Under Contract (The GEG Series) (15 page)

“You have a thing for sexy nerds, O’Brien?”

“Is that what you’re going to do now?” I ask.

“What?”

“Refer to me as
O’Brien
because you want to erase my marriage?”

“Yes. I would like it if you changed your name back. Actually, I want you to do that while I’m away. Have it switched before I’m home.” The tone in his delivery was fine. It’s the absurdity in his demand that has me pissed off once again.

“Not happening, Mitch.” I try to keep my cool.

“Why? Do you still love him?” he asks vehemently.

“No, Mitch.” I roll my eyes.
Oh, how the fuck did we get to this place?
“I have three children with this name—I’m not changing it.”

“Change theirs, too! When they’re old enough, they’re not going to want his name anyway. Trust me, I know. Besides, what are you going to do when you get remarried—still keep his name?” He rolls onto his back.

“Um, let’s see. First of all, I don’t think you can walk into Social Security and say, ‘Hi, I’m here to change my kids’ names because their father’s a douchebag.’ That may seem a little shady, Mitch, like I’m looking to leave the country with them! Second—what do you mean you know they won’t want his name? Third—if I got remarried, my new husband might want to adopt them and give them his name, which would take care of the first and second. However, the third will never happen because I am not getting married again.” I finally suck in some air—my lungs thank me greatly.

He turns onto his side to face me. “First—I’ll have my people look into it. Third—you
will
get married again, and not that I’ve met your kids or anything, but the fact that they’re
your
kids guarantees, in my eyes, that he’ll want to adopt them.” He pulls my hand to his mouth and plants several kisses on it.

“Second?” I ask.

“That’s my business, Charlotte, not yours,” he says sternly.

“Ah—well, since you’ve brought that up, I should remind you that my personal life is none of your business.” I pull my hand away.

“You’re my girlfriend, Charlotte. Everything about you is my business,” he states, grabbing my hand again.

“On paper, Mitch!” I snap, although one would think I’d slapped him in the face. “You have say over my body and my time—nothing else!”

I watch as his facial expression changes from hurt to just plain pissed. Before I can say another word, Mitch yanks me by the hand, turning my whole body. He pulls my panties down and slaps my ass several times, then releases me and turns to sit on the edge of the bed. I scoot over to the other side, far away from him.

I’m ... I don’t know what I am. I want to say something, scream maybe, but I can’t control my rapid breathing to form either of those actions. I feel shocked, pissed, and oddly, a little turned on. I study his posture. He’s slumped over, his head in his hands. Me? I’m fighting the urge to comfort him, slap the shit out of him, and for the grand finale—fuck the crazy out of him.

Mitch takes a deep breath and straightens up before slapping his knees upon exhale. He stands and pulls his jeans on. “Get dressed, baby. We’ll leave in ten minutes.” He keeps his back to me.

If a bubble magically appeared above my head, it would say “What the fuck?!” I think he senses my thoughts, because he sits back on the bed in defeat and clears his throat.

“My mother died of breast cancer when I was nine, because suffering from MS wasn’t enough. My dad—well, ‘the sperm donor,’ really, since he stopped being my dad when I was five and he couldn’t cope with my mother’s illness—decided that drugs were more important than us. The only thing that man gave me that I will cherish ‘til my last breath was my wonderful grandparents and the opportunity to be raised by them. They took care of my mother and me once she got real sick. He gave up parental rights to me when she died and my grandparents, per my mother’s will, were granted guardianship.

“While he’s spent the past thirty-four years in and out of rehab and jail, I’ve spent it doing everything I could to make them proud enough of me to wash away some of the disappointment they felt in producing such a menace to society. My grandfather was an amazing man. I looked up to him and had—or have—such a deep respect for him that I’ve always felt honor in carrying the Colton name. If he were my mother’s father instead of my father’s father, I would’ve changed my name as soon as I could have. That’s why I know your kids will probably want to have a different name. Your dad sounds like the same stand-up kind of guy my grandfather was, and your kids would probably find it an honor to have the O’Brien name.”

“Mitch ...” My voice shakes as I interrupt him.

“I’ll leave.” He stands up.

“Is that what you want?” I ask, knowing the answer. He wouldn’t have made “his” business mine if he wanted to leave. He knows he screwed up—again. I know he was looking to earn a Get Out of Jail Free card. Not that he was looking for pity, and not even that he just wanted the card. It’s more.
More?
Crap ... more. Imagine the power in such a small word, like a few other four-letter words. I know I’m right, though. He wouldn’t have gone into detail like that if I wasn’t.

“Jesus, baby, do you even have to question it?” he asks in disbelief, laced, I think, with embarrassment. “Are you okay?” he adds, and I hear guilt added to the mix.

“I’m fighting quite the internal battle over here,” I say, then continue speaking when he says nothing. “I’m pissed off. I’m just not sure if it’s because you spanked me, or because a part of me was turned on by it,” I say, not hiding an ounce of my confusion.

“We’re a perfect fit, baby, for many reasons. But as far as the bedroom, as you said, you like me to have control over you. I think it’s because you have to manage so much on your own outside of the bedroom that you’re relieved to relinquish it. I like having that control over you because I know it’s the only place I can.” He throws his shirt on.

“So you don’t trust me?” I ask, reaching for my dress.

“I want to, but I’m fighting quite the internal battle myself. Charlotte?” He finally turns to look at me. “I’m sorry I spanked you.”

“Are you?” I ask as I finish pulling my dress down.

“No.” He smirks. “I’m just sorry I did it while I was angry. I promised I wouldn’t, and I did. I just ... I didn’t like what you said. I thought we got past that today.” He walks around the bed and sits in front of me. “Every time I think your wall is coming down, you throw it right back up.” His hand reaches up to my face and I pull back.

“You’ve been doing the same thing,” I say, quietly.

“I know. Looks like maybe we’re both experiencing some feelings neither of us signed up for.”

“More,” I murmur. He nods. “You don’t do the kid thing. You hate them.”

“Whoa—I don’t hate kids! I love kids.” He defends himself.

“You don’t want all of the bullshit.”

“I’m growing fond of your bullshit ... it’s got a nice scent to it.” He chuckles.

“That is the weirdest line I’ve ever heard!” I grab a pillow and smack him with it. “Besides, you’re the one dishing out most of the bullshit around here.”

“True,” he concedes after laughing. “I won’t blame you if you want me to leave, but you should know that the money will still be in the account every month for you.”

“Even if I’m not with you? Why?” I look up at him sharply. I’m taken aback.

“Because the idea of any other man touching you makes my blood boil and every hair on the back of my neck stand.” His eyes glaze over with anger at the thought.

Do I want him to leave?
No.
Do I want another man to touch me?
No.
Do I have any idea whatsoever as to what I’m doing?
Hell no!

“Where are we going?” I finally raise my white flag. Mitch grasps my face and pulls me to kiss him, but I lean back before his lips land on mine. “Let’s get one thing straight.”

“What, Charlotte?” he breathes.

“You are my boyfriend, therefore, your personal life is my business as well.” I look him straight in the eye and bite him back with his own words.

“You are my personal life.” He smiles. “Can I kiss you now?”

Satisfied with his comment, I nod.

“Remember, we have to be back at three-thirty so I can get the boys.” I glance over at him quickly as I set reminders for myself for the next day. Mitch is too preoccupied with glancing at Brooklynn, who is trying to sing to The Wiggles. The laugh lines around his eyes deepen. He merges onto I-93 South then starts bopping his head with her to “Hot Potato.” Brooky giggles with delight. Mitch is grinning like an idiot and sings the chorus with her (now that he’s got it down pat and all). I stare at him in amazed—but delighted—disbelief. He glances at me, quickly stiffens up, clears his throat, and turns his attention to the road.

“Mittt!” Brooky bellows out. He glances at her in the mirror, then me.

He shrugs. “Hot potato, hot potato!” he sings out, bouncing his head again. Brooklyn gets lost in a sea of giggles, and I join her.

After another twenty minutes of Wiggles and giggles, Mitch gets off at the Andover exit.

“We’re going to your house?” I ask, but then quickly realize he’s going a different way.

“The house I grew up in,” he says, then makes a final turn and pulls into the driveway of an old colonial.

“C’mon, baby.” He cuts the engine and gets out, then opens Brooky’s door and helps her out of her car seat. “What?” he asks as I stare at him. Brooklynn goes to him like she’s known him her whole life. I turn my focus back to the garage in front of me. I’ve got the oddest feeling of panic coming over me. “Charlotte?” Mitch opens my door with his free hand. “Are you okay, baby?” He feels my head. “Jesus, you’re clammy. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t feel so well.” I fan myself.

“Stay right here. I’m going to get you a drink,” he says and heads off to the house with Brooklynn.

“Hi, Mitch!” Maggie smiles. “Who’s this little angel?”

“My girlfriend’s daughter. Can I have an OJ to bring out to Charlotte? She’s not feeling well,” I ask, crooking my neck around to see where Gram is.

“She said to expect you three.”

I turn to her. “I didn’t tell her I was coming.”

“She also said Charlotte was going to have a panic attack.” She raises a brow and hands me the OJ.

“Ugh—I hate when she does that!” I shake my head and walk toward the door.

“Here, let me have your stepdaughter.” She holds her hands out.

“She’s not my stepdaughter.” I sigh, handing her over before walking out the door. I swear I hear her murmur, “She will be.”

Just as I get outside, I find Charlotte walking up the path with a sickly look about her.
What is wrong with her?

“Baby,” I say, putting my arm around her, “take a sip of this orange juice.”

“Is it laced with something?” She tries to smile.

“Of course it is. Now drink up so I can take advantage of you.” I put the cup up to her lips.

“Jesus, Mitch.” She grabs the cup. “I’m not a baby.” She drinks.

“You’re my baby.” I kiss her temple. She rolls her eyes at me. Actually,
I’d
roll my eyes at me. Why am I suddenly turning into mush around her? I guess it’s not sudden at all, really. Right from the start, I felt this pull. I found it easy to be myself around her—a playful side most people don’t see.

“Mitch, is Brooky by herself?”

“Yes, Charlotte. But don’t worry, I made sure to put some knives on the floor for her to play with or stick into the sockets. I also gave her a pair of scissors and told her to run around with them.” I take the cup from her.

“Good. I wouldn’t want her to be bored.” She smiles as we walk in.

Gram looks up at us as she bounces Brooklynn on her knee. I can’t remember the last time I saw her look this happy. I sign “hello” to her. She immediately asks Brooklynn’s age and name. Just as I’m about to tell her, Charlotte signs the information. I’m floored.

“You know sign language, baby?”

“Yes. I signed with all my kids, but I became fluent with Bennett because that was the only way we could communicate for two years.” She signs our conversation, which I know Gram is probably thoroughly appreciating right now. She can’t stand when people who can sign stop mid-conversation in front of her. She says it’s the equivalent of someone talking English, then suddenly switching to another language that not everyone understands. It’s rude.