Nothing But Friends

Chapter 1

DEXTER

NEW YORK CITY. JULY.

Holly:

Dexter, I need you.

Me:

Hey, Holly. What’s up?

Holly:

I have something important to discuss.

Me:

Shoot.

Holly:

Not over text. Can you stop by after work? Today. Please? It can’t wait.

Me:

Sure, I’ll swing by, but I have a flight later tonight. You good?

Holly:

Yeah. But it’ll be a shocker. Like, a brace-yourself kind of shocker.

I check the time. It’s 6 p.m.

Me:

All right, I’ll be there around 7.

Holly:

Promise you’ll come open-minded.

Me:

What the hell?

Holly:

Just promise.

Me:

I don’t promise shit.

Holly:

Fine. See you at 7.

Iput on my black helmet, fire up the engine, and ease out of the company garage.

Holly and I go back, way back. High school, nights sneaking out, riding around aimlessly, camping on the roof of her mom’s garage, eating peanut butter sandwiches and planning lives that looked nothing like the ones we’ve got now.

All of it. She’s always read me better than anyone, and most of the time, I give it right back.

Not tonight.

Tonight, I don’t know what she wants to talk about, and the not-knowing sits in my chest like a stone.

The traffic cut me a break for once, or I’d still be staring at taillights, sweating through this swampy summer heat.

We’re meeting at her place, right across the hall from mine.

I own the building, and gave her a better rate on the rent.

No need for her to know that. She can more than afford the market rate now, but Holly is independent to the bone, and too stubborn to take help.

If she ever found out, she’d probably have my head.

Her place is quiet when I get there. Not Holly quiet. Too quiet. No music, no off-key singing, not even the buzz of the TV. Just the low hum of the AC filling the space.

She’s not home yet.

I let myself in anyway, done it a hundred times, and I’m met with a hint of wood-and-wax smell lingering in the air.

I still have the key from when I house-sat during her month-long project in Seattle.

Kept meaning to give it back, but Holly told me to keep it.

The lights are on, no shock there. Holly’s the kind of distracted genius who’ll leave toast in the machine and wander off mid-breakfast.

The apartment is pure chaos, enough to make my eye twitch.

She’s got a client’s antique chair completely disassembled in one corner by the balcony.

There’s a paint roller sitting in a tray of latex paint (that looks like the exact shade of her eyes, a deep hazel) which she probably mixed herself, because she’s never satisfied with colors that come pre-made, and I spot at least three different furniture catalogs open to pages she’s bookmarked with sticky notes covered in her illegible scrawl.

I head to the bar, set up the machine, and pull a double espresso. I’m halfway through the first sip when I hear it.

A soft sound. Barely there.

But enough to make every nerve in my body go alert.

“Ah!”

My hand stills on the cup. Wait. Was that a moan?

No fucking way.

“Holly? You home?”

Silence. The freezer kicks in, spits a couple ice cubes. A squeak of the compressor follows. Must have been that.

I shake it off, lift the cup again—

“Ahh!”

Nope. Not the freezer.

This one’s real. Loud. Muffled, but still clear enough to snap every hair on my neck to attention. I set the cup down hard and move, my heart doing something stupid in my chest.

She didn’t answer because she’s hurt. Or worse.

I head past her giant-ass Titanic poster she refuses to take down, straight to her bedroom.

The light’s on, and the door is cracked open.

I push on it.

And walk into a fucking nuclear bomb.

Holly.

Back to me.

Bare skin. Perfect ass.

Bent over, halfway squeezing into a strip of nude fabric that looks three sizes too small.

The top half is bunched around her hips, the rest stretched so tight across her thighs it looks one breath away from snapping.

Her legs are bare, the curve of her ass in full view as she attempts to yank the thing higher.

It seems stuck. She hops, making a desperate sound, somewhere between a grunt and a moan. “Aghhh!!”

Fuck me.

The sound is… misleading. My body sure as hell thinks so.

That’s when the fabric slips and a whole lot of more skin she’d never plan for me to see is exposed. The mirror on her closet door does the rest, flashing me the perfect pink of her—

One blink, and I’m out. She didn’t plan for me to see that, so that’s where the line is.

The door clicks shut behind me.

“Dexter?!” Her voice follows, piercing through the wall.

“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough, lower than I intend.

“You didn’t—”

I recover quickly. “Finish getting ready. I’ll wait.”

For a moment, I stay in the hall, leaning against the wall like I just got hit by a truck and somehow made it out alive, trying to make sense of what I just walked into. It all happened so fast, her trying to wrestle into that thing, and I have no idea why. Must be a woman thing.

Well… that explains the noise.

I shake it off. She’s fine, no harm done.

Not what I expected, but hell, I’ve seen her in worse situations. Just… never from that angle.

Jesus.

It’s Holly. Same woman I’ve known forever.

Still the one who calls me when her toaster doesn’t work or a storm knocks out the electricity, still the one who leaves her sketches and fabric samples all over my office, still the one I meet on our balconies at midnight on Thursdays.

And yet, for a second there, my brain shorted out.

And now, now I’m not sure I can fucking unsee it. The image hit before I was able to force my eyes away.

Time for a drink.

I head back to the bar and take a long pull straight from a Bacardi bottle. Screw the glass.

By the time she comes out, it feels like half an hour’s passed.

She’s in an oversized cream-white sweatshirt, the sleeves half over her hands. Blue jeans, bare feet, hair a little messy from whatever battle just went down in there. Her face, framed by tousled blonde hair, is as red as a beet. “What the hell, Dexter?”

I lift the bottle like a white flag. “Simmer down, Hot Sauce. From the sound of it, I figured I’d be dialing 911.”

Her face flames brighter. “You’re early! I said seven.”

“It is seven. My bad for showing up on time.”

She crosses her arms, sweatshirt pulling tight across her chest, but her eyes flick to the clock, and back to me. My jaw tics. There it is: that quick oh, shoot in her eyes.

“How much did you see?”

I don’t answer. Just tip my head, watching her. “Hey, you said you wanted me to come open-minded.”

“I sure did.” Her tone is dry, but her voice wavers.

“So… is that what you wanted to show me?”

“It is not.”

“All right.”

She storms past me, grabs a glass. “Well, pour me one too, because I need to forget the fact that my best friend just walked in on me…” She flaps a hand toward the bedroom.

“…mid-battle?”

“It’s called shapewear,” she corrects. “You try breathing in that thing. And stop grinning. Start pouring.”

I pour a generous amount, then splash in lime and grenadine, and hand it over.

She downs half before she even hits the sofa. “Not exactly how I pictured this conversation.”

“I bet.” I take a slow sip, letting the burn settle.

She tucks her feet under her, glancing at me over the rim of her glass. “We’re never mentioning it again, right?”

I meet her stare. “Didn’t plan on it.”

She exhales, leaning back, the sweatshirt swallowing her whole. Her eyes glance to mine, just for a second, testing the waters. At some point she levels her gaze on me. “Dexter…” She takes a breath. “I need to ask you something.”

The tone alone tells me I’m off. This isn’t what I’ve been bracing for. It’s worse.

I nod once.

I move to the chair across from her and flip it around. Then I straddle it, chest pressed to the backrest, arms slung over the top. My gut’s tight.

“I’m listening.” I check my watch. “Just know I’ve got a plane to catch. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, so hit me.”

Holly’s face falls. “Shit. I hoped we’d have more time.”

“What’ve you got?”

“You know my younger sister? The one in London?”

“Never heard of her.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I know Shelby. I’ve met Shelby. You never shut up about her.”

“Right.” She winces. “Sorry. Still a little rattled from… Anyway. She and her partner broke up.”

“Shit. Didn’t she move there for him?”

Holly nods and takes another sip of rum. “Yep. Sold everything, packed up, started over. He promised her the world, then said three kids were three too many.”

My teeth clench. “Fucking coward.”

“Anyway… he’s gone. Moved out last week.”

I wait. There’s more, I can see it on her face.

“She asked me to come live with her.”

There it is.

I stay quiet. Part of me isn’t surprised. She’s always wanted to be closer to her sister.

Both of them were born in the UK, raised here by their American mom after their dad bailed.

They’ve got dual citizenship, spent summers in London with their grandparents growing up.

It’s in her blood. And with work pulling her in every direction, she hasn’t seen Shelby much since her sister moved back. I know that’s been eating at her.

Still.

“For how long?” I ask.

“A few years, at least.”

I don’t say anything. Fucking can’t.

“You know Shelby and I always wanted to open our own private kindergarten. Take care of kids together—including our own.”

I nod. I’ve heard this dream a hundred times.

Holly’s always had a soft spot for kids.

Hell, half the design projects she takes on are play corners, shelves that won’t topple, or toys a toddler can’t break no matter how hard they try.

Not catalogue pieces. Custom, clever solutions that parents are more than willing to pay for.

She shrugs it off as interior design. Truth is, the industrial design master’s degree tucked behind it all puts her on another level.

Her ideas don’t just look good, they work.

Even I can see it, and I don’t know jack about parenting.

“We made a promise,” she says quietly, “that one day, we’d make it happen. Shelby’s got the teaching background, and I finally have the money to help make it real. Business has been good.”

I exhale. “So I get benched for toddlers, glitter glue, and apple slices?”

She shakes her head and takes another sip. “Nobody’s benching you, Mr. Cranky. It’s a few time zones, not exile. You’ll cope. Maybe even color outside the lines for once. Be spontaneous!”

“Spontaneity,” I scoff. “That’s a fancy word for chaos and recklessness, Miss Whirlwind.”

Her smirk fades. “You’re acting like I’m on a plane tomorrow. I’m not leaving just yet.” She turns the glass slowly in her hands, and I can see her steadying herself. She looks like she’s about to step off a ledge. “There’s… another project I want to work on… first.”

I lean back, checking my watch. “The kindergarten’s not the first project?”

“No.” She pauses, and looks me dead in the eye. The fire I’m used to isn’t there, just nerves, strung tight. “It’s something else. Something I was hoping… you’d help me with.”

My answer is automatic. “Of course.” I shrug. “Anything.”

She knocks back the last of her drink, and the way she does it tells me there’s another punch on the way. Still, nothing could hit harder than hearing she’s moving.

I lean in slightly, on edge, bracing for whatever the hell she’s about to lay on me.

“So, what do you want from me?” I push when she stays quiet.

“A baby.”

The word knocks the air from my chest. And—my brain flatlines.

For a second, I think I misheard. “You’re gonna have to say that again.”

She doesn’t flinch, just sets her glass down. “I want a baby, Dexter. And I want you to be the father.”

I hold her gaze, even as my pulse hammers and the ground is shifting inside me.

Because this?

This wasn’t even on the radar.

I’ve never pictured myself as a dad. And I’ve never—not once—pictured Holly as the woman I’d start a family with.

This is like taking a bat to the back of the skull.

And it’s a first, I don’t have a ready answer.