“I don’t think I can stop him. In fact, I gotta go. See you in a bit.” She hangs up the phone.
My doorbell rings. I groan, hoping it’s my housekeeper who is somehow telepathic and knows I need her magic cleaning powers.
I open the door. Sadly, my wish wasn’t granted.
My mom barges in first, swiping Annabelle out of my arms like a professional thief.
“Nice to see you, Mom.”
But she ignores me because she’s already cooing at her first grandchild.
My dad’s busy on the phone, so I’m rewarded with a stern glare as he follows my mom in.
Next is my youngest sister, Morgan, who graduates from high school this year. She at least pauses and kisses me on the cheek. “What’s up, Daddy-o?” She laughs and continues into my beach house. “You don’t mind if I swim and lie out?”
“Have at it,” I say, looking at Imogen. “What kind of heads-up was that?”
She laughs. “Sorry, I didn’t realize we were so close already.” Her laughter continues as she walks past me into the house.
I move to shut the door, but another voice alerts me to someone else before the woman in question emerges from around the corner. Our eyes meet and I swear it’s like we’re two cowboys in a standoff in a western movie. It’s no secret the two of us dislike one another. Always have—except for that brief kiss on New Year’s Eve, but that was ten months ago.
“Lena Boyd,” I say, distaste clear in my tone.
“How much shit can you step in?” She shakes her head and tries to slide past me, but I step to the side, blocking her from entering my house.
“You’re not welcome here.”
She loses her footing for a minute and falters back. I don’t bother to grab her arm. It must be her casual day today. Jeans, a T-shirt, sandals, and an open sweater. Not very professional. Although with the way her tits are snuggly fit into that shirt, I’m not complaining.
“Don’t be a bigger ass than you already are.” She steps forward.
I block her again. “Why are you here?”
“Because I have to spin this story somehow so you come out looking like the doting father and not some rich prick who chased off his baby mama.” She crosses her arms, clearly not in the mood for my shitty, sleep-deprived attitude.
“Let Lena in, Ford,” my mom says from behind me. “And you cannot raise my grandbaby in this filth.”
Lena shoots me a look because she knows I never disobey my mother. I step aside and she walks past me as though she’s the fucking president or some shit.
I slam the door and rest my forehead on it. Then I grab every ounce of patience and courage for what is surely going to be a shitty day.
My shoulder brushes Ford’s arm as I walk into his beach house that’s not nearly as big as he can afford. As if he purposely picked a home that didn’t showcase his enormous wealth. But what the house lacks in size, it makes up for in location. He’s on a private inlet in the Gulf, along with a bunch of other wealthy people who live here.
Mrs. Jacobs sits in a chair, staring at her granddaughter as though she could hang the moon, while Mr. Jacobs lingers on the back patio, continuing his phone call. Morgan has already changed in the bathroom and walks out in a bikini that shows off way too much skin. Imogen is starting a pot of coffee and says she already placed an order with Grub Hub for muffins and donuts and they’re on the way over as though we’re planning a conference or something.
I sit on the couch.
Mrs. Jacobs holds up the baby to me. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
She has Ford’s eyes. That stunning blue of the lightest part of the ocean. The same ones that suckered me into kissing him on New Year’s Eve. Not that it meant anything. The only reason he did it was because I came to Florida to force him back to New York to meet with his dad after his stupid stunt of fighting some guy in a bar. But sometimes late at night, I swear I still feel his lips on mine.
“She’s gorgeous.” I’m not lying. Annabelle will be a knockout someday. Given the genetics of her dad and Britney, how could she not be? It’s not like Ford to dip below model status for his hookups, and Britney was no exception.
We sit in silence for a second while Morgan comes over and bends down to kiss Annabelle’s forehead.
“Jesus, Morg, I can see your ass. Don’t you have anything else to wear?” Ford covers his eyes.
She turns around and juts out her hip. The bikini isn’t crazy revealing, but the ties on either side that could easily be undone is what would worry me. “If I was someone other than your sister, you’d be drooling.”
“Mom!” he screeches, looking incredulous. “Are you going to let her go out like that?”
“She’s only going out on your patio.” Mrs. Jacobs puts her face an inch away from Annabelle’s, not paying full attention to her children’s bickering.
“Give her a break. She’s right. If she wasn’t your sister, you’d probably have hit on her.” Imogen comes in with a cup of coffee and sits next to me on the couch.
“Ew!” Ford exaggerates with a full-body shiver. “Don’t say shit like that.”
“The baby,” Mrs. Jacobs warns.
“She’s four months old,” all three of the Jacobs siblings say in unison.
“If I’m not careful, your first word will be a bad one,” Mrs. Jacobs coos, tapping her finger on Annabelle’s nose.
“That would make it clear she’s Ford’s then.” Morgan laughs and walks outside, half her ass cheeks hanging out.
Ford shakes his head and turns his attention back to us. “Why are you all here?”
I lean back on the couch. Has he really not figured it out yet?
“Do you watch any television, listen to the radio, or look at social media?” Imogen asks, then sips her coffee.
He sits on the ottoman by his mom, staring at Annabelle. “Look around, Imogen, does it look like I have time for that?”
“It is disgusting in here.” The doorbell rings and she gets up. “Food is here.”
She disappears down the hall and Ford sets his gaze on me. I hate that it unnerves me, makes me self-conscious that he’ll say something and I won’t be quick enough with a comeback. That’s essentially our communication style. And with his mom in the room, he knows he has me because I would never dream of giving him a hard time with her present. The amount of money the Jacobs family pays me is irreplaceable.
“So the story is out? The press knows Britney left?” he asks.
I nod.
“Fuck!”
“Language,” Mrs. Jacobs scolds.
“At the moment, she’s the one being raked over the coals. The public has a lot of sympathy for you. We need to keep it that way.” I speak the truth.
His forehead scrunches. “Seriously?”
Imogen returns with the food in hand and shakes her head at her brother. “You’re the hot hockey player and now a single dad. You thought you had a lot of women before? Just wait until they see you with Annabelle.” Imogen places the donuts and muffins on the counter, snagging herself two donuts.
I have no idea how she keeps her figure, other than she has a personal trainer five days a week.