Chapter 11
11
[Ruthie]
T he next two days, Bolan and I pass one another like we’re tag-teaming. Sometimes, I expect us to give each other a high-five as we cross paths.
While he has practice and meetings, I order items for Tulane and take us shopping. A portable crib arrives but then we need sheets and a changing pad, plus diapers and seasonal clothing. During late February in Arizona, the mornings are cool while the afternoons might be warm and then the evening temperature drops again. The desert is fickle.
All Tulane’s needs are met with the help of Bolan’s credit card, yet I try to be conservative. This place is only temporary. However, active toddlers need items to occupy their attention. I splurge on a small library of board books and a few educational toys, plus a baby doll and miniature stroller for Tulane to push along the sidewalk.
At night, Bolan takes over, and I make myself scarce to give them one-on-one time. He gives Tulane her nightly bath and reads to her before bed. I’d love nothing more than to be part of their evening rituals, but I don’t want to intrude on the precious time Bolan has with his daughter, knowing soon enough he’ll be missing out on days and nights collectively.
As an outsider looking in, Bolan is a good father.
And I’m not Tulane’s mother, even if for all intents and purposes I’m her stepmother. I am Bolan’s wife. But I remind myself to keep my distance, or I’ll be sucked into loving Tulane more than I should.
She is not mine. I will not get to keep her when Bolan and I separate, and the idea is like a sliver wedged beneath my fingernail. I hadn’t considered the ramification when I said yes to Bolan.
A part of me worries about Tulane, though. The innocent child of a professional athlete. I don’t want to see her left with random sitters or endless nannies, or worse, carted from game to game as a show piece.
The experience of being a child with parents in the limelight is familiar to me. I know all too well the position of being pulled forward for photographs and social engagements, then returned to the corner with nursemaids and tutors. I was the daughter of people who had no business having children.
Watching Tulane curled up in Bolan’s arms in ISM’s office, I didn’t want her to be me. Not that I thought she would. Not that Bolan didn’t act like he loved her unconditionally, although a bit awkwardly. Like he is still learning how to care for her. Parenting does not come with a manual, though, and Bolan is doing the best he can.
He explained how he’s only been a father to Tulane for eight months. Every day is something new for both him and her. Her budding independence shines brightly.
Like now, when she runs naked through the rented condo, fresh from a bath, with Bolan chasing after her, bath towel spread wide between his hands like he’s a giant bat.
“Tulip,” he groans as her little legs move fast and she rounds the corner to the kitchen to bury her head in my knees.
I’ve been holing up in the primary bedroom each night to give them space, and I’d stepped out of the room to make myself a mug of calming tea.
“Whatcha doin’, baby.” I dip down and pick her up. Her damp body shivers against me. She’s also a little slippery.
With his T-shirt soaked, Bolan comes up behind her and drops the towel over her back. “Gotcha,” he growls like a pirate. When he tucks the large towel around her lanky body, the backs of his hands brush my breasts, and I gasp.
“Shit.” Bolan mutters. “Sorry about that.” He tugs Tulane toward him while she squirms in his arms, her body trapped in the towel while she leans toward me.
My heart swells but she needs to spend time with her dad. She should have the chance to be a daddy’s girl. My hope is she will always be one.
Bolan peppers the side of her head with kisses while her legs kick forward like she’s a mermaid. Then he dips her to the side and flips her around, so she’s like a wingless airplane. She squeals as he flies her back to the bathroom.
Within minutes, Tulane is back, dressed in a pink, short pajama set. Her hair is slicked back, combed a bit unevenly, and I smile knowing Bolan is trying.
Tulane wraps her arms around my legs again and I bend down to pick her up, inhaling the freshly bathed scent only toddlers have.
“She’s a slippery one tonight,” Bolan says, entering the kitchen once more, his previously soaked T-shirt removed.
My breath hitches at the brush of hair on his chest and the firmness of his abs. He isn’t washboard tight as much as barrel broad and solid. He also wears that woven black strap around his neck with a silver, rectangular medal dangling from it. While I’ve touched his chest, I hadn’t seen him fully divested of a shirt.
My eyes drink him in. The strength of his arms. The width of his shoulders. The comfort a chest like his might offer.
Bolan has worn mainly T-shirts since our arrival in Arizona. Much different than the suit and tux I’d previously seen him in. I haven’t missed a giant bear tattoo that runs up his forearm. The creature is not storybook-friendly looking but frightening, and I’m curious about it. What it means. What it represents.
But I don’t ask.
He glances down at his arm and then looks back up at me. Those green eyes narrow. His lips cock upward. He runs his hand from his pecs to his waist, that bear flexing, and my gaze follows the trail he blazes. A thick line of hair peeks from the waistband of his shorts to his navel.
“Huh.” He huffs.
Snapping out of my trance, I blink and flick my gaze upward to meet his. He knows what he’s done. He knows how I’m responding.
My husband is too good looking for his own good. Or mine.
Busted . With the tweak of his lips, that damn dimple appears. His sudden cockiness is like a neon sign in a bar.
“Hang out for a bit while I put Tulip to bed.” He isn’t asking as much as inviting me to wait for him. After a kiss to the side of her head, I set Tulane down on the floor and she scampers off to the living room.
“I should probably answer some emails.” The past two nights, I’ve scrambled to fulfill the responsibilities I have with Jared and ISM. As Bolan’s personal babysitter, I’ve given him the first few days of practice to get acclimated. How much trouble can a grown man get into when he’s new on the job?
Bolan isn’t a rookie to professional baseball. He’s a seasoned player with a long rap sheet of incidents behind him. His wife is here to keep him in line.
“Just give me a few minutes,” he pleads, dropping his gaze to my bare feet.
“I guess I could wait,” I state, lifting my warm mug of tea.
Bolan watches the motion, his mouth slightly opening as mine perches on the rim of the cup. After a hot sip, I lick my lips like I’ve missed a drop. He swallows thickly, like watching me drink tea is some kind of turn on for him.
Then he spins on his heels and scoops up Tulane, rushing off for the remainder of their bedtime ritual.
Like a creep, I slink down the hallway and listen. The rough, low voice of Bolan. His little girl’s laughter. The sound is infectious while heart shattering. A reminder of all I’ll never have.
With my spine against the wall, I allow the torture to continue as Bolan reads a book to Tulane. I tip back my head and close my eyes, listening as he tells a story but doesn’t follow the words written on the pages. Since I’ve read her the same story, I know how it goes.
Too soon, Bolan’s rugged voice softens, and I picture him pressing a kiss to his little girl’s head before setting her down in the portable crib.
I rush back to the kitchen, not wanting to be caught listening, and metaphorically kicking myself for acting like a voyeur, desperate to hear their laughter and shared voices. Two sounds that equal love.
When Bolan enters the kitchen, I’m leaning against the counter, one foot on top of the other, like I’ve been standing here, casually waiting on his return.
In the momentary silence that ensues, with him simply staring at me, his eyes are a little intimidating, and I give myself away. “Wild imagination you have.” I tilt my head toward the hallway, indicating Tulane’s bedroom .
Bolan hangs his head and cups the back of his neck. Thankfully, he put on a fresh T-shirt. “Yeah. About that. I’m dyslexic. It’s still kind of an issue and I don’t read well. I use text to talk and talk to text messaging a lot.”
Instantly, I feel bad and set down my tea mug. Straightening when I look at him, I say, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t?—”
Bolan quickly cuts me off with a forgiving hand. “My only concern is if Tulane is going to struggle, too. If she’ll be like me.” His voice lowers again, gaze dropping to his bare feet.
He clears his throat. “I was never good at school. Not great with time management. And I have a bit of ADHD. I set myself reminders for things, but even then, I’m not great about getting where I need to go on time. On the field, I’m different.” Bolan tilts his big head. “Maybe I do need an assistant.” He doesn’t sound arrogant as much as reflective. The cocky man without a shirt from moment’s ago has disappeared.
“Want to hang out? Watch a movie?” He sounds hopeful.
I can’t remember the last time I simply hung out with someone. Just enjoyed shared company. I also don’t want him to feel obligated. “I don’t want to intrude on your alone time.”
“I’m not great at being alone, either.”
Was this another reason he caused so much trouble, especially with women?
“I’ve got some emails to catch up on,” I remind him.
“Are you still working with other clients?” His thick brows lift.
“I’m always working on whatever Jared asks.”
Bolan tilts his head again. “Do you like working for Imperial Sports Management?”
“I’m grateful for Nylah and Jared in my life,” I answer. I am thankful for the amazing, loving, accepting couple that they are.
“That’s not what I asked.” The corner of Bolan’s mouth ticks upward, the cockiness returning like a slow drip .
“Still, sticking to my answer,” I snark, not willing to explain how much I really don’t like working for ISM. How I never wanted to work for them.
Clifton liked the idea. While I’d wanted to be a teacher, he didn’t think education was a very glamorous profession. Shortly after we graduated college, he entered the NFL and his father agreed to hire me, without any experience in sports management or agenting. I failed my first assignment. After that, I’d been given the role of an assistant, with lots of leeway to allow me to follow Clifton around the country in those first years. When Clifton entered the military, I followed him once again, until long-term assignments put him overseas, and Jared offered me one of two positions as his personal assistant. I’ve been working beside him for roughly four years. While grateful for the work because it offered me some socializing and a little money for myself, in general, I hated the job.
Bolan’s mouth turns into a full-on smirk, similar to the one that got me in trouble in the first place. “My wife has some sass.”
“No one would ever say that about me.”
He chuckles, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe me. “I like it.”
And I hate how I like a little too much his vote of confidence in me and the way he calls me his wife.
Like he really means I’m his.