I knew I was going to pay. I was prepared to. I just wasn’t expecting to get a frantic text from Aiden, begging me to take Linnie.
My parents are on a romantic getaway in Napa. Viggo’s God knows where, but his phone isn’t even ringing, and the rest of my siblings are either in different states or traveling with their teams.
Which left me. The guy who can’t say no and who’s about to crap his pants after gorging on brie.
My stomach clenches again, the pain so sharp, I hiss out a breath. Covertly, I slip my phone from my pocket while stroking Linnie’s hair with my other hand. She’s stuck her thumb in her mouth, her head heavy against my chest as she watches Daniel Tiger. I can tell she’s not tired yet, but she’s starting to mellow out.
If it were her bedtime, I’d be set. I’d tuck her into the guest room that I turned into a safe space for her to sleep—a queen-sized bed pushed up against the wall with a mesh safety gate on the other side so she doesn’t roll off the mattress, a nightlight, soothing mint-green walls and thick, butter-yellow weighted curtains to block out light so she’s not woken up by the sunrise—then I’d go pay on the toilet for my dairy hubris and collapse into bed afterward.
But it’s not her bedtime yet. Not for another two hours. Which means I desperately need reinforcements.
Where the hell are you? I text Viggo. This time, the text shows as “delivered,” meaning his phone is finally on.
He and I have mutually agreed upon phone tracking, so I look him up, then swear under my breath. He’s two hours away, in Escondido again.
Jesus, he texts back. What did I miss? I have seventeen missed calls and five voicemails from you.
I have Linnie, I type. I took her spur of the moment because Aiden wants to boink Freya, little did I know, and I ate a ton of cheese before I knew I was going to be watching her.
Oh God, he texts. That poor child. She’s going to be scarred. Also, never again refer to what Aiden does to our sister as boinking. In fact, just never refer to it.
You’re not the boss of me, I write. So have you left Escondido? When can you get here?
Ashbury has a flat tire, he writes back.
I roll my eyes. The dork named his beat-up car after his favorite scarred duke from his endless historical-romance reading.
But you have a neighbor, he continues, next door, who you could ask for help. That’s what coworker neighbors are for: a cup of sugar, carpooling, watching your niece while you shit your brains out…
I clench my teeth. You’ve done enough interfering on that front. I made it very clear I want you to stop, Viggo.
Oh, I remember, he texts. I’m still having nightmares about a bedful of fake tarantulas. You’re sick, you know that?
You, I type, exhaling harshly as I breathe through another stomach spasm, need to mind your own damn business. I’d hoped a bedful of fake spiders might get it through your thick skull to keep your nose out of my love life, but here we are.
Fine, stubborn sibling. I can get there in a couple hours if you really really need me.
I glare at my phone. Don’t bother. I’ll figure something out. NO THANKS TO YOU.
After chucking my phone at the sofa, I scrub my face. I’m not texting Gavin for help. Linnie and I will be fine. Haven’t I been humiliated enough? He’s shut me down, moved on from what happened. He doesn’t care about what we did that night in the kitchen or why I brought it to a halt. He doesn’t care about me.
And I don’t need yet another person I’m drawn to making me feel inadequate and discardable. He’s over it. So I am, too.
Well, I’m trying to be.
Involving him in my personal life, asking him for help, is not happening.
I breathe through my nose as another spasm wracks my stomach. I’m not going to last much longer. In fact, I’m not going to last at all.
Gently, I lift Linnea off my lap and set her on the couch. I dash into her room for the baby monitor, then back, plugging it in, angling it on the entertainment center’s shelf so I can see her.
“Be right back, okay? Linnie? I have to use the bathroom. I have the baby monitor here so you can talk to me and I’ll hear you.”
“’Kay,” she says, her voice mellow, her eyes glued to the TV. I tuck a blanket around her and scooch her to the end of the sofa so her head is on its arm, visible in the monitor, then sprint to the bathroom down the hall with the other half of the baby monitor.
And then I pay dearly for eating my feelings.
I should feel better, but I don’t. Sometimes it’s as simple as a bathroom trip, but this time, the residual muscle spasms in my stomach make it so I can’t even stand straight. Hunched over, I join Linnea on the couch again, rubbing her back as I draw up my knees against a sharp cramp in my gut.
“I’m hungry, Uncle Ollie,” Linnie says.
I groan, both at the thought of food and the thought of getting up to make it for her. “Want to raid your snack cabinet?” I ask her weakly.
She frowns. “I want dinner, Uncle Ollie.”
Man, she’s right. I peer up at the clock, then down at my phone, wracking my brain. I could order food, but everything will take at least half an hour to get here, and when Linnea tells you she’s hungry, she’s hungry. She’s not going to happily eat snacks and wait through yet another Daniel Tiger episode for her dinner.
I have to think. I need someone who can make Linnea a dinner she’ll eat while I curl up in the fetal position on the sofa, and I need them fast.
In short, I need a miracle.
Suddenly a light flicks on outside, pouring long, bright beams through the windows into my living room, which has turned dark with sunset. I glance toward their source and freeze.
Gavin stands on his back porch, hands on his knees, chest heaving, gray T-shirt drenched in sweat. He stands slowly, as if it pains him, then takes a ginger step, then another, before typing in the passcode to enter his house.
Wherever Viggo is, he’s probably smiling deviously, drumming his romance-loving fingers together. Out of pure spite, I want to ignore the only real solution that I have, which is the same solution Viggo presented: Gavin.
I really, really don’t want to ask him for a favor. If this were purely about me, I wouldn’t do it. But this is about Linnie who whines, “My belly is hungry, Uncle Ollie!”
Sighing, I unlock my phone and pull up Gavin’s number. The last thing I want to do with the guy who I’m still really horny for but am supposed to be avoiding is beg him to come over and feed my niece, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Oliver: I have an emergency.
My phone buzzes almost immediately with his response.
Gavin: What’s wrong?
Oliver: My stomach’s upset. I’m not contagious, just indigestion. My niece is here and she’s hungry and I need an adult who can make her dinner while I’m a pathetic lump on the couch. She goes to bed fairly soon, I just need someone to fill in the gaps until then. An hour, hour and a half, tops.
I hold my breath, truly unsure how this is going to play out. Gavin might just be a big enough dick to tell me this sounds like a personal problem and he can’t help me. My phone buzzes.
Gavin: I smell foul. I went for a run and I’m covered in sweat, so let me rinse off quickly, then I’ll be over.