Penthouse Prince(46)

Finally, I just hit CALL and hope the right words come on their own.

Corrigan picks up after a few rings. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Lex.”

“I know. Your number’s saved in my contacts.” Her voice sounds amused and . . . happy is the most fitting descriptor I can think of.

“Right. Um, how are you?” I ask.

“I’m fantastic.”

“I agree,” I say, chuckling. “So you . . . about last night, you don’t . . .”

“Regret it? No.” Her answer is quick and her tone absolutely certain.

Relief floods through me. Thank God.

Keeping my voice low, I say, “I’m glad to hear that. I had an incredible time, and I wanted to make sure you did too.”

“I definitely did. But it’s sweet of you to check up on me.”

I take a deep breath. “I know you said one date, but I thought I’d ask if you’d be interested in hanging out again? Maybe we could grab lunch?”

Lunch is the most nonthreatening meal there is. She can’t say no to lunch, right?

“That sounds nice. I’m actually not doing anything today, if you have time.”

“Yes,” I say immediately. I can figure out how to rearrange my schedule after I get off the phone. “How about noon at Hazel’s Cafe? I went there with Mom the other day, and the food was great.”

“Sounds good. Text me the address, and I’ll be there.”

? ? ?

We take advantage of the warm, but not yet oppressive sunshine with a patio table. Not long after we order, who should pass by on his way out but the old man with the huge dog. Grier gasps and flails until Corrigan takes her out of her high chair and puts her down.

They pet Hamburger together, with Corrigan occasionally delivering gentle admonishments when Grier gets too rough in her enthusiasm, but the dog wags his tail regardless. The sight of them together is calming. Corrigan really is amazing with kids.

As we watch them enjoy themselves, the old man says to me, “Now I see where the little one gets her looks.”

It takes a second to process what he means. Corrigan and I lock wide, alarmed eyes with each other.

“She’s not Grier’s mother,” I say. “She’s . . .”

She’s what? I don’t even know if this is a real date, let alone if I can say we’re dating.

The old man clears his throat. “Oh, I see. Pardon me. I only meant to compliment your lady friend, not bring up any awkwardness.”

I shoot a questioning glance at Corrigan.

She just smiles, although she still looks a little uncomfortable. “It’s all right. Thank you.”

“You all have a nice day, now,” he says as he leaves.

For a minute, we just sit and listen to the sounds of the birds and the wind rustling the tree that shades our section of the patio. I place Grier back in her high chair while Corrigan wipes both Grier’s hands and her own with hand sanitizer.

Smart.

When our meals arrive, Grier immediately scoops up two fistfuls of oatmeal and stuffs them into her mouth, smearing most of it all over the lower half of her face. We can’t help chuckling despite the mess. Grier looks so proud, grinning at her attempt to feed herself.

“Try your spoon,” Corrigan says, gently wiping off Grier’s nose and cheeks with her own napkin. “That might work better.”

This time, the sight of her caring for Grier hits me even harder than usual. Something deep in the back of my mind whispers, What would it be like if that man had been right? The thought provokes a flurry of strange feelings—not good, exactly, but far from bad. And although I quash it, refusing to acknowledge anything, I can’t quite ignore it either.

The rest of the meal passes in a blur of bliss. It sounds cheesy, but I love this. The lingering glances and stolen touches between Corrigan and me. And the sweetness of seeing the two most important ladies in my life so happy with each other.

When Corrigan bumps her knee against mine, I dare to caress her leg under the table and am rewarded with a mischievous smile.

She murmurs with a sultriness that makes my skin tingle, “After Grier’s down for her nap, maybe we could—”

Grier grabs at Corrigan’s sleeve and shouts, “Mommy, juice!”

The word crashes into us like a wrecking ball. The carefree atmosphere vanishes.

Stunned, I turn to look at Grier. Corrigan also watches her, her eyes steady and intense, ready to hang on whatever she says.

“Gimme juice.” Grier reaches for the cup that’s just out of her grasp.

I fight to keep my voice calm. “I’ll get you more in a second, love bug, right after you tell me what you called her.” I point to Corrigan. “Please. Who is that?”

Grier frowns at us as if she can’t believe how dense we are, then says again, too clear to deny it, “Cor-gan Mommy.”

She hasn’t said that word before. But every time a cartoon mommy comes on the screen, I cringe, and have been waiting for this. Maybe to Grier, any woman who takes care of you, cleans your hands, and plays with you is called Mommy?

It’s sweet and heartbreaking and impossible, and I have no idea what to say to Grier. How do you explain the truth to a two-year-old?

Corrigan still hasn’t said a word. I tentatively touch her hand, only for her to pull it away. Under her breath, she says, “When we get back, we need to talk.”