Heartless (23 page)

A
ce

O
ne Year Later

“
Y
ou two are
like Barbie and Ken,” Wren says, lounging in a beach chair, her toes buried in sand. Baby Maeve sits in her lap, trying to pull off the white lace hat her mother snugly secured under her chin a minute ago. Tufts of bright orange hair stick out from beneath it and her chin is slicked in shiny drool. “Malibu dream house and everything.”

Chauncey and Enzo are down at the water’s edge, looking for seashells.

“The house was Ace’s idea,” Aidy says, returning from the bar patio with icy cold beers in hand. “He’s the one who wanted to put down some roots.”

“Kind of had to,” I say, defending myself. Six months ago, I signed a five-year contract with Satellite XFM, hosting a sports radio show. “My job is here. And the woman I love.”

Aidy peels her cover-up off, revealing a sparkling tangerine bikini that plays off her golden California tan. The West coast looks good on her, and as much as I hate to admit it, it looks all right on me too.

Aidy wasn’t kidding about the traffic, but the people here are so damn happy, and it’s always sunny, and there’s so much to do.

“Let me see that ring again.” Wren reaches for Aidy’s left hand, yanking it closer. Maeve places her hand out too. “Damn, that thing shines.”

Aidy smiles, glancing back at me and then placing her hand over her heart. Three months ago, I popped the question over a private dinner on a rented yacht off Coronado Island. I even presented the ring in that antique jewelry box Aidy bought after that weekend we spent together at the lake house in Rixton Falls. Maybe it’s a little soon, but I don’t care. When you know, you know. And I don’t want to lose her. I’ve got to lock her down before she realizes she can do better than me. I’ve told her that too, and she always reassures me there’s nobody else for her. I guess we agree to disagree on that.

I’m not sure what I did to get so lucky, but I won’t screw this up. I swear on everything I am, I’ll be exactly the kind of man who deserves a woman like Aidy Kincaid.

“Still planning a June wedding?” Wren asks.

“Yep.” Aidy reclines in her lounger, crossing her legs.

“Perfect,” Wren says. “They say when you marry in June, you’re a bride all your life.”

“Who says that?” I ask.

Wren shrugs. “No clue. It sounds nice though.”

The back patio door slides open and shut, and I veer around to spot my mother coming down, carrying a plate of hot crostini and caponata. She flew in two days ago, and she’s made it her mission to keep us well fed during her stay. She thinks we’re too thin, but we’ve told her, we’re just a little more active out here than we used to be.

“Thank you, Valentina!” Aidy says, taking a napkin and a slice of crostini. “These smell amazing.”

Wren grabs one as well. “I love you, Valentina. We’re here relaxing on the beach and you’re slaving over a hot oven, making sure we don’t go hungry.”

Mom glances at me, smiling, and then takes a seat across from me under the umbrella-covered table.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say.

“
Prego
,” she says.

Wren whips around. “Prego? Did she say prego? Aidy, are you pregnant?”

Laughing, I wave her off. “It means ‘you’re welcome’ in Italian.”

“Oh.” Wren shrugs, lips jutting out.

“You look disappointed,” Aidy says to her, placing her hand on Wren’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’ll happen one of these days. That one back there thinks he needs an entire baseball team’s worth of Amato kids.”

I rest my hands behind my neck and smirk, nodding. It’s true. I want a loud house, like the one I grew up in. I want chaos and laughter and memories. And I want all of it with Aidy by my side.

I’ll never leave her. I’ll never leave the family we create together.

After my career ended, I had no idea what was next for me. Most of the time, I didn’t even want to think about it. But meeting Aidy solved everything. She was the antidote to the shitty hand I’d been dealt.

At first, I wasn’t sure why we kept running into each other.

Now I know it was some kind of divine intervention.

That woman saved me.

She saved me from myself.

“When does Matteo get here?” my mother asks in her thick, Italian accent, her brown eyes lighting. “I’ve missed my dimpled smartass.”

“Tonight,” I say. “He’s finishing up a deodorant commercial.”

Mom bats her hand. “Why is he wasting his time with commercials? He should be doing movies. Blockbusters. Matteo should be the next Batman.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how it works,” I say, stifling a chuckle.

Mom huffs, staring out at the ocean like she’s got a vendetta against it. “One of these days, those dimples will make him money. Mark my words. God willing.”

She mumbles a small prayer in Italian and makes the sign of the cross.

“Dante flies in from Seattle tomorrow morning, and Cristiano and Fabrizio land tomorrow night,” I tell her. We’re celebrating Thanksgiving early this year, and with my brothers being so insanely busy and Chauncey’s restaurant getting crazy around the holidays, we all decided on the second weekend in September. Aidy’s mother, Julie, is coming as well, arriving Saturday. They’re all staying here, at our house. Even Topaz will be here, at least via Skype. It’s going to be an insanely long weekend, but I’m actually looking forward to it.

Mom rubs her hands together before leaning across the table and cupping my face. “I haven’t had my boys all together in a long, long time. You have no idea how happy you’re making your old
madre
.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say.

“Mom! I found something! Come look!” Enzo yells from the shore.

Aidy rises before bending to scoop her baby niece in her arms so Wren can tend to her son, and then she moves to the table, taking a seat beside my mother.

“You’re so natural with her,” my mother says, watching Aidy and Maeve intently. “I’m not going to beat around the bush with you two. I’m getting older, and I’m going to want grandkids sooner than later, and your brothers are all too busy living
la dolce vita
to even think about that stage in their lives.”

“Yeah, yeah, Ma. We know,” I say, giving Aidy a wink. “It’s on the horizon. Believe me.”

“All right.” My mother sighs, rising from the table. “I’m going to head in and check on the rest of dinner. Are we dining
al fresco
tonight?”

“We dine
al fresco
every night, Valentina,” Aidy says. “We’re Californians now. You might want to considers joining us one of these days . . .”

“
Cara mia
, you give me a grandchild and you’ll never see the end of me,” my mother says, laughing as she heads in. “I’ll pack my bags before you can say Pacific Coast Highway.”

My mother heads inside, and I watch Aidy bounce Maeve on her lap, listening to the baby cooing and giggling as Aidy makes all kinds of silly faces and blows raspberries on her belly.

Mom was right. Aidy is a natural with kids. But I already knew that.

“Why are you staring?” Aidy asks me, her attention still focused on the baby.

“What? Can’t I watch you?” I defend my actions. “Just feels like I’m getting a little sneak peek at what’s next, is all.”

“Patience, my love,” she says. “First you need to marry me, then we’ll talk babies.”

“I’d marry you tomorrow if you let me. You know that.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to rush it. You only get to plan one wedding. I want to enjoy it,” she says, grinning. She’s been focused on her business the past year, growing it from nothing to something that’s flourishing wildly. She’s hired on at least a dozen new artists in the last year, and she’s fielding applications for more.

I’m not sure how she does it.

She’s pretty much Wonder Woman.

And nine months from now, she’ll be Adelaide Grace Amato.

W
here do I begin
? Cue word vomit.

Ashley C. – this book is officially dedicated to you. Your love of words and stories and your penchant for all the little details is appreciated more than you could possibly know. Thank you for staying up late and getting into the nitty gritty with me. Morgan T., thank you for reading at the last minute. You are way too sweet!

To all my readers, ARC reviewers, and bloggers, loyal and new, thank you for reading my words and giving my books a place on your shelves – virtual or real. I’m honored to be there, and I hope you’ll always save a place for me. <3

Sosie, your patience is a godsend. This story had been planned for a long time and had a gazillion incarnations, and I think I bounced each and everyone one of them off you. I know it’ll forever be “Ace” to you, and that’s a-okay because I pretty much feel the same.

Louisa, you’ve outdone yourself once again! Just when I think you couldn’t possibly be any more talented than you already are, you pull off something like this. I tell you this all the time, but you truly are a brilliantly talented genius. And thanks to Franggy Yanez for being really, really ridiculously good-looking. His photos inspired many-a-scene in this book . . .

Wendy, thank you for your meticulous eye and proofreading prowess.

To my husband, thank you for answering my sport questions and for coming up with “Smack Talk” all on your own. You might be more creative than you give yourself credit for. ;-)

C
OVER DESIGN
: Louisa Maggio, LM Creations

EDITING: Valorie Clifton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

C
rew Forrester is
the ultimate Vegas Playboy.

H
e’s never met
a card game he couldn’t beat, and he’s never met a showgirl he couldn’t bed. He plays by his own rules, and he plays to win.

A
t twenty-four
, he’s on top of the world, basking in his bachelorhood one debaucherous night at a time, when an early morning knock on his door changes everything.

H
e’s a daddy
. He has a daughter. And he’s never changed a diaper in his life.

B
ut just when
he’s getting a grip on this whole fatherhood thing, he meets Calypso, the intriguing lavender-and-patchouli-scented hippie in the apartment next door. She refuses to discuss her past, but Crew didn’t win a dozen high stakes poker tournaments without learning a thing or two about reading people.

C
alypso’s hiding something
.

B
ut she’s not just
a mystery, she’s the ultimate jackpot. And Crew’s bet money before but never happiness. If he wants her, he’ll have to take the biggest gamble of his life. But having her for his own would be the ultimate win.

C
rew

“
O
pen your eyes
. . .”

My head is heavy on my pillow as a flirty voice whispers in my ear. I offer a moan, still half-asleep and unable to form a coherent response. A hot pink fingernail, manicured to a point, traces down my bicep before spreading into an open palm, slipping under the covers, and taking a detour south. I roll to my back and squeeze my eyes, silently bargaining with myself to do everything in my power to wake up.

My body wants to sleep for at least another couple of hundred years.

“Come on,” she coos, climbing under the covers. Three impatient seconds later, her tongue is working my shaft, coaxing me to life one teasing lick at a time.

Yep. That’ll do it. I’m up.

I clear my throat and tuck my hands under my head, basking in what’s surely about to be the most glorious morning head I’ve had in months. When my eyes have a chance to adjust, I slide my phone off my nightstand and check the time as her head bobs up and down under the covers.

9:02 AM.

Fuck me, it’s early. We left the strip around two thirty, cabbed it to my place, and then fucked until the sun came up. Literally. I’ve had all of a couple of hours of sleep.

I drop the phone and settle back into the mattress as her left hand snakes up my thigh, careens through the grooves of my abs, and presses flat against my chest.

I’d probably feel bad about the fact that I can’t recall her name if last night’s highlight reel wasn’t on instant replay in my head. My Neanderthal brain can only focus on one thing at a time.

“Feel good for you, Crew?” Her purred words are stifled from the blankets.

Apparently, she needs more reassurance than my fully engorged cock can provide.

“Yeah, baby, don’t stop.” I yank the sheets off so I can secure a front-row seat to the action below.

Lyric. That’s her name. Lyric. She’s a dancer at The Tropicana. She’s twenty-two . . . and that’s about all I know about her.

She slowly slides my cock out of her mouth, carefully dragging her lips over the tip, before we make eye contact for the first time this morning. The outer edges of her mouth pull up, and her makeup-stained eyes flash.

“Fuck me one more time.” Her breathy voice is complimented with a saucy smile and accented with a quick rake of her tongue along her lower lip. Lyric moves toward me, her dancer’s legs straddling my hips as she rocks back and forth. “One last time before I leave here and never see you again . . .”

She speaks my language, this one.

My hands hook on her lower back and slide up the curve of her waist.

“Give me one sec,” I say.

She moves aside, pouting. Crossing her arms across her taut breasts, she sighs, blowing a wisp of sandy hair out of her eyes.

“Don’t take too long. I might have to start without you,” she teases.

“That a threat or a promise?”

I rifle through the top drawer of my nightstand, flinging an empty condom box to the side in hopes that one fell out and got lost beneath a bottle of hand lotion, a deck of playing cards, and a spare phone charger.

“Let me check one other place,” I huff, lacing my fingers through my hair and tugging.

“I’m waiting,” she sing-songs.

I hurdle the massive pile of dirty laundry I’ve ignored for the last two weeks and hit the wall switch for the bathroom. Three drawers later, I find a spare rubber enclosed in a perfectly untouched, gilded packet.

It almost feels as good as winning the jackpot at a high-stakes poker tournament.

Which I did last night.

For the fifth time this year.

“Got it.” I clear the laundry pile and head toward the bed, where Lyric grins and traces her pointed fingers along her collarbone.

“About damn time,” she scolds, reaching for me. “Shame on you for keeping a girl waiting like that.”

I stick the packet between my teeth and climb over her, gripping the backs of her perfect thighs and positioning her hips below mine.

Her lips find my neck as her nails dig into my back, subtly pressing my cock against her wetness.

“Did you hear that?” Lyric’s lips abandon my flesh as her head jerks toward the far wall. “I think someone’s knocking at your door.”

“We’re busy,” I say, the packet still between my lips. I sit up and yank it out, tearing the corner before I hear it too. A loud, urgent kind of knock—the kind that always comes with bad news.

Lyric sighs, her brows arched high as if to ask if I’m going to fuck her or not.

Another insistent round of knocks echoes through my apartment.

“They’re not going away,” she says, her eyes falling to my hardened shaft. “It’s okay. Go get the door. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

I exhale and rise onto my knees, running my hand through my hair and tossing a regretful look at the hot and bothered Vegas beauty on full display beneath me. A minute later, I step into a pair of crumpled jeans from the floor before jerking the bedroom door open. I hope to God my erection dies down between here and the front door, because whoever has the balls to bang on my door this time of morning is in for a real treat if it doesn’t.

With my fist balled against my forehead, I pull the door wide and drag in the most exaggeratedly annoyed breath I can muster.

“Someone better be dead or dy—” My words evaporate into the dry desert air the second I see a pair of familiar crystalline eyes.

“Crew.” Her arms are folded across her chest, her head cocked to the side and her gaze landing on my bare chest. “Crew Forrester.”

Living in Vegas the last few years, I’ve had my fair share of shameless, self-indulgent one-night stands. Ninety-eight percent of the time I forget their faces by the next day, and ninety-nine percent of the time I forget their names, but this one . . .

This girl with the magnetic, see-through eyes and hair like polished obsidian. The kind of girl who made you work for a smile. The kind of girl who held her cards close and made you do whatever it took to sneak a peek. I almost thought we had something—not that I was in the market for anything.

I couldn’t forget her if I tried.

“Ava,” I say to the woman I pretend-married at a Denny’s on Freemont Street last year. We fucked all night in her hotel after I plucked her out of a friend’s bachelorette party. At six in the morning, I took her out for pancakes. We ordered two Grand Slams and a wedding straight off the menu.

It was the closest I’d ever come to remotely considering marrying someone.

The moment I kissed my faux bride, she offered a half-bitten smile and thanked me for everything. We exchanged numbers and even last names, and I never heard from or saw her again.

Until now.

“You could’ve called first,” I say. Our eyes meet and she bites her lower lip, though she’s not trying to be sexy.

Ava lifts a steady hand to her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Can I come in?”

I glance behind me, exhale, and shake my head. “Now’s not a good time.”

Her soft features harden in an instant, her dark brows meeting in the middle. Ava pulls in two ragged breaths and turns to her side.

But she doesn’t leave.

She bends over, reaching for something out of sight and hoisting it up and into my arms. A fuzzy pink blanket covers what appears to be a baby car seat.

What. The. Fuck.

“Ava.”

A few calm blinks later, Ava pulls her shoulders high and shoves the car seat into my chest. The blanket slips off and lands at my feet.

“I can’t be a mother.” The ease at which those words escape her pretty lips amazes me. I’m guessing she practiced that line a thousand times on the drive from LA to Vegas. “She’s yours, Crew. And you can have her. I thought I could do it. I thought I could make it work. I can’t.”

Ava exhales and steps away, as if the universe has just freed her of her shackles.

My head spins, my heart hammering.

I have a poker tournament tonight.

There’s a naked dancer in my bed right now.

How the fuck do you change a diaper?

I glance at the dark haired baby in the car seat and she smiles. Her pink gums and sparkling blue eyes make me forget to breathe for a second.

“How old is she?” I ask, as if that’s the most important question in this moment. I need a second to process all of this, to gather pieces here and make sense of everything.

“If you’re questioning whether or not she’s yours,” she says, “I’d be happy to pay for a DNA test.”

“Four months,” I say, running the numbers in my head. I slept with Ava two Februaries ago.

“Yes.”

“When’s her birthday?”

“November eleventh.”

Ava leans down again, this time presenting me with what appears to be a small diaper bag. It’s leather. All black. Not covered in any kind of cutesy pattern or giving any hint of its true purpose, as if motherhood is a shameful burden.

“You’ll change your mind,” I say. “I’m sure your hormones are probably—”

“No.” Her arms fold. “Never. I don’t even love her. I know that’s a fucked up thing to say, Crew, but I don’t know how else to put this. I can’t keep her. I can’t be her mother. I look at her, and I feel nothing.”

Ava states her facts in a way that I wholeheartedly believe her. She’s a frigid ice queen, her heart as frozen as her empty, emotionless stare.

I pull the blanket off the ground and peek in at the grinning, tiny human again, completely unaware of the ugliness about to unfold.

“No one expects you to do this on your own. I’ll support you any way I can,” I say. “You’re overwhelmed. You don’t mean this.”

Her left hand slices through the hair, cutting me off. “It’s not up for debate, Crew. Sleeping with you was a mistake, and it cost me my marriage. I just want to forget this ever happened. I can’t do that when I look at her. She represents everything that went wrong in my life.”

“Whoa, whoa. Back the fuck up.” My jaw clenches. “
Cost you your marriage
?”

Her eyes roll. “It is what it is, Crew. I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

She takes another step backward, closer to freedom.

“Where are you going? We’re not finished here.”

Ava shakes her head. “My attorney is drawing up the paperwork. You’ll hear from her soon.”

The baby stirs, whimpering. She sounds like a squeaking kitten. I place the car seat on the ground outside my apartment door and attempt to free her from the straps and buckles. I don’t know much about babies, but clearly she’s uncomfortable in there.

Ava watches us together, her expression unapologetically unfeeling.

“I’ve never held a fucking baby in my life, Ava.” She’s light as a feather as I lift her. “I’ve never changed a diaper. Made a bottle.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

A tiny hand flies up, grasping at air as she squirms in my arms. I cradle her against my bare chest, wishing we’d have met under better circumstances. Her round eyes widen as she stares up at me. A tiny dimple rests in the center of her chin, identical to mine.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?” I look up from the baby toward Ava, offering zero sympathy. “Really fucking shitty of you.”

She lifts a shoulder. “It is what it is. I told you that.”

“You try and pass her off as your husband’s?”

“Of course.” Her brows lift as she clucks her tongue. “For reasons you couldn’t possibly begin to understand.”

I blow a breath past terse lips and shake my head.

“You said you were on the pill,” I say, recalling the moment the condom broke.

“I was. It’s not one hundred percent.” Her arms fold. “That night with you was fun. And I needed it. But I was in a bad place. It was a mistake.
She’s
a mistake. I lost everything because of her.”

“The fuck did you just say?” This baby’s been mine, allegedly, all of five minutes, but I’ll be damned if anyone blames their moronic stupidity on this innocent little girl.

Ava’s eyes flit to the back of her head. “You know what I mean.”

The firmness in my jaw causes it to ache, and I release the tension along with a hard breath.

“All right. Cool.” All I see is red. I pull the car seat inside and drop the diaper bag from my shoulder to the floor of my entryway. “It’s been real, Ava. Hope you have the life you’ve always dreamed of.”

I slam the door, sending a nearby clock in a free fall until it hits the wood floor and shatters. The baby lets out a shrill cry, and I’m finding it suddenly hard to breathe.

“Crew?”

Fuck.

Lyric.

When I turn, I see she’s fully dressed, her silver sequin dress a garish contrast against the soft morning light and a stark reminder of the life slipping through my hands like tightly clenched sand.

“I’m just going to slip out . . .” She winces, stepping delicately across my living room in sky-high stilettos, her clutch under her arm.

I get the door and send her out in silence. There’s nothing I could possibly say to ease the awkwardness of this moment, so I won’t bother.

Not like I’ll ever see her again anyway.

The clicks of her heels against the sidewalk outside grow distant a moment later, and all I’m left with is the ticking of the broken clock at my feet and a squirming baby in my arms who looks like she’s thinking about having a good cry right now.

Her bottom lip pouts, her chin wrinkling.

“Shh . . .” I swing her side to side in my arms, the way I saw my cousin do with her baby at Christmas last year, and study her tiny features.

The tiny mop of dark hair on her head is all Ava, but this baby’s nose is a Forrester nose. And her ears, the way they come to a point at the tips, those are mine.

“I don’t even know your name.”

Talking to something that can’t talk back feels ridiculous and unnatural. The baby settles into my arms, her eyes half-open, and her squirminess subsides for a moment. I take a slow walk toward an overstuffed recliner and sink down.

Noelle.

I need to call my sister.

I carry the half-sleeping baby toward my room and grab my phone, firing off a quick text. With one free hand, I type “SOS” into the message and send it.