White Lilies (A Mitchell Sisters Novel) (5 page)

“Erin, are you okay?” I ask again, not entirely sure she’s even hearing me.

She finally nods her head slightly, rubbing at her temples. “Yeah, I think I have a migraine coming on. I used to get them when I went through . . . through . . . uh—” She stares at me blankly.

“Menopause?” I ask, completing her sentence that she couldn’t finish due to the pain.

“Yeah. Menopause,” she says.

I wave the waitress over and ask for the check.

“Come on.” I quickly leave some money on the table. “I need to get my best friend home.”

chapter four

Erin texted me saying I needed to be home at 10:00 a.m. for a delivery. Not a problem. I’ve been barfing up a goddamn lung every morning for the past few weeks, so I don’t leave the apartment until almost noon. And although I haven’t seen much of Erin since our lunch together, she sends me sweet care packages of crackers, ginger ale, green apples, and everything else that’s supposed to help with morning sickness.

I’m beginning to wonder if she’s having second thoughts about our friendship. Maybe she said all those things about best friends and ‘Auntie Skylar’ when she was still riding the high from the ultrasound. She could have gone home and thought about it and now she’s pulling away from me so it won’t be so bad when she dumps me like a hot potato the second Bean is born.

The doorbell rings just as I’m finishing up brushing my teeth after my latest vomit session. Good timing, it’ll be almost an hour before I throw up again. It’s the same every day. Three barfs with an hour in between each. On the bright side, I’ve only gained one pound in ten weeks.

I look through the peephole in the front door to see a dark head of messy-yet-perfectly-sculpted hair.

Griffin Pearce.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, my hands go up to my hair, pulling it loose from the confines of my ponytail. I look down to see what I’m wearing, making sure it’s not spattered with vomit. While giving a million thanks that I just brushed my teeth, I slowly open the door vowing not to look at his crotch.

“Hi, Skylar,” he says in that deeply smooth voice of his.

Does he mean for his voice to drip with sex or does it do it all on its own?

“Uh, hey.” I peek my head out and look down the hall for Erin.

He’s alone. Suddenly I feel very self-conscious. Alone with the man whose crotch I’m trying to avoid looking at is not a particularly good position to be in. I don’t know where to look. I try looking at his eyes, but those steel-gray eyes that burned into me the first time I saw him are not going to make my guilt-ridden fantasies of him disappear. I give him a quick smile and then move aside so he can come in.

He walks past me into my apartment, leaving a trail of his scent lingering as I shut the door behind him, struggling not to inhale sharply through my nose.

It occurs to me that this is the first time we’ve ever been together without Erin. We’ve socialized on many occasions. We’ve been out to dinner. We’ve gone to barbeques at Baylor’s. Erin’s family had me out to their house in White Plains. They even came to Sunday brunch with my family a couple of times. But Griffin and I have never been alone. Until now.

In my apartment.

With a bed.

My belly churns and I wonder if I’m going to throw up again or if it’s nervous flutters.

I recall Erin’s declaration that Griffin would never cheat on her. Which is good, because I’d never do that to her.
Never
. I’m well aware that I’ve probably ruined enough marriages in my lifetime. I’m not about to ruin theirs. And I know he won’t put me in that position, but I’m just sayin’—if he did, I wouldn’t go there.

No matter how much I’d love to run my fingers through that inky-black hair.

No matter how much that spicy-rugged smell of his permeates through me.

No matter how much I long for that stubble of his to rub between my thighs.

Stop it, Skylar.

“Is it here yet?” he asks, pulling me from my inappropriate thoughts.

“Is what here yet? Erin said there was going to be a delivery, but she didn’t say what. I thought it would be another one of her morning-sickness care packages.”

He gives me a look of concern. “She told me you were pretty sick. Sorry about that.”

“It’s not that bad. A few hours every morning and then I’m pretty much good to go for the rest of the day. I usually work at the restaurant from one until ten, so it’s not that big a deal.”

“Good,” he says. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“So, the package?” I ask, trying to distract my wayward thoughts from all the things I can think of that he could do to make me feel better. I blame it on my pregnancy hormones.

“Oh, right. We got you a bike,” he says. “We know you like to ride, but it can be dangerous around the city with all the traffic, especially when you start to get bigger. So we got you a stationary one that you can ride right here in your apartment.”

My eyes snap up and hold his. “You got me a stationary bike? Really?”

“Yes.” He smiles and I look away, frazzled like a little schoolgirl. “It should be here any minute,” he says.

“So if it’s being delivered, why are
you
here?” I belatedly realized that comment might have been a little bitchy. “Uh, not that I didn’t want you to come. I mean, not that you shouldn’t have come. It’s okay that you’re here, but why would you come if the delivery man is coming?”

Oh my God. Stop saying
come
, Skylar.

“Ugh!” I cover up my eyes and wallow in embarrassment.

He chuckles.

Does that mean he knows the effect he’s having on me? I’ll bet all women go batty-eyed over him. I’m sure this is nothing new. He’s a hot photographer who probably has gorgeous models falling at his feet.

“You’ll have to ignore me. Pregnancy hormones make me stupid,” I say, realizing once again, I’m blushing in front of Griffin. What is it about this one guy that makes my face bleed emotion whenever he’s around?

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m here to put it together. They’ll deliver the bike, but they won’t assemble it.”

“Oh, well, thanks.” I try to sound grateful, but I’m not exactly happy that he’s going to be here for a while. The quicker he gets out of here, the better. Being around, and lusting over, Erin’s husband makes me feel all slutty inside.

I look at my watch, praying for the doorbell to ring and ease the awkward tension I’ve created.

“Can I get you a drink?” I ask.

“Water would be great,” he says.

I walk the short distance from the living room into my galley-style kitchen. I can see him looking around my apartment from where I stand at the refrigerator. He starts moving some things around, I suppose to make room for the bike. He clears an area in the far corner, behind the couch. It’s not where I would have put it, but I remain quiet as I’m mesmerized watching his muscles flex as he pushes the bookshelves out of the way.

I emerge from the kitchen and hand him the bottle of water. “I was thinking over by the window would be better. That way I can at least see the outdoors while I ride.” And I can watch those muscles move the heavy shelves again.

“You can put it there if you want, but the bike comes with a large monitor that you can program for almost any ride in the world. You can bike through the national parks, or do the Tour de France. Or bike to a volcano in Hawaii. It’s pretty cool, actually. I test-drove one in the sporting goods store.”

My jaw hangs open. I know how expensive those things are. Plus, I think you have to buy a monthly subscription to use the programmed trails. “Fuck, Griffin. You shouldn’t have spent so much.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “And don’t say fuck.”

“
You
don’t say fuck,” I tease.

“I only said fuck because you said fuck.” He shakes his head. “Why don’t we both stop saying fuck.”

We share a laugh and sit down on opposite sides of the couch. I check my watch again.

“Is everything okay with Erin?” I ask, trying to pass the time. “It seems like since the ultrasound, she’s been avoiding me. She’s not having second thoughts about Bean, is she?” I joke. Well, I think it’s a joke. I’m half-serious.

“I’m not exactly sure what’s going on with her.” He leans back into the couch, hooks an ankle over one knee and picks tentatively at his shoelace. Then he furrows his brow and gives a small shake of his head as if something has just now occurred to him. He looks over at me. “She’s been acting differently since I got back from Africa. Maybe this whole thing is a little overwhelming. She’s wanted a baby for so long, and it’s finally happening. I think we need to give it some time to sink in.”

I’m about to ask him how his trip to Africa went when the doorbell rings.

Griffin hops up from the couch. “I’ll get it.” He strides over to the door and follows the delivery guy downstairs. A few minutes later, they carry in a large, heavy box that has their muscles bulging.

The delivery guy is extremely good looking. Big. Burly. Blonde. Ripped. And he’s totally checking me out. The old Skylar would flirt with him relentlessly. Hell, the old Skylar would probably bed him here and now, giving him one hell of a tip. The new Skylar, however, would rather stare at the unavailable man standing next to him.

“This for you?” the guy asks.

“I guess it is,” I say.

He stares at me appraisingly as Griffin watches. “Doesn’t look like you need it,” hot delivery guy says.

“That’s exactly why I do it,” I tell him, giving him my best cocky smile.

“Damn.” He turns to Griffin. “You’re a lucky guy.”

“Oh, we’re not together,” Griffin says.

Even though it’s true—and I know being with him isn’t even a remote possibility in any life—his saying that still stings my heart momentarily.

Delivery guy raises an eyebrow. “Then you won’t mind if I ask her out.”

It wasn’t a question.

Griffin’s face hardens. “We may not be together, but she is carrying my baby,” he says.

All the air gets sucked out of the room, taking what’s in my lungs right along with it.

What the fuck?

My jaw is still on the floor when Griffin hands the guy a twenty on his way out the door that he practically sprinted to.

The door shuts.

“What the hell was that?” I spit at him.

“What?” He shrugs an innocent shoulder.

“Don’t
what
me,” I raise my voice at him. “Why did you have to tell him that? He probably thinks I’m a slut.”

“Why do you care what the delivery guy thinks?”

“You’ve got no fucking right to say things like that!” I yell.

“Quit saying fuck,” he says calmly.

“I’ll say fuck whenever I want to say fuck. As in, fuck you, Griffin. You had no right to say that shit!”

He laughs which only fuels my anger. “Are you telling me you would have dated the guy?”

“No, I wouldn’t have dated the guy,” I say. “But you have no place taking the choice away from me.”

“I’m only trying to keep you safe. He could have been a psycho killer for all you know,” he says. “And if I recall, you said you were done being promiscuous. It was one of the reasons you wanted to do this.” He nods to my still-flat belly.

“Well, thanks
Dad
,” I say petulantly. “But I think I can handle myself. I’m twenty-four fucking years old, and I’ve made it this far without your goddamn help.”

“Maybe I’d treat you like a twenty-four-year-old if you would stop cussing like a rebellious teenager,” he says, irritated.

“Maybe I’d quit cussing if you’d stop cock-blocking me,” I retort.

“Oh, so you
do
want to get laid.” His arms cross over his chest.

“Ugh!” I kick the huge box with my foot and then wince at the bolt of pain that radiates up my leg. “No! I don’t want to get laid,” I say. “But, I’ll be the one to decide that, not you.”

Oh, crap. My stomach heaves and I feel round two coming on. No time to run to my bathroom. I barely make it over to the kitchen trash can where I hurl the rest of the green apple I ate for breakfast.

My hair hangs down into the trash can and before I’m done throwing up, I feel Griffin grab my hair and hold it away from my face. He places a gentle hand on my shoulder.

How is it that I’m retching into a garbage can and all I can think about is the heat he’s sending into my body through the thin t-shirt I have on?

I sit on the floor and let my abs recover. Griffin rummages through my cabinets, finding a glass to fill with cold water. He hands it to me along with a wet paper towel to wipe my face.

I’m horrified that I threw up in front of him.

On the other hand, maybe the sheer mortification of him seeing me like this will stop the erotic dreams I keep having about him.

“I’m really sorry.” He holds out his hand to help me up. “Did I cause that by getting you upset?”

“No.” I glance at my watch. “It was right on schedule.”

“You have a vomit schedule?” He laughs.

“Pretty much,” I say. “At least it’s predictable.”

I pull the trash can liner out and tie it off, then take it to the door. He grabs it from me. “Let me take that.”

“God, no,” I say, pulling it back. “I’ll do it myself. There’s a trash chute in the hallway.”

“I think I can handle it, Sky.” He takes the bag from me despite my obvious mortification over it.

“Lar,” I say

“Huh?” he asks, opening the door.

“It’s Skylar, not Sky,” I say. “Nobody calls me Sky.” I’ve always hated it. It’s too personal. Too much like an endearment. A pet name. A way to get close. I don’t do close.

So, why then, does part of me want to kick my ass for telling him not to use it? Then the other part of me wants to kick
that
part’s ass for thinking it.

“Oh. It seems like such an obvious nickname,” he says.

I leave to go brush my teeth and take a long shower. The less time I spend with him the better. I’m just not sure if it’s because he’s so freaking hot, or because he’s figured out how to infuriate me.