Mercy (Salacious Players Club, #4)(5)

“I’m not crying. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

“Why? Because you bought a beautiful house?”

“No. Because I bought a giant fixer-upper on a whim and now I have to figure out how to fill it.”

“You mean with a husband and kids?” he asks, pulling away.

“God, no!” I reply, shoving him in the chest. “Not all women need a husband—”

“It was a joke!” he says with a laugh. “I was trying to lighten the mood. I know you meant furniture.”

Giving him a skeptical glare, I pull away and lean against the counter. “Speaking of kids, how’s Isabel?”

“Ready to pop and hating life.”

“I bet. When is she due?”

“Four more months, but the doctor said she probably won’t make it that long.”

I screw up my face in disgust. The last time I saw Isabel, she already looked ready to burst, and she has to get all the way through summer like that. But I mean…she was glowing, I guess. I just hope for her sake those babies are Hunter’s and not Drake’s. No one should have to endure birthing that giant Viking’s spawn, let alone two of them at the same time.

“Are you nervous?” I ask.

“About being a father? Incredibly. But not about the baby stuff. I’m more worried about when they get older. What if they hate me? What if they resent us? I see what Emerson goes through with Beau and that’s the shit that scares me.”

I nod. I can completely understand that fear. Emerson is the only one of us to have raised a kid so far, and that’s been a rocky relationship at best. Beau wasn’t a fan of his father owning a sex club and spent six months not talking to him as punishment, meaning we never heard the end of it from Emerson during that time. Then to pour salt on the wound, Emerson went and snatched up Beau’s ex-girlfriend for himself. Now, those two are like the spokesmen for strained father-son relationships.

So yeah…if that’s the best example Hunter has of fatherhood, I don’t blame him for feeling a bit nervous.

“Well, I’m willing to bet your kids won’t be entitled, self-absorbed, spoiled brats. So I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

“Ouch!” he replies with a laugh.

“Did I say that out loud?” I add with a mischievous grin.

Both of us are still laughing when the front door opens again. This time it’s Garrett, who doesn’t knock, of course.

“What did I miss?” he asks.

“Oh nothing,” Hunter says, clearly not letting Garrett know that we’re currently roasting his best friend’s son. Not that Garrett wouldn’t have some fuel to throw on that fire.

He whistles as he walks through the house, checking it out as he does. “Nice place, Mags.”

I shrug and try to force a smile. “Thanks. It’s going to be a lot of work.”

“Well, if anyone can handle the work, it’s you.”

Can I, though? The guys all seem to think I just love hard work. As if just because I can handle it all automatically means I want to.

“You guys really don’t have to do this. I could have easily hired a moving company.”

“Now, where’s the fun in that?” Garrett replies with a laugh. “Besides, it keeps us humble. Especially since you think we’re all a bunch of arrogant assholes.”

“I never said that!” I say, slapping him on the shoulder.

“When was the last time Emerson Grant even got his hands dirty?” Hunter jokes. “This will be good for him.”

Shaking my head, I laugh.

Hunter looks down at his phone, clearly reading a message. “Drake is almost here with the moving truck.”

And just then, the door opens again. We all stare in surprise as Emerson walks in, casually dressed as if he’s about to help unload a moving truck—which is exactly what he’s about to do.

“I didn’t even know he owned a T-shirt,” Hunter mumbles.

“Are those…sneakers?” Garrett asks.

“Leave him alone, guys,” I say. “He clearly didn’t want to get his Armani dirty.”

He pauses at the door with a scowl. “Ha ha. Very funny.”

Our laughter is suddenly cut short by an unexpected guest following Emerson through the front door. Looking hesitant and disgruntled, Beau stands in the entryway of my new house, giving us an awkward wave.

“I figured we could use some help,” Emerson says, gesturing to his son.

“And someone under thirty,” Garrett adds.

I’m standing here speechless because it must be at least five years since I’ve seen Emerson’s son, and I certainly don’t remember him looking like this. Broad shoulders, thick arms, and golden tan skin.

The room is swallowed up in tension when I realize I should probably be the one to say something.

“Of course!” I stammer. “Thanks for coming, Beau.”

“You’re welcome,” he mutters uncomfortably.

“I haven’t seen you in years. I hardly recognized you,” I reply, and he gives me a tense smile. I sound so old, hearing myself say that, but it’s true. I remember Beau as a bratty seventeen-year-old, not a full-grown man.

When I notice Emerson looking around, I tense, praying that he doesn’t notice the scuffed floorboards and dripping faucet. Not that I bought this million-dollar home to impress him, but I do feel the self-inflicted scorn of having a house not quite as nice as his. Especially when we carry the same job title and take home the same salary.