Chapter 6
Riley
“Slow down, Spence. Take a breath and say that again.” Stacey is pacing the tiny living space of our unit, passing by my door every few seconds.
Ours is a loose definition of ownership, with my claim to this space about to be rescinded.
I have no way to make enough to cover the accommodation fees without some kind of miracle dropping into my lap.
I reread the last line of the driest subject matter known to the business world.
“Okay. Don’t touch it. We’re on our way.” Stacey punches a manicured fingernail onto her phone screen. A string of curses passes her lips as she shakes her head.
I lean over and look through my bedroom door to find her head hanging, shoulders slumped. Okay, well, that doesn’t look like good news . . .
Straightening, I close my textbook and grab up my pho—
Hold on, did she say we?
Stacey wanders into my room. “You’re the oldest of six kids, right?”
I rise from my chair, pocketing my phone in my jeans. “Yeah, why?”
“I need your help.” She grabs my arm, practically dragging me from the room. I manage to grab my sweater on the way past the sofa and slide my shoes on as she’s muttering to herself. Something about “stupid older brothers.”
“Um, okay sure. What’s this about?” I ask as we track down the hallway, down the spiral stairs, through the foyer, and out into the milky morning sunshine.
“Spencer has a situation.”
“Oh . . . And you need me for this? I don’t think I’m the best pers—”
“Riles, there is no way I can take this to our parents. So, you’re it.”
I’m not going to lie, I’m intrigued, but this sounds like a family thing. And I am not Stacey’s, let alone Spencer’s, family.
“God, I knew something like this would happen. So irresponsible,” she mutters, unlocking the car as we pile in, and she starts it up.
Waiting for Stace to compose herself, we sit in a tense silence for a moment.
“What kind of situation needs an oldest sibling, Stace?” I say softly.
She sighs, her forehead hitting the steering wheel. A groan that turns to a manic laugh rattles her shoulders.
Now I’m a little concerned. Curiosity has been stamped out by worry.
“My eejit brother and his carefree ways have caught up with him.”
I tamp back the need to chuckle at her attempt at eejit. My accent and words have been rubbing off on her for the past few months. And I can’t say her Canadian vernacular hasn’t flattened my accent a little. We are an accumulation of the people we surround ourselves with, after all.
Stacey lifts her head, shaking it as her gaze meets mine.
“He’ll never recover from this one, Riles. Not with Mom and Dad.”
“How bad can it be?” I ask, the words threadbare.
“As bad as it gets. At least, it will be, in their eyes.”
Her parents. Their parents.
If I got a read on Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood, it was that they are the type of people whose reputation matters above all else. Their children included. That part of their family dynamic has my heart ache for Stace and her brother.
But it’s not my business or my family. Nor will it be in nine more months, when I’m back home and starting to build my life. From the ground up, literally.
Stacey shifts the car into gear, and we spend the next fifteen minutes in silence, despite the myriad of maybe-helpful things I come up with to try and ease the worry on my friend’s face.
The light snow on the ground lays in a sort of patchy moat around the apartment building her brother lives in as we pull over at the curb.
A silver sign inscribed with Lockwood Lofts shines in the morning rays of sunlight in front of the neat hedging that flanks the front of the building.
Fancy.
Stacey kills the engine.
“Please remember, this stays between the three of us. My parents can’t know about this. It can’t come up at the weekly dinners.”
“Sure.” I nod and give her a reassuring smile.
A little of that curiosity over what on earth my siblingship could possibly be useful for in this situation rises again. We walk up the concrete pathway and Stacey pushes the penthouse button.
Oh.
Of course.
No response comes, just the buzz of the front door unlocking a second before Stacey pushes a hand onto the glass and we spill into the warm foyer.
“Morning, Miss Lockwood. Early start?”
A man stands inside the door dressed in . . . is he, holy hell . . . a butler?
Geez almighty.
“Morning, Henry.”
“Mr. Lockwood is waiting for you.”
Mr. Lockwood?
Her father or her brother?
Stacey nods stiffly, and we pad across the dark navy carpet to the silver elevator. I push the up button, and Stace gives me a soft, grateful smile.
Whatever this is, it’s got her reeling.
After a quick ride in the elevator, we take three short steps to a wide wooden door. Stacey stares at the door.
My gut flips.
What are we about to find on the other side of—
The door swings open.
Spencer fills the doorway, his face tense, blue eyes dark with worry. His button-down shirt hangs out of his jeans, one sleeve rolled up, the other hanging loose around his wrists. His hair is sticking up like he just rolled out of bed as he rubs a hand behind his neck.
“Stace. Fuck. I’m so fucked.”
His gaze flickers to me and he swallows. “What’s she doing here?”
Something like fear tightens his features. “Stace, nobody can know about this.”
“Riley isn’t going to say anything. Besides, we need her.”
“We?” His face relaxes a little.
Stacey folds her arms over her chest and cocks her head, brows lowering. “You nee—”
The wail of something that sounds like a newborn baby cuts her off.
What the fecking hell?
Surely not . . .
Spencer’s shoulders slump as he pushes the door open wider and gestures for us to come inside before he shuts it behind us quickly.
“Fuck. I hope old Mrs. Henderson didn’t hear it.”
“It?” I ask now, one brow lifted, my own arms crossed. I’m liking the sound of this situation less and less as the seconds tick by.
“Never mind,” Spencer mutters, turning back for the living room space and taking up pacing, hands sunk into his messy dark blond hair.
“Do you know whose it is?” Stacey says, tugging her jacket off before dropping it on the back of the longest sofa I’ve ever seen. The apartment is exactly what the plaque on the front door said—the penthouse.
Holy shite.
It’s . . . so damn luxurious.
Glass makes up every external wall. The oversized kitchen is decorated in dark grey granite and black cabinetry.
An open-plan living space takes up the rest of the area visible from where I stand.
A few doors dot the far wall, and a hallway sits in the center of the living space, disappearing to where I imagine the bedrooms are.
Stacey is tapping something out on her phone. “Was there a note with it?”
“What?” Spencer stops in his tracks, anxiety twisting his features.
“A note. Did it come with a note?” Stacey bites out.
It. My nails dig into my biceps.
Keep your shite together, Riley. You don’t know what’s going on yet.
Spencer sighs. “No nothing. Just a whole lot of—”
A wail echoes through the hallway now, long and painful.
Okay, that’s it.
I release my strangling grip on my arms and make a beeline for the screaming baby.
I don’t care who gets their knickers in a knot. Penthouse or not, no baby should be left to cry it out. Not in my book.
I never let Chlo cry for any longer than absolutely necessary, and the Lockwood siblings don’t look like they’re about to comfort whoever is distressed any time soon.
I follow the long hall, the sound getting louder, more desperate as I go. I pick up my pace. The last door on the left is open.
The sound is spilling from it.
I cross the threshold without a thought.
But when I take in the enormous bed, the oversized, well, everything, I stop short in my tracks. A small pink bassinet sits at the end of the bed. It rocks as the wails continue.
I hesitate.
I know the second I pick this little girl up, I’ll be involved.
My heart can’t respond any other way.
Steeling myself, I put one foot in front of the other.
Baby crying.
Alone.
Me and someone who has no one else . . .
Flashbacks of the morning we woke up to learn Mom and Dad were gone . . .
Chloe crying from her crib in our parents’ room. Forgotten. For hours.
I close the distance, almost desperate to hold the baby. To fix the hole that gapes when I least expect it.
I find a tiny pink face poking out from a swaddle. Mad as hell, her little pink mouth wide with her hungry screams.
God knows she’s probably frightened, too.
“Oh sweetheart.” I lean down and slide my hands under her small back. She’s well padded. I lift her from her soft bedding. Her cries persist, and I hold her to my chest, rubbing her back.
She turns her head, suckling my neck.
Oh, baby. She’s probably starving.
Heat coils in my gut.
Out in the living room, the Lockwoods are pacing around like she’s some sort of inconvenient problem they need to make go away.
Meanwhile, this perfect little girl is scared and hungry, her diaper most likely soiled.
Fecking hell.
I send my hand into the bassinet, hunting for a pacifier or anything to settle her. A small green pacifier is wedged into the bottom corner. She must have kicked it there with her wriggling. I pop it into her mouth, and she sucks furiously.
“Oh, sweet baby girl. I’m sorry someone did this to you,” I whisper.
Where the hell is her eejit mother?
I rock her, trying to settle my own breathing and not let my anger at this situation and this poor kiddo’s bollocks parents get the better of me.
I shift on my feet, and she settles into her sucking, her little blue eyes closing. It’s then I see a small white envelope.
I swipe it out.
I have zero shites to give if Spencer thinks this is for him.
If he gave two fucks, he would be in here, trying to look after the baby, not freaking out about the old woman down the hall snitching to his folks.
I flip the envelope open and slide the card out.
Spencer,
I can’t do this.
Emma.
Well, Emma, you suck.
What the actual hell?
I glance down at the baby in my arms. I became a default parent when my folks died and Chloe needed a mother-type figure. Even at twelve, I had the guts to do this.
Feeling a little more than plain mad and a whole lot judgmental, I tuck the note back into the bassinet, deeper than before, and huddle the baby close. I don’t know why, but I have an instinctual feeling that Emma is not the place for this little girl.
I mean, who dumps an infant no older than a few weeks on a strangers doorstep?
What if someone else had picked her up?
What if she’d died of the cold?
Okay, so maybe that’s a stretch. Still . . .
“Lucky you, kiddo. You got the short end of the stick when it came to parents.” I pat her back gently as I pad back toward the living area.
I find Spencer and Stacey on the sofa. Spencer’s head is in his hands. Stacey is still on her phone, the look of disappointment etched over her features.
I clear my throat.
Spencer’s head snaps up. His eyes widen as he takes in the infant in my arms. “How did you get her to stop crying?”
He stands, takes a step forward, but stops.
“I picked her up,” I snap out.
His face slackens.
Good. I hope you feel guilty as hell, you asshat.
Stacey rises and comes over to look but doesn’t touch. “Hmmm. As soon as we can figure out whose she is, the sooner we can send her back.”
“Like an unwanted parcel,” I say, the venom in my voice taking Stacey aback.
“No, back to her proper family, Riley. Spencer is not parent mater—”
“Hey. I can defend myself, thank you.” Spencer steps forward. “Let me hold her.”
He reaches for the baby.
I don’t move, reluctant to let him use this sweet little girl to prove his point. But she is his child. The eyes are strikingly identical. The complexion the same. The tiny dimples on her cheeks as she sucks the pacifier are a match for her father’s.
I loosen my grip on the precious pink bundle. Why am I so protective of a baby I have no association with? A question for therapy one day, I suppose.
Spencer slides his hands around her, too low.
“No, around her ribs.” I move one hand away so he can readjust. His fingers graze my breast as he moves his hand higher.
Ignoring the touch, I try to hand the baby over.
“Don’t get attached, Spence. We’re sending her back to where she came from before Mom and Dad get wind of this.” Stacey flips her phone shut with a triumphant expression.
Spencer and I both turn to face her.
And I catch a hint of disappointment on his face as the baby leaves my grip and he takes her into his arms. His gaze drops to the small bundle in his arms, and his jaw flexes.
“I guess it’s for the best.” He looks up. “Thanks for your help, Riley. Guess I don’t need you, after all.”
He doesn’t consider it.
He doesn’t even hesitate.
I huff a disbelieving sound, folding my arms.
You utter ass, Spencer Lockwood.
Utter ass.
If I never see Spencer Lockwood again in my entire life, it will be too fecking soon.