My So Called Life (Love Not Included Series Book 3) (12 page)

I just don’t know the hows, whens and wheres . . . like, any of it. I don’t know what taking care of a kid fully entails. If feeding her frozen pancakes and dressing her in costume jewelry was all it took, I’d be golden. But I’m afraid it probably takes a little bit more effort than that. Even those cute little gremlins needed more.

Then, there’s obviously the whole other-human-in-my-life factor. I didn’t know I had any maternal instinct, but just the thought of Brent having anything negative to say about Pippa makes me want to claw his spoiled little eyes out. Thankfully for his eyes’ sake and mine, he won’t be in my life for long.

Once I make this huge decision, Pippa and I will become a package deal. And I need to focus on that. I really need to see if that lawyer responded since that new housing just got moved up in importance.

“How’s that silent conversation going so far?” Ian breaks my—exactly what it is—one-on-one with myself.

I prop my chin on my hands, as if I’m in serious thinking mode. “It’s been pretty productive. I’ve made some solid decisions, I feel, but there are still a lot of blanks.”

He laughs, his smile so infectious it makes me just want to roll on top of him and smack my lips to his plump ones and suck on his face until I have no more breath in my lungs.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I hear him break through my daydream.

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like you want to eat me for lunch.” He laughs with that devilish smirk on his gorgeous face.

Ian’s playful words are ringing in my ears, and because it seems I’ll always be a teenager at heart, I do what’s only right at this moment. I tackle him and jump on top with my pillow ready, starting a one-sided pillow fight.

“Take it back,” I demand as I hit the side of his face. Once. Twice. Ian is laughing too hard to fight back.

“Never,” he chuckles between breaths, but before I’m able to get another good whack in, he magically flips me over and takes the lead, now on top. “Now what are you going to do about it?” he asks in that deep voice that might as well be his fingers tickling my bits.

My face flushes instantly. I think we both realize at the same time that his privates are perfectly aligned with
my
privates and if anyone even breathes a smidge of air, it will cause friction. And possibly the quickest orgasm ever.

No shocker, I also have absolutely no rebuttal. And it’s because I can now feel something hard and large and breath-stealing pressing along the inside of my thigh.

The silence becomes deafening. Without our laughter or our playfulness, the only thing you hear is the erratic beating of our hearts and the heavy breathing we’re both trying to control.

What I started as a lighthearted joke is turning into something more meaningful, and it might not end like we both want. I want him to ravish me. My lips, my body, my soul. But when you throw in what I
should
do, it deletes all those possibilities. I may be on a break, whatever that means anymore in today’s society, but dick or not, it’s wrong to be rolling around in the bed with another guy, especially this guy, even if I have intentions of completely ending it with Brent. And somewhere deep, deep down, I feel I need to mention that before things get out of hand.

Ian stares at me, waiting. Studying. Focused absolutely on my mouth. His playfulness still lingers, but I can see the beast inside. The man who wants to stop playing games and feel physically what we are both screaming mentally.

My name leaves his lips on a soft whisper as he dips his head closer to my lips.

He’s going to do it.

He’s going to kiss me.

He makes it close enough for me to feel his warm breath on my face before I stop him.

“Wait,” I blurt out, mentally kicking my own ass for stopping him.

“Chrissy, I’ve been waiting a pretty damn long time. It feels like my whole life. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

Are. You. Kidding. Me. Who says that to someone? And then how is that same someone supposed to have the willpower to say,
Hold on. I’m kinda semi-engaged. We’re on a break, but . . .

I open my mouth and I’m so tempted to just say,
Kiss me.

“Ian, I have to tell you something—” I don’t get out much more before the high-pitched voice echoes throughout the hallway.

“Pampakes! Pampakes! Pampakes!” Pippa’s squeal puts an end to anything we were about to indulge in and I will later regret.

“Pancakes,” I whisper, thanking Pippa for saving the day.

“Pancakes.” Ian mimics my words, disappointment in his tone.

The moment lost. He breathes out and stands up.

I promise myself that I will tell him later. Definitely tell him later.

B
REAKFAST TURNS OUT TO
be quite eventful. Ian, apparently familiar with the dangers of Pippa and frozen pancakes, avoids the mounds of killer cooked-and-recooked frozen discs and makes homemade batter instead. Watching a grown man stand in a kitchen while pouring pancake batter into a steaming hot skillet, does something to a woman. If that didn’t do it for me, watching him create Mickey-Mouse-shaped pancakes and make Pippa’s world just that much sweeter, also made it sweeter for me.

Breakfast accomplished, I excuse myself to call Cornelius. I’m not ready to explain my entire situation to him, but I do tell him I need to extend my leave for another week or two. He’s obviously hesitant. Losing his golden-egg laying goose is not what he wants, but I assure him I will be back as soon as I handle my family affairs. Leaving out that I also may or may not have to cut down my hours due to childcare and preschool drop-offs.

I finish my call, and with that weight off my shoulders, I join Ian and Pippa on the couch for what looks like a
Mickey Mouse Clubhouse
marathon. Given the situation, I find myself sandwiching Pippa between Ian and me as we watch close to three hours of Mickey and friends. At some point Pippa falls asleep, half on Ian, half in my lap.

The remainder of the day is spent entertaining Pippa and learning the whole heritage breakdown of every single princess ever created. Walt Disney would be proud.

Ian grills steaks for dinner, and when he notices me salivating as I watch him hovering over the grill, I blame it on the excitement of finally eating protein instead of those carbcakes. It works too, since it’s the best steak I’ve ever eaten and I spend half the time moaning through my bites.

I’m not sure Ian fully appreciates my approval of his cooking since every time I moan, he groans, constantly adjusting himself in his seat.

Oops.

The day gets away from us and before we know it, we’re back in our designated positions on the couch. I feel bad for about a quarter second that Ian is neglecting his own home, wherever that is, but I can’t imagine having to go through this without him. Sometime during the day Ian and I established a plan on how to temporarily handle Pippa. I haven’t heard anything back from the lawyer so I felt it best to go with Ian’s advice of keeping her schedule as normal as possible.

Pippa is already zonked out when he turns his face toward mine and rests his muscled arm over the couch, draping it next to my head. He looks like he wants to say something and if it involves talking about what happened this morning, I’m going to pull out an old-school trick and spit out the word
cramps
or possibly
period
to shut him up. Low blow but works every time. Not sure what it is with guys and the dreaded menstruation topic.

Ugh, speaking of tampons. No thank you, vodka flashbacks.

“So,” he begins. “I know you may be anti-this, but Pippa has pre-k summer camp during the week.”

I mentally
phew,
feeling relieved. One, because of the obvious. Two, because I was totally wondering what I was supposed to do with a four-year-old all day long. This completely saves me time on Googling ‘tiny human instruction manual.’

Ian continues, “And if you’re staying, for whatever time it is, I thought . . . if you wanted . . . you could come hang out with me at work.”

This catches me off guard. “At work?”

“Yeah, at the Prevention Center. There are some great kids there. And they actually have an art program. Holly, who used to be in charge of it, just left because she had a kid, so no one is currently running the art projects. Everyone has been pitching in, but if you want, being in that field and all”—he hesitates—“if you have an interest while you’re here, you can come by. Maybe see some of the kids. Teach a little bit of art to them.”

I’m stunned at his offer. I want to compliment him on his sweet pitch because, man, I didn’t see that fast one coming.

“You want me to go to work with you?” I question.

“That’s what I said,” he confirms.

“As in, go and help teach a class to kids.”

“That’s what I was getting at.”

Panic and excitement both hit me like a sledgehammer. It’s been so long since I’ve actually held a brush in my hands and played with paint. Art is my utopia. Always has been. When we were younger, I would talk about attending a college for arts and becoming something great. When I made it to California, doing anything art related was a bit harder than I imagined, so I found work in art galleries in hopes of getting that ‘big break’ through those contacts. Obviously I got the big break, it just wasn’t on the side of the easel where a lot of paint and messiness was involved.

I replay his offer in my head.

Envisioning this place where kids go to find comfort away from the travesties of their home lives sounds so wonderful. My life may have ended up differently if I’d had such an outlet. I replay the comment Ian made when I first learned about the center. About knowing what kids needed. Helping these kids find an outlet through art is right up my alley. It’s like my jam.

“I mean you don’t have to—”

I quickly cut him off. “I want to.” The answer leaves my lips almost before I register that I’ve decided to agree.

His return smile is partly shocked. I have a feeling he didn’t expect me to agree either. “Great,” he says, looking both pleased and surprised. “You will love them, Chris. All those kids. They have so much to offer. And the program, they love the art program.”

“But just until I decide what I am doing here, okay?”

“Okay,” he replies.

“Nothing permanent.”

“Nothing permanent,” he confirms.

“Just until I decide.”

“Just until you decide,” he repeats.

Real complex conversation we’re having here.

I
DON’T EVEN WANT
to talk about how I woke up this morning.

If anything, we’re consistent. With poor Ian in the sitting position, I found myself lying in his lap, with Pippa on the other side, her head on the couch pillow, her feet sticking into Ian’s armpit.

Our sleeping arrangements haven’t been the most comfortable for him.

The sun shining through the bay window causes us all to rise and hurry through the morning routine. And by hurry I mean, me chasing after Ian, taking notes, while he chases after Pippa, getting her ready. With barely a minute to spare, we make it to the end of the drive to the minibus waiting to take Pippa off to daycare and camp.

Big hugs are shared and for me a tear or two, because let’s face it, out of nowhere I have become a sissy.

Back inside, I ditch yesterday’s wrinkled clothes and have a quick shower. I dig through my suitcase and pull on a pair of black leggings and a gold tank top and throw a cream pashmina over my shoulder. I complement it with my nude Manolos and gather my unruly hair into a smooth ponytail. When I head toward the front hallway, I meet Ian, stopping him in his tracks.

“What? What’s wrong now?” I ask, looking down at my appearance.

“Um, nothing. It’s just . . . You look very nice.”

“Okay, you say that as if there’s a
but
coming.”

“Do you have any other shoes?”

I immediately look down at my beautiful Manolo Blahniks. “What’s wrong with my shoes?” They’re a limited edition and wear like a fitted silk glove.

“It’s just the center, it’s more laid-back. You might be more comfortable in flats or sneakers.”

“I’m good in these,” I reply, lifting my chin in diva mode. “Plus, I didn’t bring any flats.” Great, now I’m sounding like I think he’s right.