America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(76)

She bumps me. “I got to quit. That was good enough. Plus, I don’t actually like to punch men when they’re down, and his second mistress put him in the hospital with a bleeding kidney. Don’t piss off a woman wearing stilettos. Also, you have a phone call with Vaughn at eleven—don’t piss him off either, because he’s letting his people keep working with our people to keep this going—and Tripp’s upstairs waiting for you. Apparently you’re his best chance for adult conversation. Poor man. Telecon with your Ryder Family Foundation manager in thirty. Don’t be late.”

He’s not Sarah, but I’m still smiling when I head up to my apartment. James is flying an airplane around my living room and Emma’s gnawing on a stuffed giraffe. “Hey, watch it, kid. Those things are endangered.” I boop her nose and dive out of the way of James’s airplane. “Aahh! Out of control airplane’s gonna get me!”

He chases me around the living room and kitchen, giggling and shrieking, until we collapse on the floor in front of the couches and he flops onto my belly to vroom the airplane into my nose.

“And up you go,” Tripp says, pulling him off me and turning him to stare at some cartoon on the TV. “Uncle Beck needs his pretty nose to stay pretty if he’s going to stay employed.”

“Are you kidding? Being injured while saving bunnies and children from runaway evil airplanes will only add to my mystique and improve my reputation.”

He shakes his head and runs a hand through his brown hair. “It’s like having a third kid,” he mutters.

I grin. “Just like being on the road, except now your actual kids are smaller.”

“And growing.”

“Do I need to wrap Emma in a plastic tarp, or is her butt better?”

“There’s nothing left in her until we feed her again. Your floors are safe for now.”

She glances at us, tosses her giraffe to the side, and then goes down on all fours to dart over to James’s abandoned plastic airplane, which also goes straight in her mouth.

“Huh. I should’ve thought of that,” I say. “That looks like it’s delicious.”

Tripp shakes his head. “You selling out?”

He’s lounging on my couch, and he’s pulling off relaxed—helps that he’s in a RYDE cotton shirt, because dude, those things are so soft they’d melt on hot toast—but I’ve known him since I could talk, and there’s something gnawing at him.

Also, why does he keep asking me that?

“You going stir-crazy?” I ask with a head tilt at the kids.

He props his elbows on his knees and steeples his hands. “Yes. No. I—yes.”

“No guilt, dude. Remember when our moms used to dump us all on the men and disappear for whole weekends away?”

His smile goes sad. “Yeah. Mine always felt guilty.”

“What? Why?”

“Because she had to dump us on somebody else’s dad.”

“Nobody cared.”

He opens his mouth, then shakes his head again. “Heard a reliable rumor the Fireballs are for sale.”

“Aw, snickerdoodles,” I mutter. Not that I’m surprised. “Mackenzie’s gonna die.”

“Sarah’s friend?”

“Yeah, she’s—” I stop myself, because thinking of Mackenzie’s superstitions makes me think about last night, and thinking about last night makes me think of Sarah, and thinking of Sarah is making me think of Sarah whispering about food porn, and thinking of Sarah and food porn makes me think of Sarah naked, with me, alone, and I’m reaching for my phone to text her again before I realize Tripp’s sitting there staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“Got it bad, Beck,” he mutters. “Just…be careful.”

From a man who married a Hollywood darling.

Not that Sarah’s a Hollywood darling, but her parents are.

And now he knows what it’s like to lose the woman he loves. So his warnings are coming with layers.

James glances at his sister and an unholy shriek fills the entire penthouse floor. “STOP EATEE MY AYAPWANE!”

Emma bursts into tears and throws the toy to the ground.

And Tripp sighs and rubs his forehead.

“I have ice cream,” I tell him.

“Feed them sugar, and they’re yours for the next six hours.”

Wouldn’t be so bad.

I’m out of other playmates and it would be a great excuse to get out of some meetings, at least until Sarah’s home.

“You think the Fireballs can find new owners?” I ask Tripp while I hold out a magazine for Emma to chew on.

He gives me the don’t play the dumbass, dumbass look.

And now I get it.

He wants me to sell out.

Holy fuck.

He’s not looking for someone to hang with.

He’s looking for a business partner.

“Bro,” I mutter. “Seriously?”

He shakes his head, but I don’t think he’s telling me no. “You remember how many days we’d spend there before the band? Even before we could drive ourselves?” He tilts his head at his kids. “You know how many games I want to take them to? You ever think of taking your own kids someday?”

I swallow hard. I don’t know what a baseball team costs, but despite the millions we made in the band, and the tens of millions Cash, Levi, and I individually bring in every year—my empire is worth over a billion dollars, but that’s not hard cash, it’s assets and equity—I doubt any of us have enough money to outright buy a team.