34. Blair
34
BLAIR
I step out onto my front porch, squinting against the morning sun. My head throbs—those extra glasses of wine with Maggie weren't the best idea. Ransom stands at the bottom of the steps, hands in his pockets. The new plaid shirt hugs his shoulders, and dark jeans replace his usual suits—a far cry from the baggy clothes he used to drown in as a teenager.
"I like this look on you," I say, descending the steps. "You wear a lot of plaid in the city?" All those photos I saw online were Ransom in expensive suits or tuxedos.
He laughs, deep and warm. "No, not much. I had to pick these up in town. I only had a set of workout clothes in my Go Bag."
"Go bag? Like you're in witness protection or something?"
"Something like that. It was a habit I developed in my second foster home. I was always moving, so I always stayed packed. Now it's mainly a change of casual clothes and toiletries I keep in the car."
"Convenient for sleepovers," I say lightly, but inside, I'm turning green. Hypocritical, I know. I'm the one that's had a fuck buddy.
"I use it at the gym. I don't do sleepovers. Never have."
"Never?"
He stops, gaze serious. "Never. I had the guys to go home to. Later? I didn't want to."
"You never dated anyone?" Just when I think I understand who he is, I learn something new. This image of Ransom as this suave, rich man with women flocking to him is shifting. The woman are probably still after him. They would be even if he were poor because my god, is he beautiful. But the idea that he never let anyone close makes me as happy as it does sad. I don’t like the idea of him being alone.
But I really don’t like the idea of another woman finding a place in his heart. His heart was mine first, and I don;t like sharing.
I am a hypocritical bitch.
He shrugs and gently cups my back to get us moving again. A little shiver of electricity travels from his hand up my spine, making my skin prickle beneath my shirt. "Here and there. But no one that I ever saw any future with. No one that would have been able to handle my family." The corner of his mouth tips up in that half-smile that makes my stomach flip. "They're my brothers, not my kids, but I raised them, you know?"
"Do they think of you like a dad?"
"Sometimes. I didn't want that. I wanted us all to be on an equal footing, but it didn't turn out that way." His voice holds a note of resignation.
"They look up to you. You take care of them. That's what a parent does." I know something about that, watching Max while Maggie's sick.
"I'm not that much older than them." He sounds almost defensive.
"Doesn't matter. You took on the role. You did the work. You earned the title."
"Maybe. I didn't—" he cuts himself off, scowling, his jaw tightening.
"You didn't what?"
"I didn't want to be separate. I wanted to be a part of it. I took on the leadership role because I was the oldest, and I had a skillset I could use to build something for us. But I didn't mean for it to make me separate."
"Are you, though? Do they treat you like a dad? Do they roll their eyes at you? Do they keep things from you?"
"No, it's not like that. But they do treat me a little differently." He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture I'm starting to recognize as discomfort.
"With respect?"
"We all respect each other."
"Right, but you are the guy that gave them the life they're living now, aren't you? It was you pulling it all together?"
"I guess." He says it like he's never really thought about it that way.
"So they love and respect you. And let's face it, you did raise them. They might not have been little kids, but you understand better than anyone what a strong male role model can do for a teenager. Was it hard? Raising a bunch of teenagers?"
"So hard," he breathes, groaning. "At any moment, at least one of them was in some sort of emotional spiral. I spent so many years chasing after them."
"And you had nine of them to worry about?"
"Eight. John was doing his own thing. He didn't officially join us until a couple of years ago." His fingers flex against my back as we turn the corner toward town. What is it about his hand on my back that makes me feel so feminine? It’s a weird feeling. I think I like it though.
"Holy Crap. Eight? I'm exhausted trying to convince Max to put his pajamas on and to get his hand off his dick. The second his pants are off, he grabs it, like he needs to make sure it didn't go anywhere. Like it might fucking run off." The words tumble out before I can stop them.
Ransom's laugh comes from deep in his chest. It warms the space between us. Hell, it warms me right down to my toes, making me want to lean closer.
"There was a lot of naked at our apartment, but less of the dick grabbing." He pauses, looking thoughtful, his eyes distant with memory. "There was a lot of measuring. They kept a record book."
"Are you serious?" I wait for his nod, watching his lips twitch with suppressed laughter. "Jesus, boys are fucking weird."
"You have no idea." His voice holds years of stories I suddenly want to hear. What did he worry about in the dark of the night? What made him laugh the hardest? Which brother made him want to tear his hair out? We've missed so much. How many years will it take us to catch up?
Hell. I’m thinking about the future and this ‘date’ has barely started.
"You sound happy when you talk about the past."
"I am happy. It was a lot of work, but it was also a lot of fun." His smile dies as he looks at me, regret filling his gaze.
"Don't do that," I say, stepping closer. We're in the middle of the sidewalk on Main Street, just a couple of doors from the diner. But the sidewalk is empty; we have all the privacy we need for this conversation. "You love your life and the people in it. That’s okay. It's good even. I never wanted you to be out there alone. I always hoped that you had a family. That you were loved. Even when I hated you, I wanted the best for you."
He gazes down at me, eyes so, so serious. "Until last year, I always imagined you had a husband and kids, that your life was filled with family and love."
"My life is filled with family and love. Just not that way."
"Do you regret it? Do you wish you'd had kids of your own?" His gaze is searching, intense, and I know a lot hinges on my answer, but I don't understand why. What answer is he looking for?
In the end, all I can give him is the truth.
"It might have been a cool experience, but I'm not all broken up about it either."
His brow furrows. "You still could have kids."
I don’t try and suppress the whole body shudder that idea gives me. "Are you fucking kidding? I'm forty-three years old. Even if we put biology aside, if I had a kid tomorrow, I'd be over sixty when they graduated. No thank you."
That crease between his eyes eases. "You sound pretty sure."
"I am. I will take Max on when it's time because I love him. But if I had my way, I'd stay the fun aunt. I could be there for all the important stuff, but I wouldn't have the responsibility. Maybe that's selfish, but I'm too old to pretend to be someone I'm not."
A slow grin curves his lips. "Being the fun uncle is pretty great. I get sleepovers and sticky fingers. But then they go home to their parents, and I get to relax."
"With your hamster."
He grins, those lines at the corner of his eyes crinkling. "Sometimes, yeah."
"Can you explain that one? How did you end up with a hamster roaming around your place? You know that's weird, right?"
He shrugs, like his bar for weird is set a little higher than most, then guides us into the diner. Macy, the owner, waves at us, and I steer us to a booth in the back. When we're settled, I rest my elbows on the table and cock an eyebrow. I want this story. "Hamster," I prompt.
"When my sister-in-law Evie came to stay at the tower with us, we got a little excited." His face scrunches up adorably, those blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Wait. I need to back up."
"It's Saturday. I don't have any plans. Take your time." I lean back against the vinyl booth, genuinely curious. I want to hear all about him. His family. His life. Everything that's happened in the years we've been apart. There's so much I've missed, and each little glimpse feels like uncovering treasure. Matt could probably use a hand at the garage this morning. Saturday’s are reserved for oil changes and basic maintenance, but there’s always something more than comes in.
But I’m not going. That’s one of the perks of being the boss.
"Our original garage, the one I won, is Knight Street. Up until two years ago, my brother Kade was trying to run it by himself. He was a bit of a micromanager. The problem was, Brash Group needed all of his attention. He was burning out. So one night, along comes Becca. Her car broke down, and she decided to sleep in it, in the garage driveway, until morning. A few hours later, Kade had given her the office manager job and keys to the apartment above the garage."
"That's fast!" It sounds exactly like the kind of impulsive decision that could go horribly wrong.
"Right! That's what I thought. Kade is all heart. And he had a history of letting women take advantage of him. So I wasn't a fan of this idea at all." His expression darkens slightly at the memory.
"Did you intervene?" I can totally picture him going all big brother, scaring away the woman. I’m sure he could be very intimidating if he needed to be. The poor woman probably wouldn’t have stood a chance.
"I wanted to. So bad. But I didn't want to risk pushing him away. So I just watched and waited. I figured I'd have to pick up the pieces at some point." He shifts in his seat, and I can see the tension in his shoulders from just remembering it.
"But you didn't?"
"No. I didn't. Becca is…" He drifts off, a mixture of exasperation and affection on his face. "More than a handful. She's tough and knows who she is. She didn't really need rescuing. She was the first of the women. Kade fell for her hard, and thankfully got his head out of his ass before it was too late."
So not easily intimidated then. "You like her."
He laughs. "I do. She's amazing. But I'm never going to tell her that. She knows it, but our relationship is built on sarcasm and annoying each other. It works for us."
"Sounds pretty great."
"It is, actually. Some of the other women need me to be soft for them, but not her, not usually. She's actually scary tough. She's got all kinds of black belts in martial arts. And she runs a self-defense class for women. That's where she met Holly. Holly is a doll of a woman. Five-foot nothing. But she had this air of fragility about her. Becca had Holly take over her job as office manager so she could teach martial arts full-time. The second my brother, Micah—he does restorations at Knight Street—got a look at her, he was a goner."
"What was her story?"
"A very bad, very violent ex. She got away, but not without scars. That's where Evie comes in, actually." I love the way his face lights up when he's talking about his family. "Evie was a nurse at the hospital Holly volunteered at while she was still married. Evie noticed bruises… and well, she helped Holly escape to safety. And she paid a really steep price for it."
"What kind of price?"
"Holly's husband had friends on the police force. And Evie ended up losing her job, and losing custody of her little girl for a few months. It was all fucking lies, but she went from a well-respected NICU nurse to a janitor making a quarter of the money. When we found out what had happened to her, well, there was no way we weren't going to help."
That’s pretty telling about the kind of man he is. A lot of people wouldn’t get involved. "So what did you do?"
"We convinced her to move in with us. My brother Colton was struck dumb the second he laid eyes on Evie's picture. Then Mia, Evie's daughter, knocked him on his ass. He had been fixing up one of the extra apartments we have in the building for them, before he even met her by the way, so when she finally agreed to it, we had her moved in within hours."
"So suddenly, three of your brothers were in love, all in a matter of…?"
"A few months. It was fast, but it was so fucking obvious that it was perfect. And Mia, Evie's little girl? She's fucking delicious. All curly black hair and a lisp that I hope she never loses. Adorable."
"So I'm starting to get the picture here. Mia and hamsters?"
"Yep. It took a while for Evie to trust us, but finally, she let us babysit while Colton took her on a date. And we decided to go for ice cream. There was a pet store next door."
"And you bought a hamster."
He winces and fixes his gaze somewhere on my forehead. "Nope. We bought about a hundred of them."
I laugh my way through the rest of the story. The hamster house, his brother's fear of little furry things resulting in him being piggybacked out of the apartment, the hunt for the missing hamsters.
"God. So when you said they were a lot of work, you really meant all of you are a lot of work. Because you gotta admit, you're a bit of an instigator. Do you think it's the money?"
He cocks his head to the side. "How do you mean?"
"I mean, an average person would walk in there and worry about the cost of the hamster, supplies, vet bills, and maybe walk out with one or two. You guys don't have any financial guardrails. You're like kids with an unlimited budget in a toy store."
He scratches at his eyebrow, looking sheepish. "You might have a point."
"You think?"
Macy saunters over, coffee pot in hand. "You two ready to order?"
"Pancakes," Ransom and I say in unison. We lock eyes and share a smile. This isn’t our first time in this diner.
"Some things never change," I say, remembering countless Saturday mornings spent right here. Dad was usually with us, but he'd end up wandering off to one of the other tables to hang with a friend, and it would just be Ransom and me, across the table from each other, talking about everything.
That stopped a few weeks before Ransom left. Dad didn't leave us alone at the booth anymore. We still went, but it felt different.
All these little moments from that time start to make a lot more sense now. The family movie marathons straight to bedtime. Encouraging me to go out with friends.
Dad was trying to keep us apart, and doing a pretty good job of it most of the time.
"Extra crispy bacon for me," Ransom adds. "And extra butter for her." Why does him remembering how I like my pancakes make my chest feel tight?
"You got it. Coffee?" Macy asks.
"Please," I hold up my mug. As Macy pours, I study Ransom's face. The sharp angles have gotten harder, but his eyes still crinkle the same way when he smiles. He's looking out the window, watching a truck drive by, Mr. Peterson at the wheel.
"Remember that time you tried to teach me to drive stick?"
"Oh god, poor Mr. Peterson's fence." I cover my face. "Dad was so mad."
"He made me repaint the whole thing."
"You deserved it! You gunned it straight through his garden."
"I got distracted." His laugh is deeper now, richer. The teenage boy I knew is still there, but layered with confidence and ease. The weight of proving himself seems lifted. "You were wearing that white blouse, and two of the buttons had slipped. I was trying to get a look."
My mouth drops open for a second. "Oh my god. That makes so much more sense." Laughing, I add a bunch of cream to my coffee. "So tell me about this hamster house you built?"
"It's a repurposed dollhouse, complete with tiny elevators and a rooftop pool." His eyes dance with mischief.
"You're full of shit."
"Maybe about the pool." He winks and takes a sip of coffee. "But the elevators work. Jonas designed a lever system with hand cranks."
Grinning, he tells me more about the hamsters and the kids, his whole face lit with joy. Time flies, and suddenly Macy is back with our food. The pancakes are perfect golden brown, steam rising. Mine are gleaming with butter. Yum. I slide the syrup over.
"Still drowning them in syrup, I see," he comments as I pour.
"Life's too short for dry pancakes." If I gave any kind of shit about calories, maybe I’d change my ways, but I burn everything I eat off. I’ve been two hundred pounds for the last twenty years, despite my syrup addiction.
We fall into easy conversation between bites. The anger I carried is barely a memory. This man isn't the boy who broke my heart. He's someone new—someone who builds hamster mansions and raises lost boys into good men.
Someone I could easily love.
Maybe I already do.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing. Just... it's nice. Getting to know you again."
The warmth between us shifts as Ransom's expression turns serious. He sets down his fork and meets my eyes.
"Blair, I need to thank you." I open my mouth to…I don't know what. Stop him maybe, but the little shake of his head is enough to shut me up. "Twenty-five years is a long time to carry guilt. To wonder if I made the biggest mistake of my life. And yeah, maybe things worked out. Maybe I built something good. But there's always been this hole."
My throat tightens. The sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes—it's almost too much.
"When you forgave me the other day, it was big. I needed your forgiveness more than I even realized. But sitting here now, talking like this?" He shakes his head. "It's everything. And I know we have a lot to figure out. I know Chicago and Badger Falls aren't exactly next door. But just having you willing to try? To see where this goes?" His hand slides across the table, not quite touching mine. "Thank you."
I stare at his hand, remembering all the times it held mine when we were young.
"I'm afraid you're just fucking with me. I don't know if my heart's safe with you. Or if I want to try again," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. Because what else can I say when he's laid himself bare like this? It’s the truth. Maybe not all of the truth, but it’s the part that’s holding me back. The part he needs to understand.
His hand retreats from the table, and I’m angry at myself. Why didn’t I grab it? I wanted to. But I didn’t let myself.
"I get it," he says softly. "The kid I was? He was a fucking mess. Angry. Scared. Ready to burn down the world." He takes a slow breath. "But that's not who I am anymore."
"How can I be sure?"
"Because I spent twenty-five years building something good. Something real. I learned how to be there for people. How to stick around when things get hard." His blue eyes hold mine. "I'm not asking for promises, Blair. I'm just asking for time."
"Time?"
"Yeah. Time to talk. To figure out who we are now." He gestures between us. "Like this. Pancakes and coffee. Stories about hamsters and your weird obsession with putting way too much syrup on everything."
I can't help but laugh. "I do not use too much syrup."
"Your pancakes are swimming."
"They're happy pancakes."
His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. "See? This is what I want. Just... moments. No pressure. No expectations. Just us getting to know each other again."
The simplicity of his request catches me off guard. No grand gestures. No desperate pleas. Just... time.
"You'd be okay with that? Just... hanging out?"
"More than okay." He leans back, relaxed. "Besides, I have twenty-five years of stories about my disaster brothers to share. Like the time Nick tried to teach Jonas to surf."
"How'd that go?"
"Let's just say there was a helicopter involved."
I snort into my coffee. "Okay, now you have to tell me that one."
"See? Time. Stories. Maybe some more pancakes." He grabs the syrup bottle before I can reach for it. "Though I'm cutting you off. Your pancakes are in an actual puddle."
"Judgy much?" I cut into my pancakes, then scoop a soaked piece of fluffiness to my mouth. Best pancakes ever. "The syrup is the best part. You still don't like syrup?"
He doesn't answer, his attention out the window. And the look on his face? It's a mix of frustration and love. Following his gaze out the window, I spot a large bus rolling past the square, the name of a rock band emblazoned on the side. "That's a big bus. Probably took a wrong turn." I tap his hand, pulling those brown eyes back to mine. "Aren't you eating?"
He winces, looking all kinds of upset. "I'm so fucking sorry, Blair."
My stomach churns. What now? I don't think I can take any more ‘I'm sorry's’ from this man. "Why? What's happening?"
He taps his finger on the window, toward the bus. "I wanted to spend time with you. One-on-one, no distractions. But I'm pretty sure a big fucking distraction is inside that bus."
"A rockstar?" I ask hesitantly, but the door wooshes open, and people start to file out. First, probably one of the largest men I've ever seen in real life, muscles on muscles. He's followed by a man even bigger, with a big scar running down his face. He would look like the kind of person you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, except he's got a baby curled against his chest, his hand stroking slowly up and down. Then another man steps out. He's wearing jeans and a blue plaid shirt. He nearly hops down the stairs, stretches, then yells, "Ransom! Anybody seen Ransom?" at the top of his lungs.
"No," Ransom says, sighing. "My family."