America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(45)

Usually.

“You should sign up for a dating app,” I tell her, even though I think I would have to sell my businesses if I didn’t have Charlie to keep me organized. “Meet someone. Go see the world through love’s eyes.”

“Rather see the world by myself, thank you very much. The pictures from the game last night are everywhere, and they’re reporting both that Sarah totally denied you a kiss and that she started a food fight that was probably foreplay to what you did in the bedroom. The pictures are perfect. Lots of the two of you laughing. Especially her. Plus, the media likes that she’s playing hard to get, and that you keep trying.”

“Nice avoidance.”

“You’d rather talk about why you were late after the game last night and came in looking like you just found an all-you-can-eat steak and cupcake buffet?”

“No.”

She smirks. “Didn’t think so. Tripp Wilson’s waiting for you upstairs.”

“So that’s a no to Moroccan?”

“One of everything. University City. I’m on it. But you’re going to have to spend an extra two hours on the treadmill.”

I hate the treadmill. “I can order in.”

“Nope. Can’t talk and drive. Your diva ass is getting me out of a telecon with Brass and the Dinglehoppers to discuss your incompetence at attending telecons.”

“Brass?”

“Bruce the Ass.”

“Let’s get through smoothing out my dumbass tweet, and then I’ll talk to Bruce about why he’s losing his mind. Two weeks. Tops. And if he’s still insane, he’ll be gone.”

“I’m using your card to pay for lunch for everyone in the restaurant.”

“Send some couscous to Sarah’s office while you’re at it.”

“That would be filed under duh.”

“You’re an empress among assistants.”

“I know. Don’t eat your arm off while you’re waiting for food. You need it to sign papers so we can get rid of Bruce.”

She heads for the elevator while I take the stairs to the penthouse, where I find an old friend waiting for me.

And he’s not alone.

“James! Hey, bud. Give it up.” I hold out a fist to Tripp’s three-year-old, who eyeballs me with rightful suspicion. He’s in preschooler-size jeans with bright green pajama shorts over them, and at least two shirts, because I can see a yellow collar under his bright orange Captain Beanbag shirt.

He’s also sporting a purple cape.

All of my buddies have the cutest kids.

“He’s on Twitter and he knows you’re a disaster,” Tripp tells me. “You’re gonna have to give him something more than a fist bump to win him over.”

He’s holding his daughter, who’s just over a year old and clearly didn’t dress herself this morning, because there’s no way she could’ve put that dress on herself.

I don’t think.

Plus, if I were barely a year old and allowed to dress myself, I’d be naked. So I guess I’m assuming she’s probably the same.

“Everybody screws up time to time,” I say.

Tripp gives me a wry grin. “Yeah. Just time to time.”

“You like playing ping-pong?” I ask James.

“You gosh to pway twuck but it fall in da fountain,” he replies solemnly.

Tripp ruffles his hair. “The truck dried. We left it at home.”

“I’ve got trucks,” I tell him. “Well, cars, but they have wheels and you can make them go vroom.”

Tripp shakes his head at me, eyes widening. “Dude, he will tear those things apart.”

“What? They’re just things. C’mon, James. Let’s go check out my rides.”

I get him set up playing with a couple of the model sports cars I keep on a high shelf in the game room while I play peek-a-boo with Emma, who finally decides I’m cool enough to drool on for a while. Her blond hair’s on top of her head Cindy Lou Who style, and she’s chewing on her fingers when she dives for me to hold her.

Tripp sags into the couch facing the TV. “Thanks. She’s getting heavy.”

“Need to work out more.”

“You carry her for two hours and then say that again.” He’s sporting bags under his eyes, and he only shaved the right half his face, but he’s still managing a smile.

“Holding up okay?” I don’t know shit about being a single parent, or about grieving someone close to you, but I know it’s work. A fuck-ton of hard work.

“I’m effing tired.”

“You need a nanny.”

He shakes his head. “Just overnight. It’ll pass. She’ll eventually sleep a full six hours at a time. She’s just…adjusting.”

They all were. Tripp losing his wife to the flu over the winter is one more reason my schedule keeps getting lighter. No place like home, especially when people need you. Though I’m frustrated as hell at basically being grounded right now, at least I’m here.

“What’s the story with your new girlfriend?” he asks before I can push any harder. “Levi bet me ten grand you’re falling for her, so this better be a publicity stunt.”

“You guys are assholes,” I tell him.