Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
My initial thought when I learned Theo Libbins had an open house was that I’d use it as an opportunity to get to know him. Gavin and I would walk in—preapproval in hand as to not raise any red flags—and strike up a conversation as he guided us through one of his high-dollar houses.
What I didn’t anticipate is that the open house we were visiting was his personal residence.
It is the best possible scenario.
“You’re a friend helping me shop,” I whisper to Gavin as we walk in. “Just follow my lead.”
Theo is standing at the kitchen island and holding informational flyers that say Let my home be yours!
He looks just like his photo. Purposefully shaped beard wrapping around his blocky jaw, thick head of dark hair, and an athletic build. His nose is normal, and he’s wearing slacks and a black polo that showcases a sleeve of black-lined tattoos. First impression: I’d have his baby.
Gavin and I peruse the kitchen.
“How long have you two been married?” Theo asks, making me pause mid-opening of a kitchen cabinet door.
“Oh.” I look at Gavin and laugh. “We’re not—”
“A year,” Gavin says. He steps next to me and leans against the marble-topped island with a smug-ass smirk smeared on his face; he knows I won’t argue. I can’t. “The old lady here”—my nostrils flare—“is dying to start a family. Why we’re shopping.”
Theo watches as Gavin rests one hand on my hip then slides it to the small of my back before bringing it down the curve of my backside. My thin linen pants do nothing to keep me from feeling every point of contact.
I glare at Gavin; he grins. “She’s been begging me for babies.” His hand stays put as he adds in a loud whisper: “Can’t keep her hands off me.”
Gavin’s brows lift as he sends an ain’t that right, honey? look my way then lightly spanks me.
Spanks me.
While my mouth opens to the point of possible jaw dislocation, Theo chuckles.
Before I can hurl one of the stainless-steel pots from the overhead pot rack at Gavin’s face, Theo seizes the opportunity to start rattling off square footage and family-friendly details about the home and property. For our growing family.
I gather my thoughts—every single one of them about the things I’ll do if Gavin ever spanks me again—then shuffle through the kitchen. It’s futile. Now that I know it’s Theo’s house, any secrets he has won’t be on display; I’ll need to dig.
When another couple walks in, he pivots his attention to them, and I grab Gavin by the arm.
“If you ever smack my ass or call me old lady again,” I whisper through clenched teeth as we march down a hallway lined with stacked logs. “I’ll castrate you with the blade of your beloved mower.”
He laughs. “I was playing the part. And you’re the one that keeps saying you’re too old for me.” His brows raise. “Just following your lead.” Then: “And I think you liked having your ass smacked.”
My body, it seems, revs when repulsed.
“No.” I shove him through the next open door into a log-filled laundry room. It takes less than thirty seconds for me to declare it useless. The cabinets above the high-end washer and dryer have the usual suspects of dryer sheets, laundry detergent, and spot treatment.
Gavin follows me as I wordlessly peek into the next two rooms—a half bath and guest room. Both bare bones and not helpful.
“We need to find his bedroom,” I whisper, craning my neck around the living room. “It’s probably upstairs.”
Gavin’s eyes widen but his voice stays low. “Why do you care about what’s in his bedroom?” He looks over his shoulder at Theo. “He seems like a nice guy.”
I shake my head. “Lots of people seem nice. But is nice enough for having a child?”
“Child?” Gavin asks, eyes narrowed. “With your firm?”
Right.
“That’s what we call our acquisitions,” I explain. “Our children. Because . . .” I reach and reach and reach. “We’re a family.” Trish would be so proud.
Gavin lets out a little laugh. “Weird, but okay.”
Once again, I have him by the elbow, guiding him across a bear-skinned rug in the living room to the open staircase. There are about six couples wandering through the house now. Women inspect the kitchen while men size up the backyard.
“Could you live here?” I ask Gavin as we climb the steps.
At the landing, he pauses and looks down to the first floor. Even though there’s ample square footage and room to breathe, the amount of wood on every wall makes it dark. Like living in a coffin. I could never, but Gavin, in his worn jeans and boots fits right in with the rustic décor.
“Nah,” he says. “Too much wood.” His eyes climb the log-stacked wall. “Not enough windows.”
It’s a simple common thread, but it makes me pause. Makes me look at him and think . . . huh.
“I like windows,” I say like it matters or that’s at all a thing I would say.
Below us, the front door opens. A family of five files in, and kids instantly sprint around the living room and scream about the rug.
“You want kids?” I ask.
“Hell yeah,” Gavin says easily. “I love kids. Addie’ll be a kick-ass big sister, and I want to spoil a dozen grandkids someday.” A kid laughs and he smiles. “You?”
Actively trying to reproduce has turned my brain to hot garbage, because when Remy’s words from yesterday pummel me—fill a Fontain house with a dozen little Gavins—I can almost see it. And, if I thought it mattered, this would be the perfect time to say Surprise! That’s why we’re here!
“Yeah,” I admit. “I want kids.”
It hangs there, our truth along with a secret that suddenly feels dirty. Like I should tell him—a near-stranger friend—that I’m on a quest for a sperm donor.
And so is he.
Unknowingly.
And, in some circles, illegally.
I clear my throat. “Let’s see the rest of the house.”
At the first door we come to, my pulse ticks up. “It’s his room,” I whisper as we step in. “Close the door.”
Gavin hesitates.
With a huff, I do it myself.
“Okay.” The king-sized bed has a log frame and the walls are, no surprise, log. There’s so much wood in here it’s giving me a headache. “Where should we start?”
“Start?” Gavin parrots. “We can’t go through his things.”
“You take that nightstand.”
I shuffle through one and find the usual culprits: condoms, fingernail clippers, a remote control. Lame.
Gavin hasn’t moved. “This doesn’t feel right,” he says. “Going through his house for a company study?”
I should come clean. Gavin wants kids—hell, this young buck is already thinking of grandkids—he’ll get it.
And yet, I can’t. And it’s for no other reason than me not wanting him to know that the real reason I’m in Fontain is because my boss forced me out and I’m having a baby by a sperm donor because I don’t make time for relationships.
I’m not an idiot; I see the way he looks at me. I know if I said I wanted him, he’d let me have him, just like my sisters said. It’s twisted, but I like it. I like him wanting me even though we aren’t right for each other and he can never have me.
And it’s still none of his business.
I breeze past him to the other nightstand; it’s empty except a baby bib that says Big Boy. Weird.
“It’s not wrong,” I explain as I open a few dresser drawers and dig through T-shirts and underwear. “It’s what he signed up for. He should have read the fine print.”
There’s nothing under the bed. Next stop: the walk-in closet.
“If there’s nothing in here,” I call to Gavin, who startles me by filling the doorway of the closet. With a lower voice, I say, “Then I’ll call him good.”
Gavin lets out a heavy sigh. “Fine.”
Clothes hang in a U shape around us. Everything appears normal as I rifle through the hangers. Maybe Theo is good. My pulse once again picks up at the implication: This man might father my child.
I kneel down to open and close the lids of a few shoe boxes then pause at a black plastic tub shoved in the back. Voices get louder—people are close.
“Shut the door,” I whisper.
Gavin’s jaw drops and his blue eyes widen. “What?”
“Shut the door,” I repeat, waving my hand in a door-shutting motion. “Get in here and shut the door.”
He looks toward the voices. “No.”
The voices are closer. Something about the whole house looking so big from up here.
“You can’t tell me no,” I whisper-snap.
Gavin folds his arms over his chest. “Just did.”
My eyes widen. “Gavin!” He doesn’t budge. “I’ll do anything. Please. Shut the door.”
He leans in the doorway—leans—as the voices get closer. “What could you possibly do that will make going through another man’s closet appeal to me?”
Damn this man.
I crawl across the closet to shut it myself, but he takes a step to block me.
A muted “Love how the logs are consistent throughout” drifts toward us as my heart pounds; I’m running out of time.
“I’ll go out with you,” I blurt.
Laughter and conversation louden like a threat.
Gavin wets his lips, completely at ease from his standing position as he looks down at me. “Ask me nicely.”
“Now how many bedrooms are up here?” a woman asks.
I could scream.
“Please go out with me, Gavin.” The words fire out of me, desperate and strained.
“Okay, okay.” Gavin waves his hands like white flags. “No need to beg, Miss Reese. I’ll go out with you.”
Asshole.
He shuts the door and for a split second, we’re swallowed by dark. My lungs fill with concrete the way they always do when I’m in a space this small. The dark makes it worse. I am not trapped, I am not trapped, I am not trapped.
Gavin turns the closet light on, and I let out a shaky exhale before scowling at him then prying off the lid of the tub.
And there it is: Theo’s secret.
My “Aha!” meets Gavin’s “What the . . . ?”
I can overlook most of the things in the box. The whips. The handcuffs. Even the butt plug. Just because my sex life isn’t active enough to explore most of this stash, doesn’t mean Theo shouldn’t be allowed to have his fun.
But it’s the photos I won’t be able to look past.
Photos that put him in the hell-fucking-no category for fathering my child.
Because there, in a stack of Polaroids, is Theo.
Dressed like a baby.