Page 39 of Trusting You
12
Locke
I am merely a speed bump in Carter Jameson’s quest for Lily.
That’s what I’ve come to terms with as the days go by and she greets me politely after a full five hours of disappearing, then beelines for Lily. It’s what I’ve come to accept as we become more passersby on the sidewalk than roommates.
I can’t blame her. When I offered for Carter to stay, it wasn’t with the goal of sleeping with her. It came from the very real picture she painted in front of me, the reality of taking Lily out of her arms and leaving Carter to deal with the aftermath alone.
No child deserves to grow up without a mother, and Carter is the closest Lily has to one. Even I, more asshole than brain, know that much.
Therefore, it should come as no surprise when, during each evening that passes, Carter grows more and more distant from our conversations, goes to bed practically when Lily does and falls into a routine that, for the most part, doesn’t involve Locke Hayes.
We haven’t really discussed her terms or how long she’ll stay—a cardinal mistake in any other circumstance—but in a roommate way, Carter doesn’t bother me. She’s clean, quiet, washes bottles and dishes without a word from yours truly, doesn’t drink—as far as I can tell—cooks, and definitely doesn’t party.
A few evenings, I’ve had to leave, prior commitments and promises forcing me out of the apartment while I have a live-in babysitter to continue to do so. Before I’d asked Carter to stay a while, I’d been attempting to figure out how to watch Lily while I went out. Get Ben over? Hell no. Asher would scare Lily on sight, and Easton’s too distracted right now to learn how to keep a baby alive for a few hours.
I promised my sister I’d keep doing this, though—and Ben. All of them. I couldn’t renege on my deal, so on Tuesday evening, then Thursday, I asked Carter to watch Lily.
Carter, expectedly, figured I was out sleeping around. Frowned at my fresh shower and spritz of cologne. Judged my button-down and didn’t return my waves good-bye.
Let her think it.
Most of me is carved from stubbornness. I have my dad to thank for that. If Carter wants to believe I’m busy fucking my brains out while leaving my responsibilities behind, let her goddamned think it.
Truth is, I shouldn’t be complaining. In a perfect world, I’d keep my mouth shut and let this continue to play out since it’s going so calmly and full of polite gestures. We could blind each other with our teeth.
But this isn’t my perfect world. In that one, I’d be fucking Carter Jameson.
No woman has ignored me so effortlessly. She’s put me in a box and labeled it PRIVATE—DO NOT TOUCH. I can’t read her expressions or figure out what’s going on behind those champagne-colored eyes. She’s not using me for my body, not trying to get closer to feel a touch of Hayes fame. She isn’t affected one way or another if I’m in the room or not…
It’s fucking infuriating.
And it’s never made me want a woman more.
I want to think she’s playing a game, doing the whole “hard to get” ploy that most men dig. With Carter, though, I don’t think that’s it. It doesn’t seem like her to premeditate how to get me shirtless and panting at her feet, because that’s the problem—I’ve been shirtless in front of her, many times, and she doesn’t give a fuck.
At this point, I’m more than annoyed. I’m beyond blue balls. I’m pissed at myself because, in the midst of getting to know my baby daughter, I shouldn’t be thinking about how to screw her substitute mother.
Another day passes, and a small box of Carter’s stuff comes. I offer to help, but she pertly says “no, thanks,” then goes into her and Lily’s room. Then another day goes by, and I’m ready to grab her and crush my mouth on those pillow lips made for blow jobs, but then she goes and decides to shock the shit out of me instead.
The three of us are in the living room, Carter and I doing our own thing despite being within feet of each other, as usual, when she pauses in stacking blocks with Lily on the floor to say, “I should get a job.”
“What? Why?”
“I should. I’m not going to squat here. I’ll pay my way.”
I’m stupid enough to suggest, “Why don’t you just be her nanny?”
The Death Star stares at me in the form of a face. “You’re not going to pay me to be Lily’s babysitter. Like I said, I’ll earn my keep.”
I shrug over my mistake, pretending I don’t give a rat’s ass what she does, when, in reality, it kills me that she doesn’t think she’s doing enough, then I go back to my laptop. “Your choice.”
“What do you do, anyway?”
I glance up at my screen, and I’m amused to see her flustered.
“What I mean is,” she says, “do we need to figure out some form of day care for Lily?”