Her Two Billionaires and a Baby (7 page)

“You do so set things on fire,” Mike objected, ready to tell Laura plenty of stories about his roommates kitchen screw-ups.

“Not since I became a firefighter.”

“Touché. You did nearly destroy a dorm kitchen single-handedly with a toaster and a frosted Pop-Tart, though.”

“Not my fault. Do you have any idea how many fire safety seminars there are about Pop-Tart glaze? It's breathtaking.”

“Yeah. Makes me gasp.” Mike poured a few inches of wine in his and Laura's glasses as she shot him a surprised look. Sarcasm didn't suit him, he knew. It oozed out when he was anxious.

Anxious? Still? Things seemed settled.
Ish
.

Ding!
The kitchen timer went off. Dylan leaped and ran, leaving a small cloud of white flour in his wake. “The meatballs!” he shouted. Mike and Laura followed, curious.

“Oh, what is that amazing scent?” Laura asked, pretending to swoon. Maybe she really was. Mike was half delirious himself from the smell of whatever Dylan was making. Taking a chance, Mike slid his arm around Laura's shoulders. She relaxed into him, keeping her eyes on Dylan. The press of her body into his felt so comfortable he needed to pause and blink, arm resting against the nape of her neck, across her shoulders, the casual comfort of the gesture so...right.

This was what he missed most. The normalcy of a night of cooking, of hanging out, watching movies and just relaxing. Being. Living. As Dylan pulled a meatball out and put parts of it on forks for everyone to taste, something in Mike released. Exhaled.

It felt damn good. Better than sex right now.

Laura snuggled in closer, her arm reaching for the fork, taking it from Dylan, lips closing over the morsel, her ribs expanding against Mike as she sighed. Eyeing the contact between the two, Dylan just smiled. Cool. Everyone was finally starting to chill.

His grandma's magic meatballs cured
everything
.

If not everything, at least they brought them all a little culinary bliss. He tasted a bite. Perfection. A blend of beef, a little veal, some pork, and oregano, basil, pepper, a touch of sugar and some grated parmesan with a tiny bit of mozzarella. Loads of garlic, of course! Juicy and coated in homemade tomato sauce (
was there any other kind? If it came in a jar it wasn't real food
), each bite was like stepping into an Italian restaurant in the North End in Boston, red velvet booths and low light and white-shirted waiters shouting in Italian.

“All that's left is the salad. Give me a few minutes and I'll have everything out.” He surveyed the countertop. Destroyed. Red sauce everywhere (
really? How'd it get on the kitchen ceiling fan blades?
), the backsplash a buffet of splotches, every large pot dirty and stacked crooked in the sink, and zero counter space. None.

“I'll help,” Laura offered, peeling off Mike, who looked disappointed. Good.

“Great!” He handed her a decanter of olive oil and a cheese grinder. “Can you put the parm on the pasta and if it needs more oil, add some?”

“What about me?” Mike asked. “Need anything?”

“Set the table?” Mike nodded and made quick work of it, grabbing plates and shuttling to and fro between dining room and kitchen. It all felt so...domestic.

Until Mike put a dent in it. “Hey, Dyl!” he hissed, nodding to the hallway. Laura was tossing pasta and rotating the cheese grinder handle, sprinkles of parmesan snowing on the bowl of noodles.

“What's up?” he asked, drying his hands on a towel.

“That whole no lying thing. Should we tell her about the –
you know
...” Mike made a reluctant face.

“The
you know
what?”

“The billionaire thing. She doesn't want lies, and she considers not telling her something major to be a lie.”

Fuck
. He hadn't thought of that. If they kept this from her, eventually it would come out. Would she be angry they didn't confide in her? Or would she understand why they wanted a little more time? It wasn't about worrying that she'd become greedy, or view them as sugar daddies, or any of the normal reasons guys with money would hesitate to let a woman know.

They had so much money there wasn't anything a woman could do to drain it anyhow, short of buying an island or a private jet, and even then – he shuddered, overwhelmed by the realization – it would just put a
temporary
dent in their cash flow. Jesus Christ. They really were filthy, stinking rich.

Next time, he was buying filet for dinner. Why had he made boring old pasta with meatballs? Sheesh.

“No way, man. Not tonight. It'll scare her off,” he told Mike. Hell, he hadn't even wanted poor Laura to have to get into talking about what he and Mike had done before. Anything that reminded her of negative feelings about them was off limits tonight. This dinner was about moving forward, not lingering in the past.

He wiggled his toes, feeling flour. Brushing his hand through his hair, he was shocked by the not inconsiderable amount that rained down on his shoulders and chest. Then he took a good look at the counter. Man, he was a slob.

But a slob who cooked some
damn
fine food.

“You don't think we should take the opportunity?”

“I do – just not
this
opportunity.” Dylan blinked, struggling to explain himself. Finally, he just let arrogance take him where he needed to go. “Look, Mike. She's vulnerable and unknowing right now. What women want at times like this is certainty. She doesn't need truth. Oh – eventually, sure,” he said as Mike opened his mouth to protest. “Not now, though. What we all need is a quiet, comfortable, fun night where we get to know each other and – ” He winked.

“
Uh uh.
No – ” Mike winked back, exaggeratedly.

“OK, fine.” He sighed heavily. “I was on the fence anyhow. Not that I don't
want
to, but more that – ”

“That she needs time.”

“I think she needs us.”

“And time.”

“Not too much time, I hope.”

“We're fucking lucky she's here, Dylan,” Mike whispered. No anger. No frustration. Just a matter-of-fact statement.

“Not lucky,” he argued.

“Then what?”

Pink. Soft swells. Blonde hair. “Hey, guys?” Laura asked, head peering around the corner. “Ready to eat? I'm starving.” She raised her eyebrows, the skin pulling her nose up a tad and making her lips fuller. A cheerleader's face. No – a
smart
cheerleader's face.

“Yep – ready!” Dylan nearly shouted, almost jumping out of his skin when she appeared.

“What're you guys talking about?”

“You.”
Mike!
So blunt.

The three walked into the dining room. Mike had even lit candles. How romantic. How unnecessary, given the cockblocking.

“Me?” she asked.

“How great you are,” Dylan jumped in, eager hands slipping around her waist, his lips reaching out to press a kiss against her temple. The way she melted into him gave him more information than 1,000 words uttered from her lips.

Mike frowned at him. She pulled back from Dylan and said breathlessly, “Well, this is one amazing dinner.” Pulling out her own chair, she settled into what would normally be Mike's seat. Dylan grabbed Jill's old place and Mike settled into what they called the “guest” spot. No need for formalities, right? Tradition and habit were thrown out the window now anyhow. Everything they knew, from domestic life to finances to dating had gone out the window over the past two years.

Live a little
, he thought. Shake it up. Sit somewhere new.

Ah, Dylan, you wild and crazy guy.

Homemade pasta, meatballs, salad and garlic bread was probably the most stereotypical Italian meal he could have cooked, but it seemed to hit the spot for everyone. Laura ate with great gusto and Dylan admired that. So many women he dated ate like they were competing in American Idol: Anorexia Edition.

She couldn't possibly eat more than Mike, though, who managed to eat the share of a seventeen-year-old football player going through a growth spurt. With a tapeworm. And a hollow leg.

Three plates later, Thor pushed himself back from the table and finished off his wine. “Amazing, Dylan. Really.”

“Thanks.” Dylan's stomach stretched just enough to make him want to unbutton his jeans. And he would have, if Laura weren't here.

“Oh,” Laura groaned, setting down her fork. “I give up.” She turned to Dylan and put her elbow on the table, chin resting in her palm. “That was the best dinner anyone has ever cooked for me.”

“Ready for dessert?” he asked. They both groaned and put up their hands in protest.

“How about a movie, first?” Mike asked.

“Which one?” Mike liked some really weird shit, like those Christopher Guest movies. Not “The Princess Bride,” which was a classic even Dylan liked, but the ones where people talked to each other like they were on some pretentious stage doing improv designed by a philosophy professor at a dog show as filmed by the Farrelly brothers.

“Let's let Laura pick.” Mike bowed slightly, in deference to her. Mike always knew what to say. It made Dylan feel like an idiot sometimes. So, in retaliation, he totally hogged the spot next to Laura on the couch, grabbed the remote, and turned on the television, flipping to an on demand service.

“Comedy?” Dylan suggested. Laura looked between the two men, reading them. Her cheeks were a bit flushed from the wine and she seemed to have let down her guard a bit, relaxing into the sofa with a patterned throw pillow in her lap. He loved seeing her like this. Just being. And there went his body, tingling and rising to the occasion.

The occasion Mike had squashed.
Squash this
, he thought, wiggling just enough to take the edge off his discomfort. Mike nudged past their knees and took his place on the other side of Laura. She looked to the left and to the right and seemed bemused.

Grabbing the remote from him, Laura's soft touch made him close his eyes and exhale.
Garlic
. Elephant amounts of garlic on his breath. Mammoth levels of garlic.

Leaning in toward her, he smelled it on her breath, too. Mike probably reeked, too, which made him relax. OK. It was all good. If everyone smelled like an Italian restaurant, then there was no need for breath mints.

Laura settled on a comedy he and Mike happened to have watched a few weeks ago. They exchanged a wordless glance of understanding; don't question it. The film was funny enough to enjoy again, and she seemed to be a bit nervous suddenly. Whatever it took to keep everyone happy was what they needed right now.

Even if it meant laughing all over at a movie they'd thought was just OK. Besides, right now, his attention wasn't exactly focused on the television screen, with Laura's warm body next to his, the rise and fall of her chest in his peripheral vision, her fingers worrying the wine glass stem. She wriggled and settled in place, crossing and uncrossing her legs, finally gulping the last of her wine and leaning forward to place her empty glass on a coaster.

Heat from her body disappeared and left him feeling colder than he'd expected, and then Mike burst into laughter, followed by Laura's surprised giggle. Something funny in the movie. He could only give it half his attention because the entire room came into sharp focus suddenly, as if he were watching them from above. A quiet night, capped with a decent, funny movie about some modern woman who was insecure, some man who'd hurt her accidentally, some big misunderstanding that needed to be unraveled, supported by each person's best friend as plot devices.

Add a second man and you had, well,
them
. All three.

Here they sat, laughing at it on the big screen.

Mike's legs were stretched out on the coffee table, ankles crossed. Laura leaned back in and slouched a little, head cocked to the left. Dylan clutched a pillow and let the glow of the TV wash over them all. They were just three friends hanging out, watching a movie after a great meal.

The tiramisu he'd soon spring on them was soaking in flavor.

He was soaking in all of
this
.

Self-assured, he stretched his arm behind Laura and rested one hand on his shoulder. A little smile played on her lips as she pretended to be completely absorbed by a movie that really only needed five of your brain cells to compute.

Mike caught his eye. Looked at his hand. Nodded.

Life was good.

Chapter Three

Knock knock
. “Wha?” Laura sat up. Who in the hell knocks at 6:11 a.m.?

Bang bang bang
. “Laura?”

Josie does. “Lost my key!” she whispered.

I never gave you a new one
, Laura thought, shuffling to the door. Daylight was a glaring bitch this morning, sunlight aggressively spilling through her apartment.

“You know, they have these places,” Laura said sharply as Josie walked past her, into the kitchen, and grabbed the coffee sack. “They're called coffee shops. Professional coffee people make it for you and you give them these green pieces of paper and you get to drink it.”

“Green pieces of paper?”