Mended Hearts (The Hearts Of Emerald Bay #2)

1. Revenge of The Uterus

1

Revenge of The Uterus

LEIGHTON

August

Hefting my seven-million-pound tote higher on my shoulder, I raised my hand to knock on the imposing solid wood door of Oliver Hart’s monstrosity of a house. If I had a superpower, it would be making fast friends—and my sister’s new brother-in-law and his kids had been no exception.

What can I say? I’m delightful like that.

Our lives had only collided three months ago, but this ten-thousand-square-foot testament to modern architecture had already become a home away from home for me.

Before I could so much as knock, the door flew open. I staggered back a step, eyes widening as I took in a rather haggard-looking version of the sexiest single dad in the city. It took all my self-control not to laugh at the man who occupied most of my brain space these days.

“Thank you,” he exhaled like I’d just plucked him from a burning building instead of showing up to babysit.

Ollie looked like he’d fallen through an irrigation canal before being hauled out and hung off the back of a truck bed to dry. His normally coiffed black hair was disheveled, his button-up shirt hung open, revealing that spectacular, tattooed chest he liked to parade around at family functions like a walking thirst trap. Only... I was fairly certain there was jam on his hair-dusted six-pack. And what on earth was smeared over the hem of his sleeve?

“Um. Good morning?” I hedged as I stepped into the foyer. Ollie shoved his luscious, shampoo-commercial-worthy hair away from his face, and I tried not to wince at the dark circles under his eyes.

“Another one bites the dust, huh?”

“She’s trying to kill me, I swear to God.”

“ Cruella ?” I asked, snickering when he glanced around in irritation.

The 'she' in question was his terrible, gold-digging, narcissistic ex-wife. But being the chivalrous goodie-goodie he was, Ollie hated when we disparaged her in the kids’ vicinity. I grimaced, wishing my mouth would sometimes let my brain catch up before opening. Wincing, I muttered, “Sorry.”

“Meh,” he grunted, which I took as resigned agreement. Now certain the kids were out of earshot, he shook his head. “I swear, does Carly think this is some kind of game? This is the eleventh nanny in the last twelve months she’s run off. It’s like she enjoys reducing sweet, college-aged girls to tears. Grey is helping me find a permanent solution, but you’re saving my skin.”

Greyson—Grey to his inner circle—Hart was the formidable Titan of Emerald Bay, i.e., my new brother-in-law. He knew everyone, and for God knows what reason, everyone else seemed to fear the asshole. Maybe it was his penchant for taking over companies with the ease of making a sandwich. Maybe it was the whole ex-Navy SEAL thing.

Neither stopped me from frequently reminding him I’d feed him to the nearest pig farm if he hurt my sister.

If I wasn’t one of a litter of siblings, I’d find it peculiar how the two of them shared DNA. Okay—yeah, they had the same olive skin and dark features, but man oh man, I certainly wasn’t about to show up unannounced with pizza and a new vinyl at Greyson’s. Something Ollie seemed to love.

“Y’all will find somebody great. You always land on your feet.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, shoulders slumping in defeat. I was about to ask where the kids were when the pitter-patter of little feet thundered through the living room toward us, and my face split in a grin as Ollie’s four-year-old son, Beau, came sprinting in.

“Did you b’wing it?” he squeaked excitedly.

Swinging my personal Mary Poppins bag off my shoulder, I snagged my camera and dropped it to the floor as he squealed in victory.

Diving in, pudgy arms first, he fished out the superhero masks he always tried to squirrel away. The moment he jammed one on his face, I snapped a photo before he bolted, clutching them in his little hands.

“You’re a saint,” Ollie sighed.

“And don’t you forget it.”

Later that morning, as our Minecraft game reloaded, I asked, “Why does everybody call you Mattie?”

Ollie had sounded so damn stressed when he called last night for last-minute coverage. His uncertainty was a testament to his idiocy, because of course I’d hang out with the kids while he was at work today.

I was the tenth of twelve siblings, though that label was generous—seeing as the eleventh slid into the doctor’s hands precisely ninety seconds after I did.

Being at the tail end of a dirty dozen meant the house was always full. These days, I found my empty Emerald Bay condo unbearably boring. Little Beau’s declarations of war over his toy soldiers and Matilda’s ongoing yammering were infinitely more familiar—and significantly more appealing—than the silence waiting for me at home.

The 'duh' in my response last night had been obvious enough that I hoped he still felt like a moron fourteen hours later. I’d be eating the last of his Girl Scout cookies today as retribution for the absurd hesitation in his tone. Which reminded me?—

“Cookie?” I offered, peeling open a box of those orgasmic caramel coconut ones.

She glared at me—clearly, I was breaking our unspoken mid-video game buffer rules.

“Yeah.”

Or maybe she was insulted I’d even asked.

I smirked, grabbed a short stack, handed her the box, and prompted, “And what about my other question?”

She snapped off a bite before shrugging a little shoulder and tightening her dirty-blonde ponytail. “I dunno. They just always have.”

I scanned over her black Converse, black denim pants, and faded charcoal Guns N’ Roses crop top. Hair bands and monochromatic palettes, save for holiday attire, were the norm for our adorable little grunge girl.

My brothers would nominate her for president the instant they met her.

“I just mean... do you like it?”

“What’s not to like?”

“That wasn’t an answer,” I observed.

She scowled at the loading circle on the screen, obviously willing it to work faster, before glaring down at her remote.

Matilda Hart, heiress to the Hart empire, was ten going on thirty, and I found her absolutely fascinating. Like a baby girl- Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory .

But in my experience, 'Matties' came with bleach-blonde hair, more glitter than coding skills, and inevitable homecoming queen titles after leading the cheer squad.

They weren’t hyper-intelligent ten-year-olds kicking ass in seventh-grade science.

A theory I’d affirmed when I realized she rolled her eyes anytime her family called her 'Mattie.'

“Nobody has ever asked me that before,” she said.

“Still not an answer,” I sing-songed, prying open the box of mint cookies.

With a little huff, she stared contemplatively out the window for a solid four breaths before answering, “I mean. It’s better than Matilda.”

She wrinkled her nose, and I snickered into my hand as I broke off a bite of mint-chocolate wafer.

“I can’t argue with you there. I have no idea what your dad was thinking.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Obviously.”

“No,” she shook her head, ponytail flipping. “ He wasn’t. Carly picked my name. Daddy got Beau’s.”

It wasn’t lost on me that her mother was always 'Carly,' while Ollie got the affectionate 'Daddy.' Couldn’t blame the poor girl.

“So?” I prompted when her little shoulders curled in.

“I mean, not really. But what other nicknames come out of Matilda?”

“May?” I suggested, cackling when her eye roll hit catastrophic proportions. “Milla?”

“Those are as bad as Tilda.”

“I heard Grey call you 'Mads' the other day.”

“Not really better, is it?” she said, pursing her little lips.

I studied her for a moment and popped another cookie in my mouth.

I took my time chewing it over—the name and the cookie—before suggesting, “What about Tillie? Way more rock and roll.”

She was silent, eyes on the loading screen as she savored a bite.

I might not know her that well yet, but the last few months had blessed me with enough time around these incredible kids to recognize when her brain was working overtime.

Finally, she smiled, a bit bewildered, and said, “I kinda like it.”

“We could just try it out for a few days? See what you think?”

“‘Kay. But just us?”

There was so much hope—so much trust—in those three words that my chest swelled.

“Our secret,” I promised, zipping my lips shut.

“Just until I’m sure I like it.”

“You got it... Tillie, ” I said, grinning when she beamed.

I kicked my bare feet up on the coffee table, and at precisely that moment, four-year-old Beau came running over, mad as a hornet, holding out two Lego pieces he couldn’t jam together.

I chuckled, reaching out to show him how to connect them.

* * *

The familiar pangs of impending female devastation worked their way up my spine and around my hips throughout the day. By the time Ollie texted to let me know he was heading home, I was already bracing for a shitty couple of days. No time left to gloat about his pillaged retribution cookies.

It was for that reason alone that when my sister, Alice, showed up to take the kids across the street to her and Greyson’s to swim, I chomped at her offer.

On a scale of pantyliner to crime scene, my periods—when they actually decided to show up—landed firmly in the massacre-of-the-Jedi camp. Except instead of a Sith wreaking havoc, it was my uterus on the warpath.

The sporadic demonic ritual sacrifice was topped off by excruciating cramps—when I was super lucky, migraine headaches—and an ongoing sense of seasickness. It was four or five days of feeling like I’d been drop-kicked off a balcony onto my skull, beaten, and then locked in the wheelhouse in the middle of a tempest.

By the time Preston, one of the Hart’s assistants, dropped me off at home, my farewell smile was more of a grimace. It was getting hard to breathe because the cramps were so intense.

Gathering my sweatpants, I scurried into the bathroom to clean up and prepare for an imminent battle with my defective baby box.

Only once my raspberry leaf tea was brewed, my gallon of water was set on the table, the Ibuprofen located, my ice cream dished, and Gilmore Girls queued on the television, did I finally collapse onto my leather couch, wrap my body in hot pads like a human burrito, and tuck a fuzzy black blanket up to my shoulders.

The familiar theme song had me blowing out a breath as I scooped a tiny gold heart spoon into my chocolate-walnut-fudge dessert.

Everything tastes better on tiny spoons. Don’t ask me why—it’s just a fact.

Two episodes and an entire quart of chocolate later, I jackknifed upright when the front door banged open, hitting pause on my television.

Technically, this place belonged to Alice, and she still had her key despite moving into Greyson’s ridiculous beach estate. I couldn’t complain. Her titan of a suit daddy had paid it off and laughed himself stupid when I demanded to pay rent.

But it wasn’t my sister barging into my space.

Oliver stood there, looking like he’d run his hands through his dark, luscious curls one too many times today. His navy suit was open, a gold tie hanging limply around his neck as he scowled at my pile of shoes before kicking his off to add them to the small mountain.

“There are racks for those,” he grunted.

I rolled my eyes and burrowed deeper into my hot pad burrito.

“Ever heard of knocking?” I demanded. There was no bite to it. I liked Ollie. Probably more than I should, given that our lives were tied together so long as Alice and Greyson were. And if they ever split—yikes—that’d probably be worse. It was for that reason alone that I hadn’t already climbed the man like a tree.

“Ever heard of locking?” he countered, glaring at me this time before hoisting takeout bags up like a flag of surrender.

I was so excited by the Chinese food that I almost didn’t hear what he said. Almost.

Scowling, I said, “I always lock up.” After all, I wasn’t in Mistyvale anymore. Emerald Bay was nestled in SoCal, and I’d witnessed more police presence in my first month here than my entire life back in Alaska.

“Well, then call your landlord, because the thing was open. Oh wait, ” he added pointedly, arching his brows until my face returned to an accusatory glower.

Technically, Hart Investments owned this place, making it as much Ollie’s as Grey and Alice’s.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I asked, lifting my nose like that would somehow help me assess exactly what he’d smuggled over.

Was that beef and broccoli? Definitely some chow mein. My stomach gave a humiliating snarl of approval.

“Well, it’s nice to see you too, Trouble.”

“Very nice to see you—how was work? Good? Good. Kids? Oh, the kids were great. Now, what did you bring me?”

I freed one grabby hand and motioned for him to pass over the goods, unwilling to abandon my hot pads.

“I’m here because I bought you that extra spicy Moo Shu Pork shit nobody with taste buds actually likes as a thank you for saving my ass today, and you were gone before I got home.”

Had befriending Emerald Bay’s most notorious playboy been on my bingo card this year?

Certainly not.

But as he fished boxes out of the flimsy plastic, arranging an impressive display of all our collective favorites over my coffee table, I firmly decided it was worth it.

“Sorry, evidently it’s shark week.”

Confusion furrowed those dark brows as he set the last container on the table.

Oliver Hart was like a living, breathing embodiment of Dionysus—his dark hair always coiffed from the office, except for one stubborn curl that hung down over his expertly exfoliated olive skin, just begging a girl to play with it.

Soulful brown eyes betrayed his happy-go-lucky demeanor and convinced me from day one that he wasn’t the shallow, self-indulgent womanizer the media made him out to be.

The concern pinching his forehead together said as much.

“Shark week?”

“ You know. Aunt Flo. Mother Nature’s blessings have been bestowed. The endless sentence. Hell week. Pick a phrase, it sucks however you slice it.”

“I’m lost.”

I choked on a laugh.

Not every guy grew up with six sisters like mine did, and this was the moment I remembered he wasn’t one of them. “My period hit, rather…unexpectedly.”

“Oof,” he blew out a breath, shifting his weight while trying to look at ease. Which was endlessly entertaining for me. Ollie shirked out of his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, putting his gorgeous vascular forearms on display, before yanking impatiently at his collar until his shirt popped open—just enough for his chest hair to peek out.

Why the fuck did that do something to me?

Maybe it was the memories of the tattoos just one button away—or hormones’ cruel sense of humor that I was easy to rile on my miserable cycle.

Hot and reminiscent of butterflies in my belly, my blood seemed to boil.

Instant karma. This was my punishment for making him squirm discussing menses, wasn’t it?

My mouth dried out as he loaded a plate with all my favorites. For Pete’s sake. Someone explain to me why working tendons are a turn-on.

I’d just forced a swallow, diverting my eyes from Oliver Hart arm porn to the television, when he spoke.

“I never understand why girls say that.”

“Hmm?” I hummed stupidly.

“Unexpected? Isn’t it monthly?”

“You’ll notice that wasn’t an option in my previous vernacular.”

“Twenty-eight days, right? That’s what Carly’s was like.”

Her name hung like a curse word in the air between us.

I rushed to take the offered plate for something to do with my hands other than miming a felony.

“Yeah, not for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have PCOS, so that bitch kinda just shows up whenever the hell she feels like it.”

“What?”

“Poly—you know what, never mind. It’s a hormone disorder. Makes my cycles a form of torture and completely irregular. Some are twenty-eight days, the next will be ninety. No point tracking. I even had ovarian cysts burst when I was in college. That was hell.”

“Ovarian... I’m so glad I’m male.”

I snorted, snatching the chopsticks he held out.

He had no idea.

The incident with the cysts bursting resulted in an emergency surgery due to internal bleeding—they flew me from Mistyvale to Anchorage in the only medical helicopter on the island.

I was a junior in college for that fiasco.

Combined with my extensive medical history, it came with a horrid prognosis.

Permanent birth control, my little brother had said, like it was a perk, when the doctors told me I wouldn’t ever conceive.

He didn’t mean to be a dick—he was just a dopey teenager in the fuck-anything-that-moved stage, and didn’t think about what that prognosis meant to a twenty-year-old woman who’d always wanted a house full of kids.

Not willing to open that can of worms, I just said, “You can say that again.”

“I’m terrified of all this stuff for Mattie.”

“She’ll figure it out. Mine are extra shitty, but I’ve got a protocol now.”

“Can you work?”

“I usually call in sick.”

“And they allow it?”

“ Allow it? ” I scoffed, glaring his way as I hit play on the television. “Not much of a choice when I’m curled in a ball puking from the pain.”

“Well, shit.”

“Yeah.”

I used my chopsticks to spear a spectacularly slippery hunk of mandarin chicken. “Thanks for this.”

“Thanks for saving my ass today,” he countered, twisting a cap off a bottle of beer and handing it to me.

I grinned as he did the same to his own.

As far as brothers-in-law go, Alice could’ve done a hell of a lot worse than Oliver Hart.

“For those two?” I smiled, flashing him a quick wink.

“Anything, anytime.”

With an uncharacteristically sheepish smile, Ollie held out his beer, and we clinked bottles before wordlessly watching at least three more episodes together.

When I woke up, he’d tucked me in before locking up when he left.