Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
MATT
I can’t feel my goddamn hands.
I’ve never been this nervous in my entire life. Not before a massive presentation. Not before my first real estate deal. Not even before the first time I slid a condom on.
My fingers tap against my thigh, fast and erratic. It’s annoying as hell. Jerry leans over and tells me to relax, says some other shit too, but I don’t think I process a single word. Not because he was unclear, but because I’m losing my fucking mind.
The courtroom is quiet. Too quiet.
Jerry sits back in his chair, calm and cool. The judge flips through her papers, expression unreadable. Cece’s on the other side of the room with her lawyer, her resting-bitch face holding strong.
We’re all just sitting here…
Waiting for the judge to decide who gets temporary guardianship.
I reach for my bottle of water and take a sip, trying to swallow down the reality that I am so royally fucked. I’ve been a complete mess since I walked out of Jerry’s office two days ago.
What the hell was I thinking?
Forty-eight hours ago, I was just… me.
Now my attorney just told a judge I’m in the process of establishing a two-adult household.
Which is a very professional way of saying: Matthew Grayson is basically engaged.
Jesus Christ.
And my soon to be fiancée?
She doesn’t know a damn thing.
I rub my thumb across my jaw, stroking the scruff on my chin, contemplating my next move.
I’m so hyper-focused on this fake life I just invented, I can’t even let myself think about the fact that Cece’s probably seconds away from getting temporary custody of Cole.
Because if I let my thoughts go there—I’ll fucking cry.
No thank you.
I’d rather drown in the absurdity of this fucking fairytale I’ve conjured up for myself.
Guess I should start thinking about how to propose.
A dry, humorless laugh slips out.
Christ, I’m unhinged. I’m one intrusive thought away from full Joker-level cackling.
Holy fuck.
What have I done?
And did I just commit perjury?
I told my lawyer a blatant lie. And he just relayed it to the judge.
Jerry shoots me a sideways look but says nothing. I clear my throat, gripping my water bottle like it might keep me from passing out.
Seconds tick by, and my brain’s doing Olympic-level gymnastics, trying to figure out how I’m going to get myself out of this, or somehow make it a reality.
Oh, shit. What if Jordan actually agreed to this?
Would she?
She loves Cole. And it’s not like she hates me.
Who the fuck am I kidding? She won’t even go to dinner with me. Like hell is she going to agree to marry me so I can maybe get custody of Cole.
The judge clears her throat softly, eyes lifting from the stack of papers. “Alright. I’m ready with my decision.”
My spine goes rigid.
“Mr. Grayson,” she says, then glances at Cece, “Mrs. Henderson. Thank you for your patience. The Court has reviewed the petition, the filings, and the information presented. Given the urgency of the situation and the need for immediate care, the Court finds it appropriate to appoint a temporary guardian.”
Shit. Here it comes.
“Temporary guardianship of the minor child, Cole Cranshaw, is hereby granted to the grandmother, Mrs. Henderson.”
My stomach drops straight to the floor, my throat drying so fast I can barely swallow. Fuck.
I knew this was the most likely outcome. I did. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt any less. My chest still tears open when she says it.
“Additionally,” the judge continues, “the Court will appoint a guardian ad litem to represent the best interests of the minor child pending the final hearing…”
She keeps talking, but I can’t hear any of it. It’s too hard. Stability? Best interests? It all blends together into meaningless noise.
I make the mistake of glancing at Cece, who’s smiling smugly and practically glowing like she’s God’s favorite.
Jerry stands. Thank Christ, someone in this room is still coherent.
“Your Honor,” he says, smooth and respectful, “my client requests court-ordered visitation so that he may continue to be a stable, supportive presence during this transition.”
The judge nods. “What is your request?”
“Unsupervised visitation every other weekend,” Jerry says. “Beginning Friday at five p.m. and concluding Sunday at five p.m., continuing until the final hearing on December fifth.”
The judge turns to Cece’s attorney. “Any objection?”
Cece’s lawyer stands. “Your Honor, we request supervised visitation pending the final hearing, given the instability presented.”
My fists clench tight.
Supervised?
Fuck that. Like I’m some reckless asshole who can’t be trusted alone with him.
Jerry doesn’t hesitate. “There is no evidence warranting supervised contact. My client has been a consistent and supportive presence in the child’s life. The minor is comfortable in his care.”
I suck in a sharp breath and hold it.
The judge presses her lips together, eyes moving between both parties. It’s the longest five seconds of my life.
“Very well,” she says finally. “The Court will authorize unsupervised visitation under those terms.”
A long, shaky breath escapes me.
Every other weekend?
That’s it?
I get to see Cole a grand total of six times over the next three months, all while Cece gets him every goddamn day? She gets to be there for him. For everything. Meanwhile, I’ll be trying to woo my ex-girlfriend. Convince her to marry me.
Perfect.
Just… perfect.
Court adjourns, and I’m on my feet faster than I can even think.
“I need a minute,” I mutter to Jerry, already beelining it for the hall.
I need air.
Right fucking now.
The work on my computer stares back at me.
I’ve been trying to get through the same document for over an hour, but it’s useless.
I can’t focus. I’m swamped, too. Work’s piling up.
I’ve only been back to New York two days since Nate died, and while I can technically work from anywhere, I didn’t plan for this.
This isn’t a business trip. And this Switzerland deal is demanding more than I’m capable of giving right now.
I lean back, lace my hands behind my head, and stare at the ceiling.
Everything is so fucked.
I hate this feeling, like I’m wallowing. I’m not a wallower.
I click into my email. Maybe switching gears will help.
Nope. Absolutely fucking not.
More deals. More signatures. Three execs asking where I am.
I shut my laptop. Hard.
My chest is too tight. My head’s too full. And every time I try to think about the hearing, all I see is Cole’s face when he asked, When do I get to come home with you?
When I hear that voice in my head, everything slips.
I spiral.
And I don’t do well without control.
I’m an executive. I own multiple multimillion-dollar companies. I have power. I make the decisions. People listen to me. Not the other way around.
But right now? I have no fucking control.
The family court system couldn’t give two shits about me. I can’t do anything except play nice and do what I’m told.
Oh yeah… and get married.
I let out a sound that’s something between a laugh and a scoff.
Jordan gets in tomorrow for the funeral. She’s staying here.
With me.
She tried to get a hotel close by. I shut that down immediately. She knew I would. She does this thing where she pretends she wants one option so I can tell her how stupid it is, rather than just asking for what she wants in the first place.
She’s never been good at that. Never been good at letting herself be happy. She’s too busy trying to please everyone else.
Probably why she hasn’t had sex since Richard.
I should sabotage the spare room. Force her to stay in mine.
A grin pulls at my mouth.
It’s been years since Jordan stayed here in Chicago with me.
The last time was for a holiday dinner with my executive team here. She came as my date… and later as my fuck buddy.
Pun intended.
My phone dings.
Jordan
My flight gets in at 4:10 tomorrow. I’ll grab an Uber and be to you a little before 5?
There she goes again. I shake my head.
You don’t need to Uber. I’ll pick you up.
Jordan
You sure?
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. Women.
No—just Jordan.
I’m sure. Btw the toilet in the spare bathroom is clogged. You might just want to set up camp in my room.
Jordan
Shit. Are you serious?
I chuckle.
I’m trying not to take offense. But didn’t you just say you were looking for opportunities to have sex? #DoorJustOpened.
Jordan
You’re so full of shit. You think I don’t know you? Toilet’s fine. See you tomorrow. #DoorClosed
I slide my phone onto the desk and let out a low, helpless laugh. “Fuck.”
I lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees, and plant my face in my hands.
Tomorrow she’ll be here. In my space. And somehow, I have to figure out how the hell to open the door she just slammed shut.
Because there’s a twelve-year-old boy who still needs me. And there’s nothing I won’t do to give him everything he deserves, and more.
I navigate to Terminal Five at O’Hare. The traffic’s not too bad, pretty light for a weekend.
A moment later, I spot Jordan at 5B with a full-size suitcase.
No surprise there. She’s never been one to pack light, even if it’s only for one night.
She needs five outfit options for every occasion, including what she’ll hang out in at the house and sleep in.
And then, of course, she packs her entire bathroom.
It’s ridiculous, and even though it’s always been a pain in my ass when we’ve traveled internationally together, I’ve never complained.
She’s feminine. She takes pride in being a girl, classy and beautiful. And just when you think she’s too prissy, she shows up in the bedroom fully loaded with the sexiest lingerie, toys, and an arsenal of moves designed for destruction in the best fucking way.
Jordan smiles and waves when she sees me, and damn, my heart does something unexpected. She looks good.
A dress? Why in God’s name is she wearing a dress? It’s casual—sporty, even—not her usual style. But it’s short. And hot.
My cock jerks in response, like I need the reminder that Jordan’s fucking gorgeous.
I don’t.
I hop out of the car and meet her at the curb with a grin. “Hey, babe.”
“Hiiiiii.” She drags it out, equal parts nice to see you and I’m sorry your life’s shit right now.
She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes, pressing her body flush against mine. Something she’s done a thousand times before. Something I’ve done to hundreds of women. But right now? I’m hyper-aware of every inch of her touching me, and silently begging my cock to behave.
She’ll give me shit all weekend if she knows I’m getting hard from this.
She pulls back, one hand resting on my chest, eyes locked on mine. “How you doing?”
I shrug. “As good as I can be, I guess. Here—let me get this.” I reach for her luggage. “How was your flight?”
She walks with me to the trunk. “Fine. I worked most of the time. It went by fast.”
“That’s good.”
I lift her suitcase. It’s easily pushing the fifty-pound limit, and I laugh to myself. I bet she has five pairs of shoes in here. Minimum.
She cocks a brow as I load it into the trunk. “No comment about the size of my bag?”
I chuckle. “No need, babe. You clearly already know what I’m thinking.”
She holds my gaze for a beat, lips curving into a grin, then turns and opens the passenger door without another word.
I settle into the driver’s seat. Jordan’s already messing with all the settings in my car: air turned down, vents shifted away from her, volume lowered.
The kicker? She grabs my phone, enters my password and opens Spotify, where she’ll proceed to play the most boring fucking music known to man, and it will take everything in me to not say something for the next forty minutes.
I really need to change my password.
She lets out a heavy sigh and crosses her legs. “So, what are we doing for dinner?”
“Dinner?” I lift a brow, stealing a quick glance. “I thought we didn’t do that. Thought it was against the”—I make air quotes—“rules.”
Damn. This is going to be fun.
She stares at me, unimpressed. “Cute.”
I grin. I live for this. Banter with Jordan is my favorite pastime.
“C’mon,” she says. “I know you made reservations. You’ve practically been begging to take me to dinner for months now. So instead of making me guess, why don’t you just tell me where we’re going?”
A low chuckle slips out. “Fine. We have reservations at a new steakhouse at seven. Don’t worry, they have fantastic rabbit food.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Great. What’s it called so I can pull up the menu?”
“Prime Steakhouse.”
I still remember the day she decided to become a vegetarian. Tragic. Like a death in the family.
Oh, fuck. Terrible timing for that thought.
My throat burns as the realization hits me all at once—why she’s really here.
The funeral.
Cole.
Jesus. What’s wrong with me?
She’s here to be my friend. To comfort me. To be there for me, and for Cole.
But unfortunately for both of us, I’m a dumbass, and I need her to be so much more.
My pulse stutters. Shit. I have to tell her what I did.
Tonight.
Nerves race through me, every pulse point pounding hard against my skin, making me acutely aware of just how fucked this situation is. Of what I’m asking of her.
A deep, melodic voice carries through the speakers. It’s smooth. Perfect. And it low-key grates. Too calm. Too polished and proper for the chaos buzzing through my veins.
Jordan scrolls and taps at her phone, shifting in her seat, uncrossing her legs before crossing them the other way. Her dress rides up just a hair, revealing more of her smooth, tanned skin.
Christ.
I’m absolutely fucked.
On so many levels.