Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Jenna
Something is poking my side.
Repeatedly.
I try to burrow deeper into unfamiliar sheets, but the poking continues—small, insistent fingertips that won’t stop because of my groans of protest. I crack open one eye to find Livy’s face inches from mine, her blue eyes—her father’s eyes—wide and solemn in the morning light filtering through curtains I didn’t choose.
“You’re awake,” she whispers.
“Mmm,” I manage a sound that isn’t quite agreement. “Almost.”
She pokes me again, just to be sure.
I blink, orienting myself. Guest room. Colton’s guest room.
No—our guest room now, I suppose. The marriage certificate we signed yesterday at a sketchy back-door office that looked like a restaurant is probably still sitting on the kitchen counter where we left it, next to the takeout containers neither of us had the energy to throw away after we finished moving my things.
It was really strange. We were so nervous that we kept holding hands the entire time.
It was like we were both afraid that the moment we let go, the paparazzi would call Mira and Goldblatt and report us for lying.
Just like that. A signature, a witness, a bored civil servant that owes Ethan bigger than big, and suddenly I’m Jenna Davis-Kirillov on paper. It still feels weird, but it was my fault and now I have to live with the consequences, which considering the huge apartment I live in now, aren’t so bad.
“I’m hungry,” Livy announces, twisting a strand of blonde hair around her finger. “Really hungry.”
I push myself upright. “Where’s your dad?”
“Sleeping.” She looks down at her mismatched pajamas—unicorn top, striped bottoms. Yeah, we had little to no energy left yesterday. “He looked really, really tired. His eyes were like this.” She pulls her lower eyelids down dramatically.
Despite everything, the surreality of waking up here, the whirlwind of the past few weeks, the weight of the real gold band on my finger that still feels foreign—I laugh.
“So, you thought you’d wake me instead?”
She nods. “I heard you say you get up early anyway. For work stuff. Even on Saturdays. And I worry about Dad… he’s always so sad, you know. He needs his sleep.”
It’s touching that she remembered this random detail from a conversation we had weeks ago. Before the custody hearing. Before the judge’s ultimatum. Before I decided that the fastest way to prove a stable family environment was to—well—marry him myself. Here we are.
“That’s true,” I tell her. “I did want to get up anyway.”
This is a lie. What I want is to pull the covers back over my head and process the fact that I’ve gotten legally married, packed up my apartment, and moved in with a man who once called me Blueface and his six-year-old daughter.
But Livy is looking at me with those solemn eyes, and my bizarre new reality includes responsibilities I’ve never had before.
I’ve been single for how long? A week? Wow.
“How about pancakes?” I suggest, yawning.
Her whole face softens. That careful, guarded look she usually wears just… disappears, replaced by something open and almost awed, like I’ve just offered her a trip to Disney World instead of basic breakfast.
“Really?” she whispers. “With chocolate chips?”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through my sleep-tangled hair. “Is there any other acceptable pancake variety?”
She giggles and bounces on her toes, suddenly every inch a normal six-year-old instead of the too-serious little girl who watches adults with wary eyes.
She jumps up and slips her small hand into mine without hesitation and pulls me into the kitchen. The easy trust in the gesture makes my throat tighten unexpectedly. Three months ago, she would have hovered at a distance. Now she’s leading me down the hallway like I really belong here.
But it’s all pretend, so I really have to be careful. The realization pulses in my mind as we pass Colton’s door. It’s firmly closed. I stare too long, and Livy tugs me into the kitchen. So, I push the existential crisis aside for now.
The kitchen, at least, feels like neutral territory.
All gleaming surfaces and high-end appliances that still intimidate me slightly.
It’s easily four times the size of my apartment kitchenette, with a pretty white island in the center that could comfortably seat six.
I knew Colton was rich but… he’s like rich rich.
And then it hits me. Shit. He’s a single man.
I don’t know if he even has things to cook.
I stop immediately and pull Livy to a standstill too. “Shi—shoot.” I really need to stop swearing so much. “Livy. We might have to go shopping first, I don’t know if your father has food here.”
“Oh, he sure does. He has a pantry, you know.”
My eyebrows shoot up. He does?
“Look,” Livy tugs me to a hidden door next to the fridge and opens a whole new room. It’s stuffed with food, cans, batteries, filled little plastic containers like… like a little store, and I think my mouth falls to the floor.
“Daddy keeps the chocolate chips up there.” She points to one of the top shelves.
“Because otherwise I eat them all. Which is totally not fair because they’re chocolate chips and that’s what they’re for.
But you know, they are so bad for our health.
” She mimics his tone on the last sentence, and her matter-of-fact delivery makes me laugh.
“Sound, legal reasoning. You’d make a good lawyer.”
“That’s what you are,” she says, snatching a carton of eggs. “A really good one.”
I scratch my neck. Weeeeelll… after the stunt I pulled yesterday, I’m not so sure anymore. I might be the worst lawyer there is.
“I try to be.”
I reach for the chocolate chips and notice the flour. I grab that too with some sugar and baking soda. All there. Wow. If only everything in life would be this easy. “Though I usually argue about more complicated things than chocolate chip access rights.”
“Like me,” she says. “You argued about me.”
I freeze with my hand on the vanilla extract. For all her apparent adjustment to the situation, Livy understands more than anyone gives her credit for.
“Yes,” I say finally, deciding honesty is the best approach. “But that part’s over now. We won. You get to stay with your dad.”
She relaxes visibly. “Forever?”
“That’s the plan.” I leave the pantry and put it all on the counter. “Now, are you going to help me with these pancakes or what?”
The moment passes, and she climbs onto a counter stool at the island, eager to assist. She doesn’t know where her father stowed all the things we need for the pancakes, so I just search each cabinet until I have it all ready.
But I’m a bit shocked since everything is so freaking clean.
Colton will hate me. I’m a mess. I’m clumsy and if I’m tired, I lie down…
shit. Living together is going to be complicated.
Baking with Livy is easy though.
I measure flour while she counts and pour milk while she stirs. When I let her crack the eggs, she does it with such intense concentration that her tongue sticks out from between her teeth. Some shell gets in the batter. Neither of us mention it and I quickly pick it out.
“More chocolate chips,” she instructs as I fold them in.
“Your dad might object to chocolate soup for breakfast.”
“He argues but he can’t really say no to me,” she informs me with supreme confidence.
I laugh again. “I’ve noticed that.”
It’s true. For all his intimidating physical presence and the fierce competitiveness that makes him a hockey star, Colton is clay in his daughter’s hands.
I’ve watched him cave to requests for extra stories, one more dessert, five more minutes of playtime.
Only on matters of her safety does he become immovable.
But he didn’t get to see her often until now, so I understand. He wants to spoil her.
I’m pouring the first pancake onto the griddle when it hits me again.
This is my life now. Making pancakes on a Saturday morning with a child who isn’t mine, waiting for a husband who isn’t my husband to wake up.
Two months ago, I was living in my apartment with Matthew, ignoring the signs of our failing relationship, working sixty-hour weeks.
Now I’m standing in an Upper East Side kitchen with a wedding band on my finger and pancake batter on my shirt.
I guess this will happen a lot over the next couple of days—me standing somewhere and realizing what the actual fuck I got myself into.
“You’re making them wrong,” Livy says, peering critically at the griddle. “Daddy makes shapes. Hearts and stuff.”
“Ah,” I nod seriously. “I’m more of a structural engineer when it comes to breakfast foods. Round and sturdy.”
“I take what I can get,” she declares.
“Does your daddy cook often?”
“Yes. He loves to cook but it’s usually all healthy and boring. Sometimes I get the good stuff though!”
I flick a tiny bit of batter at her nose. She looks shocked for a moment, then delighted.
“Did you just...” She can’t even finish the sentence through her laughter.
“I would never,” I say with mock seriousness, flipping the first pancake.
“You did!” She dips her finger in the batter bowl and reaches toward me. I dodge, laughing despite myself.
“No fair! You have that big spoon!” Livy cries.
“A spatula you mean,” I say and flip another bit of batter at her.
“What’s going on in here?”
The deep voice from the doorway startles us both.
Colton stands there in sweatpants and a faded Falcons T-shirt.
Despite the casual attire and clear evidence that he just rolled out of bed, there’s something unfairly attractive about him—all broad shoulders and sleepy eyes.
How can a person wake up and look like a Calvin Klein model?
Also… grey sweatpants. I guess I don’t have to add that they hide little to nothing. My cheeks burn.
“Pancakes,” Livy announces proudly. “Jenna’s making them, but she doesn’t do shapes. And she put batter on my nose!”