Somebody to Love. Kristan Higgins

New dad.” He grinned broadly, clearly delighted with his title.

       “Mr. Welles sends his best and says he’ll be up as soon as he can. He’s, um, very sorry he couldn’t make it.” James swallowed. Lying for the boss. Yikes.

       “Really. He said that?” Parker asked coolly.

       “Yes.”

       She wasn’t fooled. Gave him a knowing look, then touched her baby’s cheek.

       James suddenly remembered the bag in his hand. “Oh, here. For the…little one.” He passed it over to the dad, who pulled the rabbit from it and smiled. “It’s bigger than he is,” he said. “Hey, Nicky, look. It’s a bunny.” The baby slept on, unimpressed.

       “What can I do for you, Thing One?” Parker asked.

       “Right.” He approached the throne—there was definitely a regal sense about her—and held out the papers. She passed the baby to the guy, Ethan, who immediately kissed the tiny head.

       James cleared his throat. “Sign here, and then initial here… .” Her hair smelled so good, all clean and flowery. Don’t go there, idiot, his conscience advised. Right, right, he agreed. Her skin was perfect. Beautiful hands.

       She signed with brisk efficiency and didn’t look at him when she gave the papers back.

       “Lucy was wondering if she could come by,” Ethan said.

       “Absolutely,” Parker answered. “I already told her that.”

       “You’re not too tired?”

       “Are you kidding? I feel like a superhero.” She grinned up at the baby’s father.

       “You are a superhero,” he answered, smiling back.

       A nurse came in. “How’s it going, Mom?” she barked.

       “Great,” Parker answered.

       “Good! I need to check those stitches, then I’ll leave you in peace.”

       The dad went over to the chair, murmuring to the burrito.

       James, idiotically, didn’t move. He was having trouble thinking. Those eyes were so…the whole face, so…

       “Thing One? I’d rather not have you see my episiotomy,” Parker said. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

       Shit. “Right, no. Sorry. Congratulations, you two,” he said and, with that, got out of there. Went home and did a Google search, saw her books. Ordered a bunch. Sent them to Mare. Got a pleasant thank-you note from her about a month later. Thank you for the rabbit you gave Nicky. It was very thoughtful. Best, Parker Welles.

       Harry didn’t visit his grandson until the baby was three months old. He asked James to come with him, stayed at Grayhurst for forty-five minutes, then informed Parker that he and James had a business dinner. “You sure you don’t want to stay a little longer?” James had murmured in the great front hall as they put on their coats. Harry had held the baby for approximately thirty seconds.

       “My daughter’s a little intense,” Harry had said tightly. “Baby’s a good-looking boy, though, don’t you think?”

       “Oh, definitely,” James answered. Thus ended the conversation, and while James was curious, he knew better than to bite the hand that fed not just him, but Mary Elizabeth, as well.

       From that point on, Harry began sending James to family events. Even when Harry did show up, he’d call James and ask him to come, as well. No matter how much James tried to subtly protest, to hint that family was family, Harry was insistent, and so James ended up at quite a few Nicky-related events—christening, birthdays—always on the edges, always uncomfortable.

       Parker would greet him and say goodbye. That was about it. She was civil, though she continued to call him Thing One, and after a while, James adopted a somewhat wry attitude at those dreaded family gatherings. He worked for Harry, the end. But he’d watch Parker, see that she made her kid’s birthday cake herself, clearly adored him, made sure he thanked James for whatever gift he’d brought. She treated Ethan’s family warmly, even though she never did marry the guy. And she worked for a living, writing those books, giving all that money away. Not your typical trust-fund baby.

       And then there was that one time—

       “Watch it, idiot,” he said as a driver with Massachusetts plates blazed by at an easy ninety miles an hour. “And you, idiot,” he added to himself, “should really think about something else. You’re here to help Harry’s daughter flip a house. No more.”

      CHAPTER SIX

      ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a family of chipmunks who found a lovely, clean place to live for the winter. They climbed inside and got all snugly and fell asleep. Then, alas, someone started their home, which was actually the engine of a car, and they were pulverized in their sleep. But they went to animal heaven, so it wasn’t a total wash.

      The Holy Rollers sighed with deep satisfaction. “Save it,” Parker muttered, putting aside the red notebook she always carried in case inspiration struck. Chipmunk puree would probably not sell, no matter how much her publisher wanted a new series. As for herself, she would not be recommending an overnight in a car anytime soon. Not comfy, no, sir. She’d woken at the horrible crack of morning and had been, quite honestly, avoiding going inside the house again. But it was now 7:14 a.m. Couldn’t pretend she was working on a story, couldn’t avoid the day ahead of her.

       She checked her phone; too early in California for Nicky to call her, of course—it was still practically the middle of the night there. Thing One hadn’t bothered calling her back, she noted with irritation. Of course, he’d probably found another job by now, since Harry was in jail.

       The thought that Harry was actually in prison gave her pause. She’d called him twice so far; both times, the conversation had lasted less than three minutes. Harry was as busy in prison as he’d been on Wall Street, it seemed. No time for that pesky daughter of his. He had, she admitted, asked after Nicky. At least there was that.

       At that very minute, her phone chimed, startling her so badly that she dropped it. Harrington, L., the screen said. “Hello?”

       “Yeah, hi,” said a horrible voice. “Is this Pahkah?” For a second, Parker thought it was the guy from last night—Malone—but of course, he wouldn’t have her number.

       “Excuse me?” Parker said, running a hand over the back of her head. Her hair was matted.

       “Ah you Pahkah?”

       “Oh! Um, yes. I’m Parker.” Man. That was some accent.

       “This is Lavinnyer Harintin.”

       Lavinnyer…aha! The caller was her distant cousin! Lavinia Harrington.

       “Hi!” Parker said. “Right! How are you?”

       “Word has it you’re here in town,” Lavinia said.

       “I am. I got in last night.”

       “Where’d you sleep?”

       “Um…in the car.”

       Lavinia laughed, a dark, horrible sound that ended in a hacking cough. “Is that right? Quite a shit-nest you gawt there, isn’t it?”

       Parker tried to smile. “That’s a pretty accurate description.”

       There was a sucking sound…Lavinia had to be smoking, and with a voice like that, had been smoking three packs of Camel cigarettes a day since the age of four months. “Welp,” she said, exhaling, “you wanna meet sometime this week? Seems like we should lay eyes on each other.”

       “That’d be great,” Parker said. Honestly, she had no idea where to start with this house, and Lavinia could probably give her some names and places.