Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(42)

“Of course you will.”

“See? That’s the thing. I can tell you what I want professionally. But I don’t have a clue what I want in my personal life anymore.”

“You don’t want a family anymore?”

“I don’t know if I…if I can.” The words come out like they’re physically painful, and the sudden understanding hits me like a sock to the gut that pushes it into my chest to suffocate my heart.

I never wanted to have kids, and then Tucker happened, and I can’t imagine my life without him. We talk every night during the school year—I got him a phone over Lydia’s objections, and because he’s seven, he doesn’t know yet he can push limits—and it’s the best part of every day.

Ellie’s always wanted kids. Always.

Life’s not fucking fair.

I swallow hard. “The accident?”

“I haven’t been…regular…since. And my doctor…doesn’t know yet. She says I need more time to heal, but the best way to find out is to…try. And I don’t fucking have anyone to try with, and I’m not in any position to do it all by myself, or even ready at this point, and I never wanted to do it by myself anyway. But I just—” She looks away and cuts herself off with a shake of her head.

“Does your family know?”

“Of course not. They’ve barely gotten over the trauma of the phone call. I’m not putting this on them.”

“Ellie. They’re your family.”

“And they can’t fix it.”

I rub a hand over my face, wincing when I accidentally hit my sore eye, and stifle a sigh. “I don’t know what all’s going on inside your head right now, but I know your mother, and I know she’s always been the best listener, with the best advice, and she might not be able to solve anything, but she can sure as hell make anyone feel better.”

“I didn’t say I feel bad about anything.”

“But you don’t know what you want out of your personal life,” I point out. Helpfully.

“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“You know your worth as a person is more than just whether you can have kids and walk without a limp.”

The edges of her pursed lips go white as she glares over the railing at the park.

“If anyone can beat this,” I say, “you can.”

She doesn’t answer.

“Fuck, Ellie, Beck said the doctors weren’t sure you’d ever walk again, and look at you, being a dumbass and pushing your limits and giving them the double bird while you dance on tables.”

I get a reluctant grin.

“And scientists have made huge advancements in anatomically correct, realistic looking robots, so there’s even a chance you’ll be able to at least look like you’re married before you’re fifty,” I add.

She spins in her chair and lunges for the ketchup, and before I know what’s happening, I’m staring down a squeeze bottle. “That wasn’t very nice,” she says primly.

Her eyes are dancing behind the bruises, and dammit, she’s pretty when she smiles.

And when she threatens me with a ketchup bottle.

“You can try it,” I tell her, “but I’m a quick draw with the mustard.”

Her gaze darts to the yellow squirt bottle on the table, then back to me. “You think so?”

“I could definitely sword fight you with it.”

“If you want to get stabbed in the heart with a ketchup spout.”

“You’d go for my heart?”

“I’m ruthless, Morgan. Ruthless.”

“But have you studied the art of war?”

“I’ve studied the art of not getting trampled by my dear brother, which is the same thing.”

“Is not.”

“Oh, please. It is—hey!”

I snag the mustard bottle and point it at her while she’s distracted with arguing.

“I should squirt you,” she says, but she’s smiling so big she can’t get it out without a laugh.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Oh, like yesterday was my fault?”

I want to kiss her.

I want to lean across this table and kiss her until neither one of us can breathe, and then I want to kiss her more.

Because she’s strong. So fucking strong. She’s what I want to be. What I try to be.

Unstoppable. Undaunted by a challenge. Fearless.

“All your fault,” I say. “You set me up.”

She’s leaning in like she feels it too. Like she would kiss me too.

She’s still pointing the ketchup bottle at me, but it’s Ellie, so naturally.

“You are so full of baloney.”

She’s a Siren, beckoning me with her wide smile and daring insults. She’s bold and driven and fun.

Fuck, I miss fun.

“You like baloney,” I remind her.

She wrinkles her nose.

“You did. When we were kids.”

The ketchup bottle wavers. “How do you even remember that?”

“It was horrifying.”

“You used to eat canned meat. You can’t talk.”

We’re so close, the nozzles on our condiment bottles are touching. “And how do you remember that?”