6. Reed
Reed
The kitchen is still a mess from breakfast. Mia’s mixing bowl is in the sink, the sprinkle container is on the counter, Harper’s plate is still there because I told her to leave it and I’d deal with it. I’m rinsing the pan when I hear the front door open.
I don’t look up. Only one person has a key and uses it like an invitation.
“You could call first,” I say.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Knox drops his jacket on the back of the nearest chair, takes in the breakfast wreckage, then notices Mia standing at the counter with her coffee. He looks at the plates, the sprinkles, the pan in my hand, and then at Mia again.
“So,” he says, leaning against my kitchen island like he owns it. “This is the baker.”
Mia looks up from her coffee and raises her brow. “You must be the brother,” she says. “I read all about you on the internet.”
“It’s all true,” Knox says with a grin. “Knox Hawthorne. Reed’s better-looking, more charming, significantly less uptight younger brother.”
“He let himself in,” I say, because that requires clarification.
“You gave me a key.”
“For emergencies.”
“This is an emergency. I needed to meet my future sister-in-law.” He extends a hand across the island. “The picture doesn’t do you justice.”
Mia shakes his hand. “Mia Calder.”
“I know. I’ve seen the clip.” He tilts his head, studying her with open appreciation. “You really are prettier in person. The paparazzi did you no favors. They should invest in new camera equipment.”
“Knox,” I warn.
“Just being honest.” He hasn’t looked at me. His eyes are still on Mia. “So how does a baker end up engaged to Reed? He doesn’t eat carbs.”
“He eats them now,” Mia says. “I made breakfast.”
Knox turns to me with an expression of pure delight. “She made you eat carbs?”
“She made pancakes for Harper.”
“He had two,” Mia comments.
I glare at her. She looks back at me over her coffee cup and shrugs.
“Two,” Knox repeats. He pulls out a stool and sits down like he’s been invited. “Tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say. “Harper needs to leave for school in twenty minutes and I need to be at the office by nine, so if you’d like to continue this—”
“Sit down, Reed.”
“I’m standing.”
“You’re hovering. It’s the same thing.” Knox turns back to Mia. “Does he hover at you?”
“Constantly,” she says.
“And yet here you are. Engaged.” He rests his chin in his hand. Then he looks at me. “She must be extraordinary.”
Knox has never in his life paid a woman a compliment for her benefit. He’s doing it for mine. He wants to see my jaw move and he’s getting his money’s worth.
“She’s standing right here,” Mia says.
“She is.” Knox smiles at her. “Have dinner with me. Just to give him something to think about.”
“Knox,” I warn again.
He looks at me. There it is, the thing he wanted, the corner of his mouth pulling up just enough to confirm it. He knew exactly what he was doing and he got exactly what he came for. A reaction.
“I’m joking,” he says, standing. “Mostly.” He picks up a pain au chocolat from the plate Mia left on the island, takes a bite, and points at her. “These are extraordinary. Reed, your fiancée is extraordinary.”
“She’s right here,” I say again.
“I know. I’m telling you so you don’t forget it.” He takes his jacket and moves toward the hallway.
Harper appears in her school uniform with the same rabbit under her arm. She looks at Knox. “Uncle Knox! You have Mia’s pastry.”
“Your future stepmother is a genius,” Knox tells her.
“Knox!” I warn again, sharper this time.
Harper looks at Mia, but before she can say anything, I pick up her bag from the hook by the door and hold it out to her.
“We’re going to be late,” I say.
Knox falls in behind me as I walk Harper to the elevator. On the landing, while Harper presses the button seventeen times, he stops beside me and drops his voice.
“She’s not your type, brother,” he says. “She’s the type that ruins men like us.”
The elevator opens. Harper steps in and I follow, but Knox doesn’t. He grins and takes the stairs instead.
Harper holds my hand the entire ride down and talks without stopping about whether rabbits can attend school if they are very small and very well-behaved.
I tell her the school has a no-rabbit policy.
She tells me that’s a very bad policy and someone should write a letter.
I tell her she can write the letter. She says she will but that I have to help her with the spelling.
I buckle her in. She’s still drafting the letter in her head when I pull out of the garage.
By the time we reach the school she has come up with a three-paragraph argument for rabbit admission that includes the phrases “emotional support” and “it’s only fair.” I walk her to the gate. She stops, turns, and holds her arms up.
I crouch down and she wraps both arms around my neck and squeezes. She smells like her favorite strawberry shampoo and whatever sprinkles Mia put on her pancakes this morning.
“Will Mia be there when I get home?” she asks into my shoulder.
“Yes.”
She pulls back and looks at my face, checking, the way she always does when she wants to know if I mean it or if I’m just saying it. I hold still and let her look.
“Okay,” she says, satisfied. She picks up her bag, turns toward the gate, and walks in without looking back.
I stay crouched on the pavement for a moment longer than I need to.
Then I stand up, walk back to the car, and my phone is already ringing before I’ve closed the door.
I check the screen.
Vanessa.
“Fucking great,” I mutter under my breath before picking up. “Vanessa.”
“Reed.” Her voice is cold as if she’s the one who has the right to be angry about our marriage ending in a divorce. “I heard congratulations are in order.”
“Thank you.”
“A baker.” A classic Vanessa beat placed there for effect. “Interesting choice.”
“Is there a reason for this call?”
“I’m concerned,” she says. “About Harper. About the pace of this. You’ve known this woman for what, five minutes? And she’s already living in the penthouse?”
“Harper’s fine.”
“Harper’s six years old and you’re moving strangers into her home.” Her voice stays smooth but I can hear where the velvet thins. “I have every right to be concerned about the environment my daughter is being raised in.”
“You forfeited that right when you were fucking your colleague for months while Harper was in the next room.” I keep my voice light. “We settled that in court. In writing. With your signature on it.”
A silence that’s even colder than the last one.
“I’m simply saying,” she says, “that if you insist on parading strangers through Harper’s life, I may need to revisit our current arrangement. A mother’s concern for her child’s stability is something any judge would understand.”
“What you’re describing is a custody challenge, Vanessa. And what any judge would understand is the documented timeline of why we’re here.” I pull out into traffic. “Is there anything else?”
Another silence. She’s deciding whether to push or bank it. I’ve been dealing with that pause for ten years.
“Just think about Harper,” she says finally.
“I always do.” I end the call.
I drive to the office with two fingers pressed to the bridge of my nose at the next red light and tell myself she’s not filing anything today.
That was a warning, a flare sent up to remind me she has matches.
She’s done it before, she’ll do it again, she plays the long game, and I spent years mistaking her patience for reasonableness.
The drive takes twenty minutes. I use them to collect myself.
By the time I get upstairs my nine o’clock has already been pushed to nine-thirty. I hang up my jacket, sit down, open the Walsh files, and I’m three emails deep when my phone buzzes on the desk.
A message from my lawyer. The text is four lines. I read it twice.
Vanessa filed an emergency motion this morning. She’s citing the engagement as evidence of an unstable home environment and requesting an immediate custody review. Hearing requested for next week. Call me when you can.
I set the phone face-down on the desk.
She didn’t bank it. She had the paperwork drawn up before she called me at the school gate, which means the call wasn’t a warning. The call was her enjoying it.