Chapter 14 Georgie #2
I wince. Admittedly, I had considered that option. But before I can focus on that, I absorb what else he said.
Did he say… bunk in here… together? Like, together-together? My feverish brain must be short-circuiting. There’s no way James is suggesting we share a bed tonight.
But then James unbuttons his jeans, sliding them down his legs as I stare, jaw agape. After his jeans come off, he rips his T-shirt over his head and slings it into the laundry hamper with his discarded jeans before he slips into bed.
Cool as a cucumber, like he didn’t just strip down to his underwear, James asks, “You gonna stand there and stare or do you want to get some sleep?”
Snapping my mouth shut, I sit down on the bed and fiddle with my pillow before lying down. I pull the covers up to my chin and lie as still as a statue.
James huffs out a laugh and drags me into his arms. “I’ve had my hands all over your breasts, Georgie, so I think you’ll survive touching me while we sleep.” He nuzzles my neck, his breath tickling my ear, and he whispers, “Now close your eyes like a good girl and get some rest.”
Which has the exact opposite effect as he intended because my eyelids fly open.
Close your eyes like a good girl.
Why do those words ignite something deep within me, lighting a fire that may never be extinguished?
By the next afternoon, James and I are both walking zombies.
When I slump down at the kitchen table, James sets down a glass of iced tea and a plate of sliced apple. I mutter my thanks as I run my fingers through my tangled hair. Hopefully, sometime within the next calendar year, I’ll have the energy to care about my appearance again.
Since I haven’t cooked any food, James is back to eating cereal for every meal.
He grabs himself a bowl, small plate, spoon, the carton of milk, and the box of Lucky Charms and sits down at the table with a heavy thud.
He pours the cereal into the bowl and then combs through it carefully, tossing each marshmallow onto the plate.
Once finished, he pushes the plate across the table to me.
Only then does he pour the milk and eat his cereal.
“Why do you do that?”
He shrugs. “Don’t like them.”
“Why don’t you just buy Cheerios?”
“They’re not the same as Lucky Charms. Not as good.”
As I eat my snacks, my eyes fall to the stack of papers sitting atop the table.
The papers we brought home from the hospital.
Somewhere in that stack is the information about the birth registration form I need to complete so I can get Weston’s birth certificate.
I’m still unsure what to do about that. Rifling through the papers, I find the one I’m looking for right on top and read over it for the umpteenth time.
Do I name Nolan as Weston’s father? That’s the only way I’ll be able to claim child support from him, and I need the money. But it also creates the potential for problems. As the legal father, Nolan could move for custody, and with his family’s money and influence, he’d probably win.
I won’t risk losing custody of my son, so I should just leave the father’s name blank.
But… that could lead to problems, too. Thanks to that one article about James’ infamous ‘it’s a boy’ text message, the press already knows he’s supposedly a father.
If a journalist goes digging and finds that James isn’t listed as Weston’s father, that could raise alarm bells and make for one hell of a juicy story.
I drop my head onto the kitchen table with a groan. I don’t have a freaking clue what to do.
“You okay over there?”
I jolt, having gotten lost in my thoughts. “Yeah, I’m feeling,” I pause before settling on, “overloaded.”
“Let’s just focus on today, Georgie. The rest can wait.”
Easy for him to say. James knows where he’s going to be living tomorrow. He knows he’ll always be able to pay his bills and put food on the table. He isn’t bound to provide for another human being.
Pushing his chair back, James stands and takes a deck of cards out of the junk drawer and scoops a Ziplock baggie off the kitchen counter. When he returns to the table, he shuffles the cards before dumping out the contents of the baggie.
When he divvies them up between us, I inquire, “Why have you been saving those Lucky Charms marshmallows?”
He shrugs, pushing my pile of marshmallows toward me. “Sometimes you aren’t around when I eat cereal, so I saved them for you. But I figure we can use them as poker chips.”
In the grand scheme of life, it’s a little thing, but I enjoy knowing that he thought of me.
Dealing out two cards to each of us, one face down and one face up, he says, “You know how to play blackjack?”
“Yep. Although, it’s going to take all the brainpower I have to count to twenty-one.”
“Don’t worry, darlin’, you won’t get anywhere close to twenty-one,” James teases.
“Oh, it’s on!” I grin, my competitive spirit coming alive despite my exhaustion.
Pushing two marshmallows into the center of the table, he says, “Ante up.”
After I do the same, I look at my hand. My face-up card is an eight, and I sneak a peek at my hole card. Yikes bikes, it’s a six. Not ideal.
With a dozen marshmallows left, I waffle for a moment before pushing two more marshmallows, a rainbow and a star, into the center pile. “I raise you two.”
I glance at James’ cards. Wouldn’t you know it, the dealer has an ace as his top card? Damn. Not surprisingly, James meets my raise and adds another marshmallow into the pot, forcing me to toss one more in, too.
Fourteen isn’t a winning hand in blackjack, so I may as well risk going bust. Tapping the table, I say, “Hit me,” and pray for anything less than an eight.
James flips over a seven, and I hoot and holler in glee.
He smirks, “I’m cooked, aren’t I?”
“You sure are. Blackjack, motherfucker!”
Then, James flips over his card. He has an ace and a seven. “Might want to work on your poker face before we hit the tables in Vegas, Georgie.”
“Shut up and deal again,” I sass, but a glowing warmth spreads through my body at his off-handed mention of future plans for us. I know he probably didn’t mean it, but I’d like to think he did.
Scooping up the center pot, I add them to my pile of marshmallows.
“Know how to play Texas Hold ‘Em?” James asks as he shuffles and begins dealing out more cards.
We play several more rounds of poker, and I win more than I lose.
But before too long, my eyelids grow heavy.
James rises from the table and brings me another dose of antibiotics.
With the back of his hand, he touches my forehead, gauging my temperature.
“You’re feeling feverish again. Let’s get you back to bed. ”
I’m too damn tired to argue, so I let James escort me back to bed. And even though the sheets have been changed on the bed in the nursery, James walks me to his bedroom.
When he tucks me in, I murmur, “You’re good at this, you know.”
Quirking his brow, he asks, “Good at what?”
“Taking care of people.”
“Had a lot of practice over the years.”
His answer surprises me. Who has he been taking care of? I’ve snooped all around his house and never found any sign of another woman. I’ve searched online and read every article I could find about him and Outlaw, and I never stumbled onto any stories about him having serious relationships.
“Practice?”
James sighs, slips off his boots, and sits down next to me. “My old man tried his best to be a good father, but after my mom took off for the last time, he fell apart and started drinking. It became my responsibility to take care of him when he’d stumble in drunk from hitting the bars after work.”
“That sounds like a lot of responsibility for a child,” I lament.
“It was. I grew up quick,” he admits.
“I’m sorry.”
“What have I told you about apologizing, Georgie?” he chides.
Feeling the pull of sleep tugging me under, I whisper, “I’m really glad I crashed into your car, James, and not someone else’s.”
His husky chuckle is the last thing I hear before sleep comes for me.