of my back pocket and fired off a text to Bailey, demanding she find me a hypnotist nearby.

I put my phone away and cleared my throat. “So, uh, what does your mother think about this?” I motioned between me and Madison.

“My mother took the news well enough. She claimed to be excited about becoming a grandmother. As long as it doesn’t affect her in any way, she’ll be supportive.”

“How the hell is that supportive?”

Madison stabbed at her salad hard enough to cause a cherry tomato to roll off her plate.

“You’d have to know my mother to understand. She’s beautiful and famous and is used to being doted on and doing exactly what she wants. So while she may have expressed happiness at my situation, it really doesn’t affect her.”

How the hell could her daughter having a baby not affect her? I couldn’t keep my family—or my friends—out of my business. And while there were times I wished they wouldn’t be concerned with what I was or wasn’t doing, without their interference, I might not be here trying to be the best expectant father possible.

“What about your father?”

The snort was unexpected—and loud.

Madison cleared her throat. “Sorry.” She chuckled. “My father is a textbook narcissist. I requested he and my mother meet me and my grandmother for dinner so I could tell them both at the same time. It had been months since I’d seen them. My father brought a date, who nearly had us tossed from the restaurant when my mother arrived.”

“Your parents are divorced?”

“Nope. They have an arrangement.” She hooked her fingers into air quotes. “They refuse to divorce, yet they’re rarely on the same continent. Daddy is in France most of the time, while my mother goes wherever the wind blows.”

I noticed that since she began speaking about her parents, she played with her food instead of eating it. I’d bet anything that if we took her blood pressure right now, it would be higher than it should be.

After an uncomfortable silence, I attempted to redirect the conversation.

“This is my Meemaw’s recipe.”

Madison’s face scrunched. “Your what?”

“My grandmother. Meemaw. What do you call your grandmother?”

She pursed her lips as if that was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “Grandmother.”

I rolled my eyes. “What do you call her to her face?”

“Grandmother.” She enunciated each syllable.

“That’s a little formal, isn’t it?”

“Not for us,” she said. “We are a formal people. However, I usually call her Gibby. I couldn’t say grandmother when I was a child, so she became my Gibby.”

It was my turn to snort. As if Gibby was any better than Meemaw.

“What do you call your mother?”

“Tatty.”

“Tatty?”

Madison sighed. “Yes, but not that nasally. Tatty. Short a sound.”

“Ain’t that what I said?”

“Taaaaty. The exact same ah sound as in Tatiana.”

“If y’all are so formal, why don’t you call her Mother?”

“Because my mother thought she was too young to be a mother when she had me. She also thought that if I called her what my father and her friends called her, we’d be closer. More like sisters than mother and daughter.”

I caught her eye roll. I couldn’t imagine calling Ma by her first name. Siobhan would’ve whooped my ass.

“You look a lot like her, but I guess you already knew that. Your hair’s a little darker, though, and your eyes are more of a clear blue than that blue-green she has.”

Madison dragged her knife through the butter and slathered it on one of the corn muffins I’d made. “Her breasts are bigger too, but I’m sure you already know that, since you’re such an expert and all.”

A chunk of carrot hit the back of my throat on an inhale. I coughed and pounded my chest, trying to dislodge it. It felt as if it had slid down my windpipe and into my fucking lungs. I couldn’t stop coughing, and I couldn’t look at her.

I got up from the table and downed a glass of water. Then another.

Madison continued to eat, calmly, essentially ignoring me, knowing exactly what she’d said to set me coughing. I couldn’t help but wonder if she would’ve bothered to give me the Heimlich if I’d needed it.

Probably not.