Secret North: Book 4 of The Wishes Series (20 page)

I took mental notes as I studied Ryan’s family. It didn’t take long to work out that I’d been worrying unnecessarily. Everyone worked hard to make me feel welcome, and the only insincerity I detected came when everyone praised Fiona’s cooking. It had to be a lie. She’d served up the vilest attempt at lasagne I’d ever been subjected to.

The only person on the receiving end of any hostility was Charli, but Jean-Luc’s occasional digs didn’t seem to faze her. Fiona was quick to defend her and Adam was even faster. I soon worked out that protecting her was unnecessary. Charlotte Décarie was no victim. She gave as good as she got. From what I could tell, she relished winding Jean-Luc up as much as he enjoyed trying to pull her into line.

Unlike Charli, I wasn’t interested in making waves. The best road in was the quiet one. Ryan would appreciate the peace, his parents would appreciate the amenability and I’d enjoy the lack of drama.

31. DELIVERY

Ryan

Bente sometimes stayed up late, writing long into the night. Inexplicably, she’d still wake early the next morning, bright eyed and cheery – even on Wednesdays.

Wednesday mornings should’ve been the bane of her existence. Every week she made an early morning trek to Astoria to have breakfast with Ivy and the girls. Unlike her, I don’t cope well with little sleep or breakfast with the squealers so I never went, opting for an extra hour in bed instead.

“It wouldn’t kill you to come, Ryan.”

“It might,” I replied, spreading out over her half of the bed. “Say hi to the squealers for me.”

Bente left and I went back to sleep, but the peace was broken when someone started hammering my intercom. I ignored the buzzing for as long as I could before admitting defeat.

My caller was Colin the delivery guy. “I have a chest of drawers to come up,” he explained through the speaker.

I wasn’t pissed with Colin – I like efficiency – but I had a bone to pick with my brother. Who in their right mind would arrange a furniture delivery at seven in the morning?

Adam would, because he knew it would annoy me.

Colin and his sidekick appeared at the door a few minutes later, struggling to maintain their grip on the dresser. I held the door as they manoeuvred it inside. A small part of me was hoping they’d drop it and do irreparable damage. Another part of me was keen to see what Adam had done with it. As far as I was concerned, it already looked better. A thick layer of protective black foam hid it from view.

“Where do you want it?” asked Colin, breathless.

I walked ahead, leading them down to the bedroom. Once it was in place, Colin’s offsider tore off the foam for the big reveal.

“Holy cow,” Colin muttered, staring in disbelief.

I couldn’t blame him for the reaction. Bente’s shabby green dresser had undergone changes since it left my apartment three weeks earlier. The paint was no longer flaky and patchy. It was perfectly smooth and glossy, and the missing knobs had been replaced with girly glass ones.

As expected, Adam’s work was faultless. The only thing wrong with it was that it was now the same shade of hot pink as the wing chairs.

“Was it supposed to be that colour?” asked Colin, sounding traumatised.

“Yeah.” I folded my arms and took a step back to get a better look at it. “Girls love crap like this.”

“I think I’d rather stay single,” he muttered.

“Been there, done that,” I replied, glancing at him. “I like this better.”

32. MYSTERY BLONDE

Bente

Breakfast at Ivy’s was an ordeal, mainly because of the bitchy mood she was in.

“Three weeks,” she grumbled, waving a spatula at me as she stood at the stove. “You’ve been living there for three weeks and not once have you invited us over.”

I glanced across the table at my nieces, who were engaging in a sword fight with their cutlery. Ryan would never cope with that.

“We’ve been busy,” I said defensively. “Maybe we can tee up dinner or something soon.” It wasn’t a likely offer, considering we didn’t have a dining suite.

“Perfect. Just let me know when.”

I shook my head, trying to shift the image of Ivy and the girls sitting in a line at our kitchen counter.

“At his mansion?” asked Faberge, momentarily downing weapons.

I frowned. “We don’t live in a mansion. It’s just a normal apartment.”

Ivy dropped an omelette onto a plate and set it in front of Malibu. “Normal apartments don’t exist smack in the middle of Manhattan,” she declared.

“Is it shiny?” asked Malibu.

I had no idea how to answer her. Luckily, Ivy jumped in again. “Granite and marble are very shiny,” she replied. “And I’ll bet there’s an excess of both.”

My mouth formed a tight line. She wasn’t wrong so I said nothing.

“I want to go there!” yelled Malibu, thumping her fork on the table.

“Be quiet and eat,” ordered her mother.

***

Ivy kicked me out after breakfast so she could get the girls to school. I pretended to be sad that our morning was cut short, just as I did every week. In reality, I chose to go there mid-week for that very reason. It was the ultimate escape plan.

It was mid morning when I arrived home. I hoped to steal a few hours with Ryan before he left to hang out with Bridget, but as soon as I walked through the door I realised it wasn’t likely to happen.

A blonde sat perched at the island counter, decorously sipping a cup of coffee. I could feel my mouth forming a heinous grimace the second I laid eyes on her.

“Hey,” said Ryan, walking over to me, arms outstretched. I tilted my head so he only connected with my cheek when he kissed me. If he thought it was awkward, he didn’t let on. “I want you to meet someone.”

Blondie looked friendly enough, but until I knew exactly who she was pleasantries were impossible.

“Bente Denison, this is Yolanda Montague,” he announced.

“Pleased to meet you,” I lied.

She cocked her head. “You too, Bente. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Really?” I glared at Ryan.

“Yes; you’ve got him well trained.” She smiled. “We’ve just spent the last hour working in your bedroom.”

“Excuse me?” I choked.

She giggled, but Ryan didn’t find it funny. Perhaps knowing my acute dislike of flirty blondes, he punched out a quick explanation. “Yolanda is an interior decorator.”

Breathing became a little easier.

“Yes,” she said, grabbing her purse off the counter. “And I think I’ve just done a fabulous job on your room.” She handed me a business card. “If you can talk him into working a bit of feminine charm on the rest of the apartment, be sure to give me a call.”

I looked at the card in my hand. “I will. Thanks.”

I wasn’t really sure what I was thanking her for, but Ryan must’ve been excited to show me because he bustled Yolanda out as quickly as he could without appearing rude.

“You. Bedroom. Now,” he ordered.

“I love it when you’re bossy,” I sighed.

I truly did.

Ryan didn’t speak. Instead, he scooped me up and carried me down the hall, lowering me when we got to the door. “You’re going to love this.”

He wasn’t being bossy this time. There was a hint of nervousness in his voice that I didn’t hear often. It was almost as sexy as his bossy tone.

Ryan swung the door open and waved me in. He didn’t move from his spot in the doorway but I paced every inch of the bedroom, trying to notice everything.

The first thing I saw was my dresser, standing against the far wall in hot pink glory.

“Pink?” I gasped, running my hand along the glossy top. “You asked him to paint it pink?”

“What the lady wants, the lady gets,” he replied.

I looked at him and grinned, mainly at his sheepish expression. “It’s perfect, Ry.”

I turned full circle, checking out the rest of the room. In the time I’d been gone, Yolanda had worked some serious design magic to accommodate the revamped dresser. I’d left a stark, boyish room styled in monochromatic black. It was now broken up with gorgeous hot pink, black and white bedding, silver cushions and flowing pink drapes.

I was at a loss for words, and it had little to do with the decorating. “You’re sure about this?”

I had to ask. He didn’t look very sure. If anything, the infusion of pink seemed to be causing him physical pain. He did his best to hide it by stiffening his pose and folding his arms. “I want you to be happy here,” he told me. “This is your home too.”

Pure bliss coursed through my veins as the implications of the situation set in. We were a couple – a real couple, capable of commitment and compromise and pink drapes.

Unable to hold myself back, I threw myself at him, planting a hundred kisses on his lips. “I am so happy right now.”

He huffed out a laugh. “So you like it?”

“I love it, Ryan,” I confirmed. “I love you.”

It was three words too many. I felt his body stiffen as if I’d just delivered a kick to the shins. Worse than that, he didn’t say anything.

I silently willed him to return the sentiment and save the day, but he stayed silent. A few seconds passed like hours, stripping away all the euphoria until there was only humiliation left.

Ryan dropped his hold on me. “I should probably go,” he muttered, fumbling gracelessly with his words. “I’ve got a bit of work to do at the office before picking Bridget up.”

I smoothed down my hair while I battled to find words. “Yeah,” I said finally. “Good idea.”

Ryan kissed my forehead. It was detached and aloof, and almost as mortifying as his quick exit from the room a few seconds later.

33
. PRICKLY BABIES

Ryan

I couldn’t believe it. Of all the responses I could’ve made after being told that I was loved, I chose none of them. What I’d really wanted to do was punch the air and tell her I felt exactly the same way, but like the idiot I was, I’d said nothing.

How was I supposed to get us back on track after that? Disappearing out the door obviously wasn’t the solution, but it was the best idea I had at the time.

I spent a few hours holed up in my office at Billet-doux on the pretence of having lots of work to take care of. I ordered Noelle to keep everyone away and killed my open-door policy by slamming it shut.

In truth, I had very little work to do, which seemed like a big dose of karma. It left me plenty of time to dwell on the fact that my very first girlfriend was probably spending the afternoon moving her pink furniture out of our apartment.

My preoccupation continued long after I left the office. It wasn’t a good state of mind to be in while babysitting Bridget. She picked up on my mood immediately.

We’d only just entered the park when she questioned me. “Are you sad, Ry?”

She didn’t meet my eyes when I looked at her. She was too busy watching where she was walking for a change.

“No,” I assured her, “I’m fine.”

“Are you sad because I didn’t bring my finder today?”

I hadn’t given her compass a thought until that minute, which was odd considering she’d been carting it to the park every day for weeks.

“Where is it?”

I was quietly hopeful that she hadn’t lost interest. As ridiculous as it was, I wanted her to eventually find Secret North. It was
my
place, after all.

“It wouldn’t fit in my pocket today,” she explained. “It’s too full with something else.”

“What do you have instead, Bridge?”

Her slow walk crawled to a stop as she dug into her pocket. The little pink drawstring bag she pulled out wasn’t moving, so at least she hadn’t trapped any live animals. As interested as I was to know what it was, I held off asking. Bridget’s explanations are notoriously long, and get longer when she’s pressed. I put my hand on her back to get her moving again and waited for her to speak.

“Sometimes I can’t say words,” she said waving the bag at me. “I know what they are but I can’t say them.”

“I know exactly how you feel, Bridge.” It was as if the kid had reached into my head, pulled out my anguish and was now playing it back to me. Despite the weirdness, I tried to play it cool. “There are words I can’t say too.”

She waved the bag again. “I can help you.”

“Maybe I can help you too,” I suggested. “What words are you having trouble with?”

“Pock-a-picks,” she blurted. “I can’t say pock-a-picks.”

I was stumped. I couldn’t even correct her because I had no clue what she meant. “What’s a pock-a-pick?”

As soon as she put her little fingers to her mouth, I knew it was an animal – and that there was a
squeep squeep
coming.

“It’s a baby with prickles,” she explained, wiggling her fingers. “They go
squeep squeep squeep
.”

Bridget is predominantly Australian. Perhaps prickly echidnas
squeep
. “An echidna?” I guessed.