I rub my eyes. “What was her friend’s name again?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter—you’re going. I won’t take no for an answer.”
When he gets an idea into his head, Brent can be as tenacious as Sofia’s Rottweiler’s jaws—he just won’t let go. So, in an effort to get back to work as quickly as possible, I give in.
“Fine.”
“Sweet.” He smiles. “We’re meeting them at six.”
• • •
Dinner with Brent, Lucy, and her friend with the tight ass, whose name I still don’t know, is once again casual. Easy. And forgettable. We meet up at a sports bar, have hot sandwiches, then move to the adjoining room to shoot some pool. The friend flirts with me, tries to get me to teach her how to hold the cue. But I’m just not into it. It’s an effort not to be rude.
After what seems like forever but is in actuality only two hours, we call it a night. The four of us walk out the door of the bar onto the sidewalk.
I turn to the right, and find myself staring into stunning, crystal-blue eyes.
“Jake!” Chelsea says, as surprised as I am.
“Chelsea . . . hey.”
The kids flank her on all sides. Raymond is pushing Ronan in his stroller on her left, Riley holds Rosaleen’s hand on her right, Regan is held in Chelsea’s arms.
“Jake!” Regan shouts, using her new favorite word.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Chelsea’s expression goes from surprised to awkward as she takes in Brent, the blond Lucy, and the brunette at my side. She pales slightly, looking . . . wounded.
Not to be outdone, Rosaleen bounces and says, “Hey, Jake!”
I smile at her as the brunette crouches down. “You are sooo cute! My sister is going to have a baby soon and I hope she looks just like you.” She taps Rosaleen’s nose—which scrunches distastefully.
“Who are you?” Rosaleen asks with all kinds of attitude.
“Come on, Rosaleen.” Riley tugs at her sister’s hand, giving me the cold shoulder and an even colder glare. “Raymond, let’s keep walking. Aunt Chelsea, we’ll catch up with you down the block.”
The three of them walk around us while I’m still staring at Chelsea.
“What . . . what are you doing here?”
“Rory’s therapist had to push back his session. He’s in there now and I promised the kids ice cream while we wait, so that’s what I’m doing. We’re heading that way”—she points over my shoulder—“to get ice cream.”
As an afterthought, she glances at Brent. “Hi, Brent—it’s nice to see you.”
“You too, Chelsea,” he answers softly.
She hoists Regan higher on her hip and pushes hair behind her ear. “Well . . . I should get going. Have . . . have a good night.”
She walks around me. But she only gets a few steps.
“Chelsea!” I call, her name sounding like it’s been torn from the deepest part of my lung. I step quickly, moving in front of her. “I can explain. This isn’t—”
“Jake, you don’t have to explain,” she tells me gently, shaking her head. “You don’t owe me anything.”
And I know that’s true—so why does it feel like I’ve been kicked in the nuts?
We stand that way for a few seconds. Then I reach for Regan. “Let me help you get the kids ice cream.”
But Chelsea steps back. Out of my reach. “No. It’s okay.” Her smile is so soft. So sad. “I can do it on my own.”
She walks away. Leaving me standing on the sidewalk. Alone.
• • •
A few days later I’m in the office; Stanton’s at his desk. “Are you and Sofia coming over to watch the game tonight?” I ask him.
“Ah . . . no. Change of plans.”
“What are you guys doing?”
Sofia brushes into the office, timing as impeccable as ever. “We’re watching the kids for Chelsea.”
I lean back in my chair, my work totally forgotten.
“Why? I mean . . . why didn’t she ask me?”
Sofia hands Stanton a folder. “Probably because she has a date and didn’t want things to be uncomfortable.”
“A date?”
My first thought is she’s doing it to get back at me, because she caught me out on my own stupid double date. But Chelsea’s not like that. She’s not petty. Which means she’s going out on a date because she’s moving on. Just like I told her to.
Fuck.
“Do you . . . did she tell you who she’s going out with?”
Sofia’s hazel gaze regards me with no sympathy whatsoever. “She did actually—Tom Caldwell.”
“Tom Caldwell? Get the hell out of here! How did that happen?”
“Apparently, Chelsea ran into Tom at the grocery store. They started talking, he asked if she was available . . . then he asked her out.”
Motherfucker.
“And how do you know this?” I ask harshly.
Sofia shrugs. “Chelsea and I talk. We’re friends—she doesn’t have a lot of friends here, Jake.”
I know. With six kids to look after she doesn’t have a lot of time for friends. But—bitterness stings sour on my tongue—I guess she’s making time for good old fucking Tom.
“I’ll watch the kids.” I don’t leave any room for discussion in my tone.
That doesn’t mean Sofia won’t try to discuss it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”