9. 9
“I
should go,” Lane says after downing the last two sips of her cola.
And while I’m not Levi, I’m not the overprotective type, I’m not unprotective either. Something inside of me won’t let her leave yet. Just in case. “Here’s my number.” I grab a sketch I started last week sitting on my kitchen counter and rip off the corner—I’m redoing it anyway. I sit back beside her and scribble down my number, holding it out to her. “Just in case you need anything.”
She tilts her head. “And now you want my number? Right? Just in case you need anything?” Her brows lift.
I guess I can’t blame her for being skeptical in her line of work. But I don’t want it. I won’t need it. I’ll be fine. I shake my head. “I don’t need your number. I just want to help—if you need it.” I lift one shoulder. “Call me from a payphone if you want. This isn’t a scam to get your number.”
“Nice guy,” she says, meshing her lips together. “You know payphones don’t exist anymore, right?”
I breathe out a chuckle. “Fine. Call me from the sandwich shop next door. Or don’t call at all. It’s up to you. It seems like you’re alone. Like maybe you could use a friend. And if you need—”
“Got it.” She swallows and takes the slip from my hand. Her fingers brush mine, and maybe it’s been a while since I’ve really looked at a woman because my hand lights up like the Fourth of July. Her steel blue eyes lock onto mine and refuse to let me go. “If I need a friend, I’ll call.”
I’m just trying to help—and yet I’m sweating more giving this girl my number than when I helped build Walt’s wheelchair ramp at the new group home. She’s a workout, no doubt about it.
Lane stands up from my couch and runs her hands down the thighs of her denim pants. I follow her up, certain the air will be cooler up here.
“Thanks for the drink,” she says, holding out her downed glass of Coke.
She gives me a small side eye before pulling off her hat, then stuffing her long, thick hair up into it and forcing the thing back onto her head. I walk her through the studio and to the top of the stairs.
She slips her dark glasses onto her face and peers up at me, though her eyes are hidden. “Bye, Miles. Thanks for being a decent man.”
I pinch my lips together. “Bye, Lane.”
She trots down three of the stairs before pausing, turning back, and sliding her glasses to the tip of her nose to see me better. “You knew?”
I stuff my hands into my pockets and gulp down the knot in my throat. I know exactly what she’s asking. “Yeah.”
Her brows pinch together, but she doesn’t say anything else. She pushes her glasses back in place and skips down to the gallery door.
The air smells as if we’ve entered an Italian bistro. Mom stands at her stove, stirring a white sauce in her oversized pot. I’m not complaining. I love it when my mother cooks.
“Miles, will you get the bread out of the oven, honey?”
“Sure.” I may be thoroughly distracted, but I can pretend I’m not. I reach around her, hot pads in hand, and pull Mom’s homemade bread from the oven. I set the loaf pan on the counter and turn back to my phone. Yep, I’m reading the latest Google has to offer me on Lane Jonas.
“Miles! The counter!”
I reach for the pan—that’s currently leaving a mark on my mother’s Formica countertop—without a hot pad. It only takes a second for my fingers to fry. I drop the loaf pan into the empty sink, bread side down. Crap.
“Miles.” Mom moans. “Honey. Are you okay? You are distracted today. What’s up?” Setting her spoon to the side, Mom snags the pot holders I didn’t bother with and pulls her bread upright.
What’s up? Oh, I don’t know, I just entertained a rock star in my loft for half an hour. We had Coke and MMs and talked about how I’m stupidly decent and suck at skating. That’s all.
With one hand on her hip, she studies the mess I’ve made. “It’s just a little wet. It’ll be fine. Hand me that knife and I’ll trim the top off.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Is everything okay?” She takes the knife from my hand and saws off a skiff of her golden-brown bread.
“Yeah. Same ol’ stuff.” I run a hand through my hair, looking at her bread that now has a flat top. “I must be tired.” I pull in a breath, keeping my lips shut on the Lane subject. Yep, nothing to tell here.
“It’s Lars, isn’t it? He won’t budge. I knew it. That man is rotten.”
“He isn’t rotten. He’s just… selfish.”
“That sounds rotten to me.” Mom huffs, sliding one arm around my back. “You’re doing good things, son. Just keep doing them.”
“He is doing good things. He’d be doing even better things if he’d ever take my advice!” My sister shuffles in with baby Lula in one arm, a diaper bag over her shoulder, and a big bowl of something in her other arm. “I mean, I’m older and therefore wiser and—”
“Not that old,” Jude says from behind my sister. My sister’s husband ducks through the doorway with his daughter Alice on his back and two bags of green salad in each hand.
“Still wiser,” Coco insists.
“Of course,” Jude says, setting the bags of greens on the counter and kissing her cheek.
“And I had the perfect girl for him!” Coco tells Mom, then hands the bowl in her grasp off to Jude.
As if they were waiting for their cue, more of my family files into the kitchen. Levi, Meredith, and just behind them, Owen with my new sister, Annie.
“Nope. You shouldn’t be allowed to fix up anyone else in this family,” Levi mutters.
“Ah,” says Owen, “I’m gonna have to second that.”
“Owen.” Coco gasps, clearly offended. “I helped you get Annie!”
“Yeah, but after you set her up with Levi and helped her find me a bunch of pretty terrible blind dates.”
“Will you never get over that?” Annie asks. She’d been more of the coordinator on all those setups than even Coco.
Owen wraps an arm over his new wife’s shoulder. “I am over it. I’m just pointing out that Coco doesn’t have the greatest track record.”
“Well, that’s not very nice. My track record is just fine. I knew Annie was right for you, and I knew Meredith was right for Levi.” She nuzzles Lula’s cheek, but my almost one-year-old niece wiggles until her mother sets her on the ground.
“Any more steps?” Mom asks, glancing from the baby to my sister.
“Not yet. But Mom is coming for her birthday, and I’m hoping she can wait for Grandma Heidi.”
Grandma Heidi—Coco”s other mom. Because my sister was adopted as a baby, we”ve only reconnected with her these past three years. Heidi is her adopted mom. It”s not nearly as confusing as it sounds—only sometimes, when she talks about her other mother. It’s easy to forget that Coco didn’t grow up with us because it feels as if she’s always been ours.
“That would be perfect,” Mom says, picking up Lula and giving her a snuggle before setting the wiggly girl back on the floor. My mother is one of those angelic souls who holds no jealous feelings or animosity. She’s full of love and light and thanks. And that’s all she has for the woman who raised my sister.
“I think Miles should allow Coco to set him up,” Annie says, looping her arm through Owen’s.
Levi scoffs. “You do?”
“Yes, and I am the family advice columnist.”
“No need to remind us,” Levi says. Though he likes to tease her, he and Annie are friends—now.
“It’s like a Bailey family tradition. A rite of passage. You wanna be a Bailey? You’ve got to let Coco work her magic.” Annie grins, clearly trying not to chuckle. “Really, it’s only fair of Miles to let his sister do a little matchmaking.”
Meredith looks up from her crouched spot next to baby Lula, who is trying to crawl over her and into the living room. “I agree. That sounds like a fun tradition.”
Blinking, I scoop up my little niece. “Not fun.” I narrow my gaze at Coco, who beams as if she’s won the race. Coco for matchmaking president. Nope, I’m not voting for her. “Not happening,” I say.
“Come on, Miles.” Coco moans. “Coop is the only Bailey man who ever attempts to find himself a date. If I don’t help you, who will? You’re all hopeless.”
“Hopeless?” Levi says with a short growl. “Engaged.” He points to himself.
Owen raises one hand. “Married,” he says with a pleased nod.
“Granddaughter!” Alice belts from her father’s back. She slips down to the ground. “Shirley Aldred says that her dad is her grandma’s favorite because he is the only one to give her any grandchildren. And that makes perfectly good sense to me.”
“Right!” Coco holds out a palm, high-fiving her stepdaughter. “So, we’re the favorites!”
“I do not have favorites,” Mom says, that rare, exasperated tone rearing its head. “Except… my grandchildren are my favorite.” She holds a hand out to Alice and they disappear down the hall and into the dining room.
“We weren’t arguing about favorites,” Annie says. “Did you all forget? Coco was pointing out that the Bailey men are fairly hopeless when it comes to women.” She lifts one shoulder. “And she isn’t wrong. It needs to be stated.”
“Hey.” Owen’s brows pinches. “Married.”
“Yes, but it took you fourteen years to ask me out.”
Meredith nods. “And”—she looks accusatory at Levi—“you denied your feelings for weeks. Coco might be right.”
“I’m always right,” my sister says, her eyes on me. “So, Miles—”
“Sorry. Not this time.”