Be My Hero (Forbidden Men #3)(14)

"That's us." I smiled at her as I got to my feet, keeping a happily drinking Julian cradled in the crook of my arm.

"Aww," she said, smiling my way. "There's nothing more precious than watching a handsome young man taking care of a baby."

As I sent the old gal a flirty little wink, Tristy snorted and plowed past her into the judge's chambers.

Irritated that she hadn't gotten the carrier and diaper bag while my hands were full, I gritted my teeth. "Thanks, honey," I was tempted to call after her. But I sucked it up and tucked Julian back into his car seat, tried to prop the bottle into his mouth so he could keep eating and slung the bag strap over my shoulder before picking up the carrier.

Then I followed the sweet old gal into the small room, where Tristy and I got married.

It was over and done about as soon as it started. Afterward, my stomach churned miserably. Ever since that damn glimpse, or whatever the hell it'd been, I'd always thought of marriage as forever, as love, and happily ever after, sacred and binding. But this had been none of that.

It left me empty and restless. Trapped.

Tristy and I didn't even talk to each other as I dropped her and her son back off at the apartment before I returned to work at the garage. When five o'clock came around, I stamped my time card and drove home, only to find her sitting on the couch, typing away on the laptop I'd gotten her. An afternoon talk show played on the television, barely muting Julian, who fussed in the swing.

I pulled him out and found his diaper almost leaking through it was so full. After carrying him back to my room, I changed him and plunked him onto my hip so he could join me in the kitchen where I whipped up a quick supper.

"I'm making a sandwich," I called over my shoulder while Julian slobbered all over my grease-stained pinstripe shirt and happily pounded his chubby fists against my chest. "You want one?"

"Yes!" Tristy yelled back. "No mustard this time."

I rolled my eyes but repeated to Julian in a playful baby voice, "No mustard, you hear that, Fighter? Your mama's gonna fire us if we don't get it right."

He gurgled and cooed in response, so I spent a moment cooing back, rubbing my nose against his until I got him to smile and wave his arms. He'd only started smiling a week or so ago. Tristy claimed she still hadn't seen one, even though I'd caught it on camera. I had to hold my tongue to keep from telling her she actually had to look at him to notice it.

After we men made the sandwiches, I warmed a bottle for the little guy. Back in the living room, Tristy took her sandwich with a half-hearted grunt, and Julian and I settled into the rocking chair. While we all ate, I watched Tristy madly type, pause every few seconds to read something on the screen, then nibble from her ham and cheese before typing some more.

"What're you doing, anyway?" I asked, mildly interested. "Writing a book?"

She speared me with a short scowl before she went right back to typing. "I'm talking to someone on Facebook."

I lifted my brows. I hadn't known she'd joined the network. I'd never had the time to myself. "Who?" I asked, wondering who the hell else from our neighborhood got into that shit.

With another glare, she muttered, "None of your damn business."

Well. I lifted my eyebrows but let the issue drop. After I finished eating, and Julian was nearing the end of his bottle, I pushed up from the chair and sighed. That was the one break I'd have today. "I'm working at the bar tonight," I reminded Tristy, carrying the baby back to his swing. "So I'm going to take a shower and push off again."

She groaned and sent her son a glance brimming with disgust. "Can't you take him with you while you get ready? I've had him all f*cking day."

I clenched my teeth and popped my jaw but acknowledged her request with a strained, "Sure." Picking Julian back up, I carried him down the hall and set up a bouncer seat next to the tub for him to wiggle in while I took a quick shower. As I dried myself afterward, shaved, and ran a quick comb through my hair, I talked nonsense to the kid, telling him about who'd come into the garage today and what was wrong with some of the cars I'd worked on.

Tristy might think it was stupid to talk to someone who didn't understand a word I said, but he responded to me more than anyone else who lived in this apartment, so I kept talking to him. Besides, he was too cute not to talk to him. He watched my mouth when I spoke as if every word was divine; he was mesmerized. Kinda made me feel important.

I slipped on my Forbidden Nightclub uniform—which was actually just a snug black T-shirt and blue jeans—and checked the kiddo's diaper one more time before I carried him back into the front room.

"Here you are," I told Tris. "He's clean and fed and ready to go." I tried to hand Fighter to her directly, but she shot me a dirty look. So I sighed and settled him back into his swing. I bet he hated that damn swing.

I would not lose my temper. I would not lose my temper. No matter how much she neglected her own child, I would not yell at her.

That had become my mantra these past few months.

Kissing Fighter on the forehead, I wished him a quiet farewell, then I waved goodbye to my wife of six hours, who remained seated cross-legged in the same spot on the couch she'd been in when I'd walked in the door, and I left to start my second job of the day.