Chapter 12
Riley
Spencer is standing in the hallway, blocking me from getting to Ivy. Her cries echo through my open bedroom door and down the hallway. Like they have done for the past forty-eight hours. On and off.
Scowling, I grip my mug of lukewarm coffee. “Move! You goddamn eejit!” I try to duck under one arm, and he steps sideways.
Coffee splashes over the rim of the mug, spilling down my pajama shirt.
“Nope, not happening. Go back to bed, O’Malley.”
Okay, so in context, there are bags under my eyes, and I haven’t showered since Friday or even brushed my hair, which is currently tied up in a . . . I want to say bun . . . Messy bun. But it’s more mess than bun at this point.
“Let me do my damn job, you—you . . .” Heat starts behind my eyes, and not the exhausted kind. “Goddamn you, Lockwood. She needs me.” The words are almost a cry.
He closes in.
The mug disappears from my hands, and I’m spun around, his grip on my arm, and I’m marched back to the kitchen.
“You are in no condition to look after anyone, bar yourself.”
My feet shuffle along.
It’s been a long weekend. Ivy was out of sorts Saturday morning. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Probably the formula affecting her as she grows and develops. Chlo was the same when she was little.
The thought of my little sister sees my limited forward efforts falter out. A warm wall of chest meets my back.
Exhaustion cascades down my body in waves.
I can’t even help it when I lean back into the warmth . . .
It’s so . . .
I could just sleep here, on my feet, in the hallway.
A voice clears overhead, and I startle, jumping forward.
I miss the warmth instantly.
Geez, I must be tired if I’m thinking Spencer Lockwood is a nice place to fall.
Berating myself silently, I pad into the kitchen.
I’m leaning against the counter, contemplating my questionable life choices, when the crying stops.
The silence is almost deafening after a night of her being upset every hour or so. And there was something I meant to bring up with Spencer when he came home . . .
Squeezing my eyes shut, I rack my brain for it. The one thing I actually planned to say to him is nowhere to be found in my fried, sleep-deprived grey matter.
Rubbing both hands down my face, I decide the best course of action is a shower and bed. Surely, one day off class won’t hurt?
After all, I am no use for anything but sleep right now.
Time to admit defeat.
You win, little lady . . . I forfeit.
Padding to the cupboard, I pull out a glass and have a drink of water. My stomach rumbles, but I’m too tired to be bothered with chewing. The bright room starts to blur around me, and I know it’s time to call it.
Spencer is walking the hallway with Ivy, rubbing her back, and I slip past. Reaching my bedroom door, I pause. He looks content with her. And it hits me—this is the first time I’ve seen him that way.
A stark contrast to the frazzled guy who was melting down over Ivy’s crying that first day. It’s kind of nice seeing him step up. Not that it erases the way he reacted to her originally. Like she was some kind of problem he had to make go away.
The thought turns sour in my empty stomach.
I guess time will tell. I pat the door frame and grab a change of pajamas before heading for the shower.
Three minutes and forty-two seconds later, I feel mostly human again and trudge my way to my bed. I don’t think even a catastrophic natural disaster could pull me away from my cozy bed now.
I’ll die exhausted and content under my duvet, thank you very much.
I’m pulled from a deep, heavy sleep by a scent making my mouth water.
Bacon.
With a groan, I roll over and face-plant into my pillow.
Only to snap up with my cheek hits a wet patch the size of my palm.
Urgh, gross. God I must have been out of it. The drool pool could fix a small drought.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and push up off the bed.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress for moment, I grapple for my bearings. The blinds are down.
I swear I left them up when I went to bed.
I hate sleeping during the day. A couple hours max, or it messes with my sleep schedule.
Hauling in a breath, I stand and cross to the cupboard. When I’m dressed, I pad from the room toward the smell that woke me from my slumber.
Ivy’s pink bassinet is sitting on one end of the counter. Spencer has his back to me, bopping away to whatever is pumping through his earphones. Grey sweats hang from his hips, a navy T-shirt molded to his body. His biceps flex as he lifts the frying pan off the stove and slides eggs into it.
My mouth waters again.
This time, I can’t tell if it’s over the bacon and eggs he’s cooking or—
He spins back, flipping out two fried eggs onto a plate. “You’re up! ‘Bout time, sleepyhead.”
I fold my arms over my chest and slide onto a counter stool.
“I am. How’s Ives?”
Spencer raises a brow.
I tilt my head, irritation tugging at my face. “What?”
He huffs a laugh before dipping his gaze to the frying pan. “Nothing, just. . . You never turn off, do you?”
“I didn’t think that was a very desirable trait in a live-in nanny.”
His brows fall.
Is that . . . concern on his face? His square jawline is tense on one side, his blue eyes homing in on me.
I squirm on the chair and avert my attention to anywhere else.
“Riley, have you ever heard of filling your own cup first?”
“What?” I look around the counter for said cup.
Another huff leaves his lips. This time, it’s a surprised sound.
“No. Your mental and emotional wellbeing cup. My thera—”
“You have a therapist?”
He turns to the stove, giving me his back.
“You saw how my parents are. I’m surprised you didn’t need one after a single visit.”
He’s joking, but his tone carries no amusement. When he turns back, neither of us are smiling. Me, because I don’t know any of these people well enough. And him, well, he looks . . . sad.
“Tell me about this cup of mine,” I prompt, hoping that will take away the solemn expression on his face.
He leans on the counter, reaching for a drawer and pulling out ketchup.
Who puts ketchup in a drawer?
Spencer Lockwood, apparently.
“Your cup is like a measure of your mental and emotional capacity at any one time. If it’s full, you have lots to give.
Lots of mental space. Lots of care and compassion, equity for others, you know.
When it’s empty, because you’ve been, oh, I don’t know .
. . taking care of a baby all by yourself for days without a break, it’s empty and you have nothing left to give. You get it?”
Huh, that’s oddly very logical.
“I get it. So, how do I refill this cup of mine?”
“Let other people take care of you for a change.” He slides a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me. “And take time for yourself and do things that bring you joy.”
Something has hijacked my body. I sit tensed, fork in hand, gut sinking as my heart picks up its pace. I don’t know if I can let go like that. I’ve never . . .
My gaze alternates between the plate of food that has my stupid mouth watering at max speed and Spencer, who is now shoveling eggs into his face as he smiles around each bite.
Okay, is it just me, or did something fundamental shift with this man over the weekend . . .
I fidget in my seat before looking down at the food. But when my stomach growls loud enough to raise one of Spencer’s eyebrows, I sigh and pluck up the fork. As the bacon hits my tongue, I can’t help the moan that tumbles from my lips.
Spencer’s amusement drains instantly, his gaze turning heated as he swallows his last mouthful, eyes pinned on me. I pretend the heat on my face doesn’t exist.
Like it shouldn’t.
Spencer’s watching TV with Ivy on his chest when I get home from class, his head tilted to one side as some ball game plays on mute. He doesn’t glance my way as I move toward the sofa and drop my bag onto the floor behind it.
Ivy is out cold. Her little pink onesie is covered in strawberries. My favorite outfit of hers. I had her in a blue one with clouds when I dropped her with Mrs. Henderson so I could make my afternoon class. Spencer collected her after cutting out early from work.
Not that he told me. Mrs. Henderson rang to tell me, saying he hadn’t wanted to bother me.
Confused is what I feel around this man most of the time, these days.
I peel off my jacket and hang it over the back of the sofa at one end.
Spencer’s huge hand resting on Ivy’s back dwarfs her. She looks so tiny, lying on his big frame. The muscles in his forearm flex as she wriggles in her sleep, keeping her hugged to his chest.
I wander to the pantry and grab some chips before making a beeline to the sofa to join them.
Flopping on the sofa, I ask, “How is it that you aren’t at work, anyho—”
Oh shite. Riley, you eejit . . .
The man is sound asleep. Ivy wriggles, her little blue eyes popping open as her mouth does the same, and the pacifier falls onto her daddy’s lap.
Oh fuck . . .
Daddy, whose gravelly sigh makes his throat bob, his Adam’s apple rising and falling as he swallows.
My gaze rises to his jaw, clenched as always.
Someone should focus on his own cup.
I slide my hands under Ivy and whisper to her as I lift her from Spencer. Quickly grabbing up the pacifier, I pop it in to keep her quiet, and we have snuggles before I lift her to sniff-test her diaper.
Phew, little lady.
“Oh, Ives, you stinky little poppet.” I hold her to my shoulder, making my way down the hallway. “Daddy is lucky he didn’t wake up to that, hey?”
I lie her down on the bed and set up the changing supplies. I have her almost cleaned up when heavy footfalls close in behind me. A groan slips, and I glance back to find Spencer leaning on the doorframe, a hand running through his hair.
“How was class, O’Malley?”
I finish with Ivy and pick her up.
To my surprise, he reaches for her.
I hesitate for a beat.
Remembering my place, I hand her over with a smile that never reaches my eyes. “Class was good. Get some sleep?”
A soft smile pushes his mouth up, eyes crinkling. “We had a great nap, didn’t we, kiddo?”
Ivy kicks her legs, her little butt resting on his forearm, his hand holding her in place. Must be nice to have such big hands . . .
“Go-good. I-I mean . . . that’s good.”
Geez, Mary, and Mackerel. Apparently, the English language and my ability to form a sentence has vanished. I fold my arms over my chest and sniff as I tilt my chin up. “Is that all?”
Spencer slowly raises one brow. “Yeah, O’Malley, that’s all.”
He shifts his focus to his daughter and disappears toward the kitchen.
I close my bedroom door, letting my forehead meet the cool, hard wood.
“Feckin’ Christ.”
My heart is racing. My skin is heated like it’s being ravaged by the midday sun on a summer’s day, not the last few weeks of winter still cold enough to warrant a light jacket.
“Riley! Fuck, Riley!”
I jerk up off the door and swing it open, taking off toward Spencer’s panic.