America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(47)

I love these shoes.

Loved.

They’re my fearless shoes. Boots, really—the only thing I’ll do fashionably. Low heel, leather, in theory washable, but does leather absorb smells?

Also, I can’t actually work up a really good mad here, because the baby—toddler? I’ve never spent much time around kids—is freaking adorable with all those big grins.

Beck gestures awkwardly to the kitchen.

I hold the baby out while she smiles and squeals and flails her arms and legs and leaves a trail of baby goodness from the foyer to the kitchen sink, where Tripp finally meets us.

He’s wiping his eyes.

“Smooth, man. Smooth,” he says to Beck before taking over with the gooped-up child. “Tripp Wilson. Pleasure to meet you,” he says to me.

“Likewise. Although I do try to dress up better when I’m meeting new people.”

Beck winces, totally missing the joke that I don’t actually dress up for anyone. “I’ll, ah, call Charlie. She’ll get you some…” He trails off and gestures to my clothes.

“Fashion sense?” I deadpan.

“Fu—uddlesticks, that’s a custom order T-shirt, isn’t it?”

We all look down at my Einstein shirt, including the baby, who blows a juicy raspberry that sprays us all with spit.

“I may not have taste, but I have consistency,” I say.

“You have awesome taste,” Beck assures me.

The elevator dings again. “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?” a woman calls.

“I told you I thought you were my mother,” he mutters. “Also, brace yourself. And I’m sorry.”

Tripp chokes on another laugh as he strips the baby.

“Oh, good, you’re all—oh my. Is this Sarah?” A brown-haired, blue-eyed woman stops on the other side of the island and utterly lights up with joy. “Oh, it’s so good to meet you! Ellie’s been telling me all about your bees and your mission to save the giraffes. And you work for Plantwell? We have so much respect for Gary and Jonathan.”

She smothers me in a hug before any of us can get out a syllable.

“Um,” I say, because I’ve never really done the meet the parents thing, and do his parents know, or are they totally in the dark?

“Mrs. Ryder, you might want to ease up on squishing Emma’s work of art there,” Tripp says.

She pulls back, looks down, and laughs.

Laughs.

“I haven’t had baby poop on me in years. I remember the first time Beck had a blow-out.”

“Mom—” he starts.

“Shush, I want to hear this,” I say.

“He was eight months old, and he was so blocked up—”

“Mom—”

“I definitely want to hear this too,” Tripp agrees.

Emma squeals as he starts hitting her with the sprayer.

I mean showering her. Not actually hitting her.

“—So blocked up that when he finally exploded in the car, we were finding bits of it on the ceiling weeks later.”

“Adorable,” I say.

“Guess you’re lucky Emma got you and not Beck, because otherwise, we never would’ve gotten that story out of her,” Tripp tells me, and I decide he’s good people.

“Oh, you.” Mrs. Ryder gives him a one-armed hug and boops Emma on the nose. “Is your tummy upset, noodle-poo?”

“I might have a T-shirt and sweats that’ll fit you,” Beck says to me while Tripp and Mrs. Ryder discuss Emma’s intestinal issues.

I can’t exactly go back to work in a T-shirt and sweats, but I can’t drive home and change like this either. Nor do I want to go home, or back to work, which is why I’m here. “Great. Thanks.”

“Right this way.”

He takes me to a bedroom that’s too bright and clean for it to be his.

I think.

I guess it could be his. It’s bright and cheery enough. But I didn’t peg him for the flowery comforter, impressionist-style paintings, pillowcases with his own mug, cardboard cutout of himself with a thumb tucked into his briefs type.

It’s far more likely he has a Pac-Man comforter and at least three Game Boys at his bedside table.

Plus pictures of his family.

I’ll bet he has pictures of his family everywhere.

“I was trying to not lose at baby roulette,” he confesses, lifting that long, long arm to scratch his neck. “But I wouldn’t have handed her off if I’d realized it was you.”

“Just to your mother?” I ask.

He opens his mouth, then blushes.

Again.

“I’m a real shit to the women in my life, aren’t I?”

“Mm.”

“I would’ve handed her to my dad too. He just doesn’t usually drop by to fuss like Mom does.”

“Mm.”

“Oh. Hey. I didn’t even ask what was up. Everything okay?”

It takes me a half-second to remember why I thought coming over here was a good idea. And the fact that despite the baby poop, I’m feeling weirdly happy.

It’s the residual Beck Ryder glow. Has to be. Like I’m soaking up his happy vibes.

“Too much gossip at work,” I tell him. “And my boss was uncomfortable with the photographers staking out the building.”