But he was my screaming featherless chicken, so he was still the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
It’s unreal. The adoration. The worship that’s so overwhelming, it almost hurts to look at him. I mean, I love Kate—more than my own life. But that took time. I gradually fell in love with her.
This . . . was instantaneous. As soon as I laid eyes on him, I knew I’d gladly jump bare-assed into a pool of battery acid for him. Insane, right? And I can’t wait to teach him things. Show him . . . everything. Like how to change a tire, and sweet talk a girl, how to hit a baseball, and throw a right hook. Not necessarily in that order.
I used to make fun of those guys at the park. The dads with their strollers and goofy smiles and man purses.
But now . . . now I get it.
Kate’s voice pulls me from my baby gazing. “Hey.”
She sounds worn out. I don’t blame her.
“How are you feeling?”
She smiles sleepily. “Well . . . imagine peeing out a watermelon. ”
I flinch. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes fall to the pale-blue-blanketed bundle in my arms. “How’s the little guy?”
“He’s good. We’re just hanging out. Shooting the shit. I’m telling him about all the important things in life, like chicks and cars and . . . chicks.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep.”
I look down at our son. And my voice is awed. “You did such a great job, Kate. He has your eyes. I love your eyes—did I ever tell you that? They were the first thing I noticed about you.”
She cocks one brow. “I thought my ass was the first thing you noticed?”
I laugh, remembering. “Oh yeah, that’s right. But then you turned around and just . . . blew me away.”
The baby lets out a sharp squawk, capturing our attention.
“I think he’s hungry.”
Kate nods and I pass him over. She undoes the clasp of her pajama top, exposing one ripe, juicy breast. She brings the baby close and he latches onto her nipple—like an expert.
Did you expect anything less? This is my son, after all.
I watch them for a moment. Then I have to reach down to adjust the tent pole that’s sprung up in my pants.
Sick. Yeah—I know.
Kate throws me a smirk and glances toward my crotch. “Got a problem down there, Mr. Evans?”
I shrug. “Nope. No problem. Just looking forward to my turn.”
See—there’re two kinds of women in this world: The ones who figure if they can’t get any below-the-waist action for six weeks after giving birth, neither can their guy. Then there’s the second group. The ones who look forward to those hand jobs, blow jobs, and then some—because they know the favor will be returned when the ban is lifted.
Kate definitely falls into the second group. I know this, and apparently so does my cock.
“After the massacre you witnessed in the delivery room? I didn’t think you’d ever want to have sex with me again.”
My mouth falls open. In shock.
“Are you frigging kidding me? I mean, I thought your cunt was magnificent before, but now that I’ve see what it’s really capable of? It’s reached superhero status in my book. In fact, I think that’s what we should name it.” I lift my hands, envisioning a giant billboard. “Incred-a-Pussy.”
She shakes her head. And smiles down at the baby. “Speaking of naming things . . . we should probably come up with one for him, don’t you think?”
Kate and I decided to wait on the name game until after the baby was born—to make sure it was a good fit. Names are crucial. They’re the first impression the world has of you. That’s why I’ll never understand why people curse their kids with labels like Edmund, or Albert, or Morning Dew.
Why don’t you just cut to the chase and call the kid Shit Head?
I lean back in the chair. “Okay—you can start first.”
Her eyes roam the baby’s face. “Connor.”
I shake my head. “Connor’s not a first name.”
“Of course it is.”
“No—it’s a last name.” In my best Terminator voice I say, “Sarah Connor.”
Kate rolls her eyes. Then she says, “I’ve always liked the name Dalton.”
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”
“O-kay. Colin.”
I scoff, “No way. Sounds too much like ‘colon.’ They’ll be calling him Asshole the minute he steps foot on the playground.”
Kate looks at me incredulously. “Are you sure you went to Catholic school? It sounds like you grew up in juvie hall.”
Life is one big school playground. Remember that.
Wolf-pack mentality. You need to learn early how not to be the weakest link. They’re the ones who get eaten. Alive.
“Since you don’t approve of my choices, what do you suggest?” she asks.
I look at the sleeping face of our son. His perfect little lips, his long dark lashes.
“Michael.”
“Uh-uh. In third grade, Michael Rollins threw up all over my penny loafers. Whenever I hear that name I think of regurgitated hot dogs.”
Fair enough. I try again. “James. Not Jim or Jimmy—and sure as shit not Jamie. Just James.”
Kate raises her eyebrows. And tests it out. “James. James—I like it.”
“Yeah?”
She looks down at the baby again. “Yes. James it is.”
I reach into my back pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper. “Fantastic. Now for his last name.”
She’s confused. “His last name?”
We’ve talked about using Brooks as the middle name. But let’s be honest—the only people who use a middle name are serial killers and pissed-off parents. So I came up with something much better.
I put the opened paper on Kate’s lap.
Take a look.
BROOKS-EVANS
She looks up, eyes wide with surprise. “You want to hyphenate his name?”
I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy. I think women should take their husband’s last names. Sure, it comes from the idea that a woman is property. And no, I don’t agree with that. In the future, if some punk comes along and implies that he owns my niece—I’m gonna buy him a shovel.
So he can dig his own grave before I put him in it.
But technically speaking, Kate is the last of the Brookses. Namesakes don’t mean as much anymore, but I have a feeling it means a lot to her.
“Well . . . he’s ours. And you did do most of the work. You should share half the credit.”
Her eyes soften as she reminds me, “You hate to share, Drew.”
I push some wayward hair behind her ear. “For you, I’m willing to make an exception.”
Plus, I’m banking on the fact that one day soon, Kate’s last name will match our son’s.
Of course, Kate deserves the best proposal ever—and the best takes time.
Planning.
It’s in the works right now. I’m taking ballooning lessons on Saturday afternoons, when she thinks I’m playing ball with the guys. Because I’m going to take Kate on a private hot-air balloon ride to the Hudson Valley. There’ll be an elegant picnic ready for us when we land. And that’s where I’ll pop the question
That way—on the outside chance Kate actually turns me down—I’ll have her in a totally secluded area until I can change her mind.
Genius, right?
I’ll have a limo waiting nearby—but not too near—to drive us back home, so we can sit back and relax on the way. And have limo sex, of course. You should never pass up the opportunity to have sex in a limo—it’s always fun.
Kate’s eyes are shiny with tears. Happy ones. “I love it. James Brooks-Evans. It’s perfect. Thank you.”
I lean forward and kiss our son’s forehead. And then I kiss his mother’s lips. “You’ve got it all wrong, baby. I’m supposed to be thanking you.”
She looks down at James tenderly. And in that voice that could make an angel green with envy, she starts to sing.
There’s a song that they sing when they take to the highway
A song that they sing when they take to the sea
A song that they sing of their home in the sky
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep
But singing works just fine for me
So good night you moonlight ladies
Rock-a-bye sweet baby James
Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose
Won’t you let me go down in my dreams
And rock-a-bye sweet baby James
There’s only a few times in a guy’s life that he’s allowed to cry without looking like a total chump.
This is one of those times.
When Kate is finished, I clear my throat. And rub the wetness from my eyes. Then I climb onto the bed beside her.
I’m pretty sure it’s against hospital policy, and I admit, some of those male nurses look pretty fucking intimidating.
But come on—they’re nurses.
Kate turns toward me, so James lies between us. My arm lays over him, my hand on her hip, encircling them both.
Kate’s eyes are velvety warm. “Drew?”
“Mmm?”
“Do you think we’ll always be like this?”
I give her a small smile. “Definitely not.”
And then I touch her face—the one I plan on looking at every morning and every night, until death shows up to drag me away.
“We’re just gonna keep getting better.”
So there you have it.
How’s that for a happy frigging ending, huh? Or beginning . . . I guess . . . depending on how you look at it.
Anyway, now’s about the time I start spouting off some pearls of wisdom.
Advice.
But given the events of the last year, it’s become increasingly obvious that I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. I don’t think you should listen to anything I’ve said.
You still want me to give it a shot?
Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Here goes:
Number One—people don’t change. There’s no magic bullet. No bibbety-fucking-boo.
What you see is what you get. Sure, certain habits can be tweaked. Reined in. Like my propensity for making snap judgments. The very idea of assuming I know everything—without checking with Kate first—now makes me sick to my stomach.
But other characteristics, they stick.
My possessiveness, Kate’s stubbornness, our collective competitiveness—they’re too much a part of who we are to be totally eradicated.
It’s kind of like . . . cellulite. You ladies can spend all day at the spa wrapped in mud and seaweed. You can throw a fortune away on those ridiculous creams and scrubs. But at the end of the day, that puckered, dimply skin is still gonna be there.
Sorry to be the one to break it to you; it’s just the way it is. But if you love someone, really love them, you take them as is. You don’t try to change them.
You want the whole package—cottage cheese ass and all.
Number Two—life isn’t perfect. Or predictable. Don’t expect it to be.
One minute, you’re swimming along in the ocean. The water’s smooth and calm; you’re relaxed. And then—out of nowhere—an undertow sucks you down.
It’s what you do next that counts. Do you give it all you’ve got? Kick for the surface, even though your arms and legs are aching? Or do you give up and let yourself drown?
How you react to life’s twists and turns makes all the difference.
So Number Three—the important thing is, if you can make it through the rough, unexpected times? That light at the end of the tunnel is worth all the shit you had to wade through to get there.
That’s something I’ll never forget. I’m reminded of it every time I look at Kate. Every time I look at our son.
When it’s all said and done? The payoff is way more than fucking worth it.
Turn the page for a sneak peek
at how Kate and Drew’s best friends
handle falling in love
in Emma Chase’s next book
Tamed
COMING SOON FROM GALLERY BOOKS
I pull on a pair of silk boxers then heat up a bowl of leftover pasta and chicken. I’m not Italian, but I’d eat this every day of the week if I could. It’s about eight thirty by the time I finish washing the dishes. Yes, I am man who washes his own dishes.
Be jealous, ladies—I’m a rare breed.
Then I flop back on my awesome, king-size bed and grab the golden ticket from the pocket of my discarded pants.
I finger the letters on the bright green cardstock.
DEE WARREN
CHEMIST
LINTRUM FUELS
And I remember the soft, smooth flesh that swelled from the confines of her tight, pink shirt. My dick twitches—guess he remembers it too.
Normally I’d wait a day or two to call a girl like Delores. Timing is everything. Looking too eager is a rookie mistake—women enjoy being panted after by puppies, not men.
But it’s already Wednesday night, and I’m hoping to meet up with Dee on Friday. The twenty-first century is the age of Maybe He’s Just Not That Into You and Dating for Dummies and The Girlfriends’ Guide to Dating, which means calling a chick for a random hookup isn’t as easy as it used to be. There are all these frigging rules now—I found that out the hard way.
Like if a guy wants to meet up with you the same night that he calls, you’re supposed to say “no,” because that means he doesn’t respect you. And, if he wants to take you out on a Tuesday, that’s a sign he’s got better plans for Saturday night.
Trying to keep up with the changing edicts is tougher than keeping track of the goddamn health care debate in Congress. It’s like a minefield—one wrong step and your cock won’t be getting any action for a long time. But, if getting laid were easy, everyone would be doing it. It . . . and pretty much nothing else.
Which brings me to my next thought: I know feminists always complain about how men have all the power. But when it comes to dating—in America, at least? That’s not really the case. In the bars, on the weekends, it’s ladies’ choice 24/7. They have their pick of the litter because single men will never reject a come-on.
Picture it: The music’s pumping, bodies are grinding, and a non-hideous female approaches a dude having a drink at the bar. She says, “I want to fuck your brains out.” He replies, “Nah, I’m not really in the mood for sex tonight.” SAID NO MAN EVER.
Chicks never have to worry about getting shot down—as long as they’re not shooting too far above their pay grade. They never have to stress about when they’re going to get lucky. For women, sex is an all-you-can-eat buffet—they just have to choose a dish. God created men with a strong sex drive to ensure the survival of the species. Be fruitful and multiply and all that. For guys like me, who know what the fuck they’re doing, it’s not exactly difficult. But for my not-as-skilled brethren, getting some can be a daunting task.
A slight buzz of adrenaline rushes through me as I pick up the phone to dial the cell number on the business card. It’s not that I feel nervous, more like . . . cautious anticipation. My hand taps my leg in time to “Enter Sandman” by Metallica, and my stomach tightens as her phone rings.
I imagine she’ll remember me—I did make quite the impression after all, and I assume she’ll be receptive to a meeting up—maybe even eager. What I don’t expect is for her voice to slam into my eardrum as she yells: “No, jackass, I don’t want to hear the song again! Frigging call Kate if you need an audience!”
I pull the phone a little ways away from my ear. And I check the number to make sure it’s the right one. It is.
Then I say, “Uh . . . hello? Is this Dee?”
There’s a pause as she realizes I’m not jackass.
Then she replies, “Yes, this is Dee. Who’s this?”
“Hey, it’s Matthew Fisher. I work with Kate—we met at the diner this afternoon?”
Another brief pause, and then her voice lightens, “Oh yeah. Clit-boy, right?”
I chuckle deeply, not entirely sure I like that nickname, but at least I made my mark. Note to self: Use that line again.
“That’s me.”
“Sorry about yelling. My cousin’s been up my ass all day.”
My cock stirs from the ass talk, and I have to stop myself from offering to trade places with this cousin.
“What can I do for you, Matthew Fisher?”
My imagination gets crazy. And detailed. Oh, the things she could do . . .
For a moment I wonder if she’s talking like this on purpose or if I’m just a horny mess.
I play it safe. “I was wondering if you wanted to get together sometime? For a drink?”
Let’s pause right here. Because, despite my earlier complaints about the modern complexities men face when trying to hook up, I feel it’s my duty to educate others, get the word out, about how to decode guy-speak. Think of me as a studlier version of Edward Snowden or Julian Assange. Maybe I should start my own website—I’d call it DickiLeaks. On second thought, that’s a shitty name. Sounds like an STD symptom.