Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(11)

And when I look up, I realize why.

“Not. One. Word,” Ellie says.

“Daddy, a pirate girl came out of the bathtub,” Tucker whispers.

Ellie’s eyes go soft as her dimple pops out when she smiles at Tucker. She’s in a pirate wench dress, with a fluffy white blouse hanging off her shoulders and covered with one of those leather-looking thingies that ties up from her waist to her chest and gives her good cleavage—a corsage? A coriander? A makes-a-man-speechless?—and a flowing gauzy maroon skirt with black stiletto heels coming up to her knees.

I swallow hard and remind my dick that we’re here for my son to go to the Pirate Festival, not for me to lose my head. Again.

Or one of my best friends.

“You may call me Calamity Ellie, captain of the Golden Albatross,” she says to Tucker, ending on a fancy bow that has her wincing when she stands back up.

I start to ask if those boots are a good idea—she looked like she was hurting earlier, and I know she busted her leg and hip bad in the accident—but then I remember who I’m talking to, and I clamp my mouth shut and move past her to put the glasses in the kitchen.

Especially since she’s in full makeup with her hair curled special and hanging down to the tops of her bare shoulders.

She doesn’t look like she’s meeting friends.

She looks like she’s headed for a pirate battle that will be followed with a dance.

Not a care in the world.

Just time to party with the pirates.

“Girls can’t be captains,” Tucker announces as I step out of the kitchen.

I wince and angle back to put a hand on his shoulder. “Never, ever tell a woman she can’t be something. Especially Miss—Captain Ellie.”

“But boys are pirate captains.”

Ellie gives me a look that suggests this is my fault—of course she does—while she puts her fists to her hips. “Is that so, you scurvy dog? You keep talkin’, you’ll be swabbing the poop deck!”

Tucker giggles. “Ew, I don’t want to swap poop on the deck!”

“Then don’t be sayin’ there ain’t girl pirates, sonny boy.”

Ellie winks at him, then sashays past us.

With a limp that puts a rock in my gut.

I’ve never wanted to protect someone so badly while simultaneously being so irritated with her that I want to tie her to a chair and make her promise she’ll quit—quit—fuck.

I don’t know what I want her to quit, but I know it’s none of my fucking business.

Tucker falls in line behind her and also limps all the way out the door.

Fucking hell.

Does it still hurt? Beck said they weren’t sure she’d walk again right after it happened.

But I can’t ask.

I don’t have the right.

Not with our history. All of our history.

“Set the alarm, please, powder monkey,” Ellie calls to me as though we’re kids again and she’s just trying to get my goat.

Like our relationship isn’t way more complicated than that.

Like we didn’t screw on her parents’ basement floor. Like she didn’t tear off out of the house right afterward. Like she didn’t ignore every last fucking attempt I made to apologize.

“Are you going to the pirate parade with us?” Tucker asks her while I set the alarm and lock up.

“Nay, laddie, I be off to pillage and plunder whilst you all be watching the lesser pirates distract you.”

“I’m going to dig for pirate treasure this week.”

“Only the luckiest pirates who believe in girl pirate captains will find any gold.”

“I know all the pirate stories, and none of them are about girl pirates.”

“That’s because men pirates write all the books.”

“Where did you hear all the pirate stories?” I ask Tucker, and not just to distract him from sticking his foot further down his throat, which of course he doesn’t realize he’s doing, since he’s seven. I talk to him most every night before bed, generally read a story on video chat, and I’ve never read him a pirate story.

“From Mr. Duffy next door. He lets me water his dog and he tells me about when he was fighting all the pirates before the war.”

“Which war?”

“The Civil War.”

I make a mental note to ask my ex-wife if she’s aware of what Tucker’s doing when he’s playing outside. She’ll probably tell me Mr. Duffy’s a harmless old man, but Tucker can’t always tell the difference between reality and a good story, and I don’t want him getting made fun of at school for talking about his neighbor the vampire pirate hunter.

I fucking hate not being close enough to go see his teachers and just be there for those minutes after school when he talks about his day.

One more year.

Just one more year.

“Keys?” Ellie says to me.

“I locked the door.”

She points to my SUV. “So I can drive.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“This is my car.”

“I have control issues.”

She’s got that stubborn look Beck gets when he’s determined that we’re going to play poker until he wins. And she’s not overtly setting any guilt trips, but she doesn’t have to.