The Fiancée Fiasco (26 page)
Read The Fiancée Fiasco Online
Authors: Alyssa Kress
He knew way too much.
It occurred to Pattie that her sister Savannah would have enjoyed the situation to the hilt, if she were still alive to see it. Pattie-the-capable, Pattie-the-independent was totally floundering. She needed help so desperately she was going to have to take it from this insufferable know-it-all. Savannah had loved seeing Pattie put where Savannah thought Pattie belonged: down.
Why Savannah, the pet of their parents, had felt it necessary to put Pattie down might have looked mysterious, but Pattie had understood the impulse very well, had probably understood it even better than Savannah had. Unfortunately, her understanding had only made Savannah more determined than ever to crush her younger sister.
In death she was managing the mission better than she ever had in life—with one possible exception.
Now Pattie let out her breath slowly. This man was—no. There had to be someone else—anybody else—who could make Tristan laugh.
Before Pattie had to conclude there was no such person, her doorbell chimed. She shot to her feet. At least she had an excuse to postpone her surrender.
"Excuse me." Trying to look like she wasn't retreating, she strode from her office for the front door. She heard the tussle resume as soon as her back was turned. "I'm gonna get ya" and "No, you ain't" preceded scuffles and screeches.
Pattie hoped her office wouldn't be destroyed while she was gone, but she had a feeling—an oddly sinking sensation—that Zane Kincaid was far too effective to let such a calamity occur.
Pattie's landlord and downstairs neighbor was at the door. Michael Derby was tall, thin, and always expensively clad, even when he was wearing nothing fancier than jogging pants.
Today he was wearing a 'casual' ensemble of pleated trousers and button-down shirt that had probably set him back a thousand dollars. His shaved head gleamed in the West Los Angeles sunshine.
"Postman was early today," Michael said. As he handed Pattie a stack of envelopes, his gaze went past her shoulder. "Who's the cute guy?"
"My manny." In the background, Pattie could hear Zane still playing with Tristan. She inwardly moaned, realizing she'd described the guy as if she'd already hired him.
"A manny," Michael's attention instantly sharpened. "Can I meet him?"
Bringing up her mail had clearly been an excuse. "I thought you were dating Todd."
"Oh, I am." Michael grinned. "But you can't blame a guy for looking."
Pattie opened her mouth to tell Michael he needn't bother wasting energy on an obnoxious know-it-all, then decided to hold her tongue. She stepped back from the door. "Be my guest. They're in my office."
Pattie watched Michael saunter down the hall while telling herself she wasn't being vindictive. Siccing Michael on Zane wasn't a cheap effort to get even with Zane for making her feel incompetent. Besides, the manny might even be gay. But she was smiling with decidedly feline satisfaction as she glanced down at the mail Michael had handed her.
Her smile dropped as soon as she took in the top envelope. "Refused," was scrawled over the front of the certified letter, the one she'd sent last week. Nick hadn't even opened it. He hadn't even accepted
delivery
.
Oh, boy. This was the last straw. Whatever irritation she'd felt toward Zane Kincaid multiplied, sharpened, and shifted toward this far more familiar object.
Why should her life be in upheaval while Nick got away without even opening her letters?
It was the more infuriating in that Pattie felt she'd gone overboard in the restraint department. She had a lot to feel angry about, but she'd been patient. She understood it had been a shock to everyone, herself included, when Savannah had died at that nightclub party.
But Nick wasn't suffering from shock. More like a severe case of deadbeat-itis. He'd never answered one of Pattie's phone calls, phone calls made with an heroic display of diplomacy. He hadn't replied to her emails, similarly self-controlled. So last week Pattie had sent the certified letter.
A father was closer in blood than an aunt.
Nick
should have custody of Tristan.
Nick
should be the one dealing with overblown nannies.
Nick
should be the one doing the job of parent.
Not Pattie.
Pattie's fingers crushed the returned envelope. That bum could refuse to answer a phone, or even open a certified letter, but he couldn't refuse to see Pattie if she were standing right in front of him. Especially if she were standing right in front of him with Tristan's hand in hers. His son.
Reason tried to rear its ugly head, but three months of turmoil and frustration stamped it down, mixed with an embarrassingly large dose of bitterness and the unhappy prospect of having to hire Mr. Zane Kincaid. It was time for Nick to step up to the plate.
Pattie whirled. She stalked down the hall.
In her office, Zane was chatting with Michael while holding Tristan around his neck. The kid was alternately struggling and giggling. Everyone stopped talking and stared when Pattie swept into the room.
"We're going to the Getty Center," she announced.
Michael's lips made an 'O.' He knew who worked at the Getty Center Museum. Meanwhile, Zane's brows dove downward and Tristan's smile transformed into an expression that looked like the precursor to a cry.
Way to go, Pattie
. Succeeding in the parent department, as always. She was terrifying the kid, poor thing. Trying her best to modulate her tone, she nevertheless heard it come out as flinty as before. "We have to leave now." Nick. How dare he refuse to deal with this, especially when—when—he was saddling
Pattie
with it? Had the man no shame?
"'We' do?” Zane queried.
"Tristan and I. Come on, Tristan." Pattie held out her hand toward the boy. She was going to get his father to acknowledge him. That's right. In forty-five minutes she could be parking in the Getty lot, another fifteen from there to Nick's office. She could have this out within the hour.
Meanwhile, Tristan grabbed Zane's forearm. His lower lip puffed out. It was an expression Pattie had come to know well. It meant 'no fucking way.'
Her face began to heat. She was learning that when grown-ups made plans, kids destroyed them. But Tristan had to come with her. It was time—past time—for Nick to meet his son. "Come on, Tristan. We need to leave. Now." It occurred to Pattie, dimly, that she'd have to cancel her client meeting—and postpone getting the check she needed. But...too bad. This showdown with Nick was three months overdue.
"No!" Tristan scuttled further behind Zane.
"Is this some kind of emergency?" Zane eyed Pattie warily.
"Yes." Seeing the returned envelope had been the last straw. Nick wasn't going to weasel out of his responsibilities one more day. "Come
on
, Tristan." Then made the mistake of stepping toward the boy.
Without warning, he slipped all the way past Zane and down the back of the sofa.
Pattie stared at the spot Tristan had been. He was under the sofa now. She could hear him slithering down there. How the heck was she going to get him out? It would be impossible, even if she were willing to crawl on the ground in her tight business skirt.
Feeling that increasingly familiar, and increasingly unpleasant, helplessness, Pattie stared at the bottom of the sofa.
"I'll get him," Zane said quietly.
Oh, he would, would he? Did he have magic power? Incredulous, she stared at him. He stared back.
Behind her, Michael nervously shifted weight.
"Find your car keys and your purse," Zane instructed. "I'll have the boy ready by the time you are."
Pattie hesitated. Dammit, he probably would. So far he'd demonstrated remarkable talent with Tristan. She should feel grateful.
Instead, she felt shame. She hated accepting help. She hated needing it. She particularly hated the respectful power Mr. Kincaid managed to project.
She
should be the one able to take on that role.
But she wasn't. In fact, she was so weak she was going to have to let Kincaid get Tristan out from under the sofa.
God. She was
useless
.
"Fine," Pattie returned, clipped. She whirled toward her desk. There she grabbed her car keys, her purse—and the paternity testing kit for which she'd paid $99.99. She wasn't about to forget the whole point of this little trip. Nick was going to admit, like it or not, his role in Tristan's existence in the world.
Slipping the paternity kit into her large purse, she turned around.
Michael had already flown the arena. But Zane stood by the office door with Tristan's hand caught in his. The kid gazed at Pattie with sullen distrust.
"We're ready to go," Zane said.
We
are? thought Pattie, mentally stumbling. She hadn't realized—hadn't considered—Zane thought
he
should come along?
She let out a breath. Well, of course he thought he should come along. The chances of another disaster between herself and Tristan were astronomical. Face it. If she wanted to make it to the Getty Center and confront Nick in his hilltop office, she was going to have to take Zane.
Hiking her purse over her shoulder, Pattie swallowed her pride, something that was becoming quite a habit recently. "Fine," she told Zane. "Let's go."
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