Chapter 8
Riley
The last of my stuff is shoved into the back of my tiny car. I slam the trunk shut, and Stacey leans against the side of the car with a frown.
“I still think this is a really bad idea, babe.”
Maybe, but it solves my money problems.
“I’m like twenty minutes away. If I need you, I’ll text. Okay?”
She sighs. “Spencer, he’s . . .”
Her face turns pained.
“I am well aware of your brother’s reputation. It’s what landed me the opportunity for a paying job, after all.”
She rolls her eyes. “If he makes any type of move, you tell me, and I will ream his ass out for days. I swear.”
“Thanks, but I can handle one arrogant cowboy-ish guy.” I cringe the second the words leave my mouth. He’s still her brother.
“He’s a manwhore, Riles. Label it, girl.”
Okay, so she’s never been particularly kind about him. I kinda thought the baby thing might bring them together a little. But if anything, she is more critical of him than ever. Their family seems to run off the opinions of others rather than their love for one another. It is so foreign to me.
I lean in and give her a hug. “I will be fine. Besides, I’ll see you most days on campus.”
“I know.” She lets me go with a sigh. “Speaking of, I have to go. Catch you tomorrow?”
“Sure thing. See ye.”
Stacey adjusts her cardigan and tote and heads for the library. I slide into my car and fire up the engine.
After double-checking the full amount for full-time care for Ivy was deposited into my account last night, I packed. With almost eighty grand in my account, everything feels lighter. My study load seems more doable. I just have to learn to balance both Ivy and my study.
Piece of cake, right?
I’ve done this before. I can absolutely do it again.
I have no choice at this point. I need the money, and I became emotionally invested the second I picked Ivy up.
I was awake all night worrying about her.
The tug that kept pulling on me, not letting me fall asleep, was similar to the one that crashed into me when Chlo took her first few steps.
I may wear my heart on my sleeve, but it makes me a good vet. At least I hope it will, one day.
I’m pulling into the drive of the Lockwood apartment building a beat later, and my phone buzzes.
Take the side alley and buzz into the basement parking with the code.
A few seconds pass by and . . .
1402
I follow the instructions and find a spot beside a huge black pickup. Tamping down the thought of why anyone would need such a behemoth vehicle in the middle of an urban area, I kill my little car’s engine and pop the trunk.
Arms loaded with my bags and the few electronics I’ve gathered while being here, I make for the elevator in the corner of the garage.
In the brief moment I’m waiting for the doors to slide open, I’m second-guessing this whole thing.
I barely know this guy.
I am literally moving in with him.
And his baby . . .
I can’t compromise my study schedule.
I won’t. I can do this.
It’s either this or go home.
The doors hiss open, and I set my shoulders back. I am not going back to Ireland without my MBA. Period.
I step into the elevator and ride it all the way to the top floor. My gaze gravitates to the charcoal-grey tiled floor. Must be nice to have your life set up for you and be thriving.
Full-time work for Spencer Lockwood, check.
Penthouse apartment, check.
Girls on a waitlist—if what Stace has told me is true—check and check.
Lord, I can smell the nepotism from here. Some of us have to work our asses off for a fraction of what he ha—
The doors fling open as the small silver box I’m encased in stalls to a halt. I snap my focus up to find blue eyes, messy dark blond hair, and a grimace standing beyond the elevator doors.
“You made it,” he says.
“Not like I was crossing the savanna, but yeah.” I adjust the heaviest of my bags higher onto my shoulder. Spencer simply stares at me before stepping out of the way.
And they say chivalry is dead. I roll my eyes as he heads for his door and follow him, hauling my things with me.
Inside, he keeps walking, stopping at the last bedroom on the right. Directly across the hallway from his.
Ah, nope. No thank you.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll take that room?” I point to the door to the room before his.
Less easy access. At least, if I hear his door open, I have time to lock mine.
“Oh, okay, sure. I thought you’d want some distance from Ivy. Study requires sleep, after all.”
Oh . . .
He was being thoughtful?
He shifts on his feet, running his hand through his hair, and it is only now that I notice the light grey sweatpants hanging from his hips, the loose T-shirt that looks like he—
“Did I wake you up?” I blurt out.
“Indirectly. Henry buzzed up to let me know you were here.” His expression is unreadable.
Right.
“If you don’t mind . . .” I shuffle past him to the room I’m taking.
I have to turn sideways to get through the doorway, and when I’m inside, I see the bassinet set up on a fold-out table.
One of those blow-mold jobs you get from the hardware shop for a project that won’t take long, with every intention of tossing the table away at the end.
Diapers, packs of wipes, and clothes are strewn all over the end of the bed.
Good lord.
I have my work cut out for me.
I peek over the side of the bassinet to find Ivy sound asleep. Stepping back as far as I can without running into anything, I drop my belongings onto the queen-size bed that sits against the wall dividing the bedrooms.
“That was going to be Ivy’s room,” a gravelly voice says from the doorway.
I turn back to see him leaning on it, arms hanging. He yawns, raising a hand to cover his mouth, exposing his hard stomach and the defined V that disappears into those sweatpa—
“I’ll get out of your way, I’m sure you know more about this than me.” He rolls off the door and disappears into the hallway.
It’s only when I run out of oxygen that I realize my mouth is agape. I can’t tell if it’s from the shock of his lack of care in taking his daughter seriously, or the fact that even with multiple feet between us, he affects me.
The heat that flushes my face alludes to the answer.
I fecking hate it.
Apart from the queen bed, the room has a built-in wardrobe, a four-drawer dresser, and two bedside tables. After unpacking, I set my focus to rearranging the room to make it easiest to care for Ivy and get my work done.
I move Ivy’s bassinet to the dresser top. I organize her clothes and supplies into the drawers as quietly as I can.
Lifting the blow-mold table, I carry it to the oversized window on the western side and set it up with my laptop, notebooks, etc.
A tiny squeak comes from the bassinet.
Hold on baby girl, almost done.
Give Riles one more minute, can you?
The bassinet starts to jostle. The distinct popping sound of a pacifier being spat follows before . . .
A wail fills the room.
Spencer walks past my bedroom door, showered and dressed. Not stopping for his daughter’s cries. I hear keys rattle in a bowl before the front door opens and closes.
The wake of him hits me, a sandalwood and spicy cologne.
Goddamn ass.
Not a “see you later.” No goodbye for his kid. With barely a sideways glance, he hightails it out of the apartment like the entire building is on fire.
My first instincts about Spencer Lockwood were right. He’s an asshole. A pretty, pretty, sexy fecking asshole.
“Focus, Riley. We are here for the job. Not to get our knickers in a knot over some guy whose ego is more important than his family.”
Urgh.
I pad to the bassinet that is now producing deathly serious cries and pick Ivy up.
Her little face is beet red, her gummy mouth open as she screams the room down.
“Shhhh. I know, Daddy’s an ass. Let’s get you taken care of, hey, baby girl?” I hold her to my chest. The tang of poop fills my senses.
“Looks like we have a little job to do first, hey, pumpkin.”
I lay her down and un-swaddle her. She fusses, little hands curling to fists as she shoves them desperately into her mouth and sucks hard.
“Hungry, sweetheart?” I lose a soft chuckle.
Of course she is.
Blanket safely placed away, I tug the small metal clips open in the crotch of the pink onesie. Ivy’s little legs kick up. I rest one hand on her belly, holding her still, as the other flicks the last of the buttons open.
The dark yellow poop has leaked through her diaper.
“Phew, bubba. You have been busy.”
I slide her legs from the onesie and push it up underneath her, careful to keep it a safe distance from the nuclear poop zone. I pad to the dresser and pull out a new onesie, diaper, and wipes.
Ivy’s still sucking her fist furiously as I kneel on the floor to finish the job. I clean her up and apply the fresh diaper before slipping her out of her onesie quickly. I lay the new one out, splayed open, and lift her up and onto it. Arms in first, I slide each leg in and zip her up.
Her fussing starts again as she realizes her fist is not her food.
“I know, sweet one. Let’s get a girl her bottle.”
I pick her up and cuddle her in my hold. Unable to resist, I lower my face into her fluffy light hair and breathe her in.
My heart squeezes in my chest. Memories of Chlo in my arms hit hard. Heat prickles the back of my eyes and my vision blurs. I’ve been away for barely two months, and already I’m not coping. And I’m the adult. I can only imagine how Chloe is feeling.
I make a mental note to video call her tonight and update her. Maybe introduce her to Ivy. I know she’s going to flip out. She’s loved babies her whole life. Guess it runs in the family.
I pad to the steel-and-concrete kitchen that I am sure is worth more than my entire house back home and hunt through the cupboard for Ivy’s bottles and formula.
I guess I should have asked, but I was a little preoccupied with the reception I go—
A neon yellow note is stuck to the counter.
I move closer and shift Ivy in my arms as I read it.
Bottles are made up in the fridge.
Spencer
416 551 1402
Huh. The back and forth I’m traveling over with this man is ridiculous.
Absent, only to be thoughtful in the next breath. Or executing the bare minimum as a parent . . .
I pluck up the note and crush it in my free hand. I wander around, opening cupboards until I find the trash and toss it in.
Well aware my Irish hotheadedness will bite me in the ass one day, I huff and lean on the countertop as I measure out a serving of formula with one hand. I tip it into the bottle and fill it with tap water.
Now to heat it up . . .
I manage to find a pot and lid and bring water to a boil. I rest the bottle in the water for a few minutes, turning it as I go. It’s old school, but effective. And the only way I know to warm a bottle up.
I sway by the counter to soothe Ivy as we wait.
I test a few drips of warmed formula on the inside of my wrist as Ivy wriggles, losing her patience with me.
“Alright, babe.” I move to the sofa and adjust her in my arms as I sit and press the bottle to her lips. Her greedy little mouth sucks it in immediately.
I chuckle and huddle her closer. “Slow down, girl. You’ll get a bellyache.”
Laying back on the world’s softest, most enticing sofa, I close my eyes and lose a long, slow breath.
I can do this.
I can absolutely do this.
I crack an eye, squinting to see the oversized clock above the fireplace mantle, and gasp.
9:54
“Bollocks! We’re going to be late for class, sweet girl.”
I have no idea if I’m allowed to take Ivy to class, but that’s the only plan I have right now.
I push off the sofa, careful not to startle Ivy, and gather my bag and books, laptop sliding into my bag last.
Tossing some supplies for Ivy into the front pocket of my bag, I head out. When I get down to the foyer, Ivy in my arms, Henry intercepts me.
“Miss Riley? Are you looking for the car seat?”
I stop, taken aback. “Um, yes?”
Henry smiles. “We have a spare behind the reception desk. I can have it installed in five minutes.”
“Oh, sure. Thanks.”
Fecking hell, how did I forget the car seat.
How did I think this was a viable option?
Between Spencer’s and my unpreparedness . . . What has my bleeding heart got me into?