21. Ian
I stared into the refrigerator,not sure what I was looking for.
Answers, maybe? A time machine?
A time machine would be fan-fucking-tastic. All I needed was to go back a few months. Stay away from the Four Seasons. Just get on the bus with the rest of the boys after the Philadelphia gig and head on home.
Had I done that, I wouldn’t be holed up here in Savannah trying to figure out what I should do with my life over the next eighteen years. And while I pondered the big things, I’d begun reading about the little ones—or little one. According to the pregnancy book for men that Maylene snuck into my suitcase, my little one was currently between size of a banana and a carrot. I knew what each was, of course, but in regard to the size of a baby, I was clueless.
Not as clueless as when I’d read that the week I’d first learned I was going to be a father—when Madison was thirteen weeks pregnant—my baby was the size of a satsuma. Because…what the fuck was a satsuma?
And why were babies compared to fruit and vegetables?
I grabbed a beer and headed down to the family room where I could sink into an overstuffed couch and put my feet on the coffee table without worrying that I’d damage one of the antiques that filled the upper levels of my historic home.
I picked up the pregnancy book, although I wasn’t sure why I was reading it. Curiosity, maybe? Boredom? It was still my kid, even if I never got to know it. Regardless of what I decided, I had a feeling my parents and sisters, especially my mother and Maylene, would make it their business to know and love that baby.
Didn’t give me much wiggle room, did it?
As I read, I skimmed the part about family planning. No planning was involved. Nothing but my super-strong swimmers and a defective condom. I skipped the parts on healthy eating pre-pregnancy, as well as giving up cigarettes and alcohol and managing stress.
When I got to the part where the author talked about engaging in regular sexual activity, I groaned. Between this pregnancy stress and my concussion, I hadn’t been exactly regular in that department. And after having the baby bomb dropped on me, I was a little skittish about getting back on the horse, so to speak.
I’d just skipped the chapter on being a supportive partner, since we weren’t partners, when the doorbell rang. I grabbed my beer and my book and was heading upstairs when it rang a second and a third time.
“I’m coming,” I yelled. Jesus. The house was more than eight-thousand square feet. It’s not like I was sitting in the foyer waiting for the doorbell to ring.
It rang again as I was about to open it, and I expected to find Zac or Barrett standing there ready to fuck with me.
“What the fuck, dude?” I yanked the door open to find that the dude standing there wasn’t a dude at all. Instead, she was a five-foot nothing with shoulder-length blonde hair, ice blue eyes, and what looked to be the equivalent of a mango tucked under her sleeveless white dress.
The whole fruit thing suddenly made sense.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, surprised to see her and a little miffed that nobody warned me she was coming.
Scowling, she said, “Oh good, you’re also a gentleman I see.”
“Sorry,” I muttered, picturing my mother kicking my ass for being rude. I held the door open wider and took a step back. “Want to come in?”
Madison glared up at me. “No. I flew all the way to Savannah just to play ding dong ditch, but you caught me before I could run away after only ringing the bell four times.”
Seriously, the sarcasm was strong with this one.
She pushed past me into the house and froze as she took in the jade green wallpaper patterned with birds in a floral trellis, the oriental rugs lining the hall, and the nineteenth century library table, settee, and large glass-fronted cabinet that outfitted the foyer. Her jaw dropped. I took in the space as well, proud of the period home I’d created over the past few years with the help of several of Savannah’s top interior designers, only some of whom I’d slept with.
I smirked as I waited for the compliments.
Instead, Madison blinked up at me. “You live with your grandmother?”
“What? No! Why the hell would you think that?”
She stepped deeper into the house and took in the front parlor and the second parlor that was adjacent to the first and snickered. “A museum then?”
I took a defensive pose. “This is my home, yes. I live here. I’m also very proud of it.”
Stepping into the first parlor, she worked her way around the matching love seats. She ran her fingers across the top of the marble fireplace and studied the painted screen atop the mantel.
She looked at me over her shoulder. “What do you charge for admission?” She strolled into the second parlor. “I’m thinking you could make some serious bank luring in tourists who come to see the Mercer house near the square. If the rest of the house is anything like your front rooms, it’s even more ornate than that place.”
She continued poking around. Picking up a bowl or vase, then setting it back in place, she made her way into the dining room. I followed behind, annoyed that I felt as if I needed to make excuses for my home and how I lived. It had taken me years to curate this place. It was a showpiece. I knew that. Did I hold parties here and entertain? Not really. Other than my bedroom, but that was different. None of the women I “entertained” were putting their feet on the furniture or leaving rings on my tabletops. And they were never encouraged to stay too long.
Madison stood in front of the eighteenth-century oriental screen in the dining room, rested a hand on her ma belly, and frowned.
“Is there somewhere comfortable we can sit and talk. I’ve been on a plane for three hours and my back hurts. I should’ve gone straight to the hotel and checked in, maybe lay down for a bit, but I wanted to get this over with.”
It was insulting to be referred to as something to be gotten over with. Instead of making it a thing, I stepped up, surprising myself as the words slipped out before I could think much about them.
“You can lie down upstairs if you’d like.” The book I’d been reading must have had an impact on my mouth if nothing else. An image of my mother smiling at me popped into my head. What the ever-loving fuck?
Her lips parted slightly. “Are you serious right now?”
Was that snark or shock? It was hard to tell.
Instead of answering, I shrugged.
“Last time I saw you, you were threatening me and accusing me of lying.”
“I’m pretty sure I never threatened you,” I insisted. “And it’s not uncommon for hookups to fake a pregnancy to get with someone like me. I’m not looking to be someone’s meal ticket for the next eighteen years or being some rando’s baby daddy.”
Those ice-blue eyes flared. “Don’t you dare refer to me as a rando, you misogynistic dullard. I know what kind of women you sleep with, and I’m not one of them.”
I pointed at the mango under her dress. “Um…yes, sweetheart, you are.”
Her little hands balled into fists as she stomped her stiletto-shod foot against my heart pine floor, and I shivered. I held up my hands in supplication before she could do it again and nick the finish.
“Sorry. You’re right. You’re not the typical type of girl I sleep with.”
That line didn’t seem to make her any happier.
I apologized again. “That wasn’t an insult. It’s just that you’re different.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not in a bad way. Jeez. Cut me some slack, will ya? I’m trying here.”
Her lips remained pursed but her shoulders relaxed slightly.
“Let’s start again, okay. Hey, Madison. Nice to see you. How are you feeling? Can I get you something to drink?”
She remained planted where she was, watching like she wasn’t quite sure what to make of me.
“I have water and orange juice. I have some sweet tea, but you’re not supposed to have caffeine, right? I have beer and wine too, but you can’t have that either. I can look in the pantry for decaf tea. I have no idea what my housekeeper stocks in there, but I can check if you want some hot tea.” I brightened. “I might have some chamomile or herbal tea though. She keeps that around for when my throat’s bothering me. Let me check.”
I was ready to bolt into the kitchen to look for the tea and to get out of this uncomfortable conversation.
“Ian, wait. A little orange juice would be fine. Thank you.”
“Good call. You need the folic acid.”
Her face screwed up again, and I wondered what I’d said wrong that time.
She followed me into the kitchen and climbed onto one of the cushy upholstered stools at the island. I poured her some juice and set the glass on the runner that ran the length of the center island. To settle the nerves I’d developed since this woman stepped into my home, I grabbed myself another beer, and popped the top while she sipped on her juice.
I leaned against the counter across from her and waited. She was the one who’d shown up at my house, so it was only right that she begin whatever conversation she wanted to have. As for me, my thoughts were all over the place. Seeing her here, in my home, looking totally out of place and uncomfortable had been a shock. Seeing that baby bump also did something to me. Stirred up caveman impulses; like she was mine since she was carrying my kid. I squeezed the back of my neck. Hard. Trying to calm the random thoughts and keep from declaring myself her protector or some shit like that.
What the hell is happening here?
She’s just some stranger I knocked up by mistake. Why the hell should I feel anything for her?
My brain and my gut were having a full-on war about feelings versus reality.
“Ian!”
My eyes jerked up from the image of a leaf on the runner that I’d been staring at. “What?”
“I was speaking to you and you just zoned out.” Her eyes narrowed again. “Are you drunk?”
I looked at the still full bottle in my hand and immediately set it down. “No. This is only my second beer.”
The way her eyes assessed me, I wasn’t sure if she believed me, but she continued.
“I was saying, if you’re serious about me lying down for a bit, I’ll take you up on it. Flying seems to have taken the air out of me and my back is killing me. She ran a hand over her bump. I followed the motion with my eyes, pushing down the urge to run my hand over it as well. She’d probably deck me if I tried to touch her.
“Yeah, of course. Are you okay with doing the stairs?”
The look was back—the one where I assumed she was silently calling me an idiot.
“I’m pregnant, Ian, not infirm.” She let out a loud sigh. “I can do stairs.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind, I have an elevator.”
“Of course you do.” She frowned. “For your grandmother.”
Snark and sarcasm. Got it. I motioned for her to follow me back into the foyer and led her up to the third floor where my room and one of the five guest rooms were located. I was headed for the guest room, but at the last second, I veered into my room.
“The mattress in here is the most comfortable.”
Madison stood in the doorway, her mouth agape, taking in the master bedroom. I was used to it, but maybe to her, it was a bit much. The mahogany rice-carved, king-size, four-poster bed outfitted in Porthault linens, the Victorian wallcoverings, the floor-to-ceiling damask draperies, the mahogany case pieces, and the antique tapestry hanging over the original carved fireplace mantel. It didn’t matter if she didn’t like it or thought my home looked like my Meemaw’s. It didn’t. Meemaw and Pawpaw lived in a big old farmhouse back in Ashwood. In fact, whenever she was here she complained about how much dust I must be collecting with “all them gewgaws.”
Madison gaped at me. “Seriously. Who lives here?”
Frowning, I stalked over to the bed and gathered the decorative pillows and pillow shams and stashed them in the closet. Then I pulled down the coverlet on the right side of the bed. I slept on the left side. Not that I’d be climbing into bed with her, but it just seemed like the natural thing to do.
“I told you,” I grumped. “This is my house. I live here. Alone. I like nice things. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No…” She considered my statement. “I like nice things too. But all this…” She waved her arm, encompassing the master bedroom, the adjoining sitting room, and the adjacent bathroom. “This is a lot to take in, Ian.” She planted her hands on her hips. “This is not the bedroom of country music’s answer to Hugh Hefner.”
I couldn’t help it—I snorted. She wandered over to the bed, sat down, and slipped off a pair of red-soled heels that made my dick twitch. Down, boy. Been there, done that. Paying the piper.
“I hate to disillusion you, but yes, this is my bedroom. My house. My things.”
With a yawn, she slipped between the covers. “Oh, that feels good.” She ran a hand over the sheet and sighed. “Porthault?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Now that I can appreciate.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
Her smile appeared genuine for the first time since we’d met. “I’m sorry.” She yawned again. “I don’t mean to be judgmental. Your home is beautiful, Ian. It’s just…unexpected.” Her eyelids drooped as she snuggled under the covers.
“Don’t worry about it. We can’t all have excellent taste.”
Those droopy lids of hers flew open, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “You had that coming.”
“Maybe.” She smirked. “I just can’t picture you bringing girls in here without them thinking the same thing.” She wrestled her eyes open. “It’s not exactly what I’d call a sex room.”
I laughed. I couldn’t see the point in telling her that I never brought women into my bedroom. My house, yes. But my bedroom. Nope. It was too private. My “guests,” so to speak, were relegated to a guest room on the fourth floor. I was seriously considering relocating my “sex room,” as she called it, to the pool house out back That way, I could bring them in through the back gate and never have to “entertain” in my actual home.
“It’s not,” I answered. “It’s my personal space.”
Her eyes drifted shut. “It’s a bit much, but this bed and these sheets are heaven.” She shimmied deeper under the covers. “I won’t be long.” Yawn. “Just a little cat nap.”
“Sleep as long as you’d like. I’ll be downstairs if you need me. Just holler.”
“There’ll be no hollering, Ian. I don’t holler.”
Her eyes were closed, so she couldn’t see that I rolled mine. “Got it. No hollering.”
When she didn’t respond, I stepped away from the bed. I turned when I got to the door. Her blonde hair fanned out on the pillow. I listened to her soft, quiet breaths that told me she’d already drifted off, or if she hadn’t, she was about to. This was the first time I had a woman in my room. In my bed.
Strange, but I didn’t exactly hate it.