Secret North: Book 4 of The Wishes Series

  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.”
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  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.

  “No, Ry.” She shook her head. “That’s a puggle.”

  I felt truly sorry for her. It wasn’t Bridget’s fault that her mother liked to fill her head with nonsense. Moments like this highlighted exactly how dangerous the wrong information could be. If Charli kept the baloney going, the poor kid was in for a miserable school career.

  “Puggle isn’t a word, Bridge.”

  Letting her down gently had no effect. She stomped a boot on the ground, making the contents of the mystery pink bag rattle in her hand. “It is,” she insisted. “Ask someone.”

  I looked from left to right, wondering who she was expecting me to stop. As busy as the park was, I couldn’t see a single person who looked knowledgeable in Australian wildlife. “What am I supposed to ask, Bridget?” I asked. “Excuse me ma’am, do you know what a puggle is?”

  She raised her free hand, bouncing on the spot. “I know! I know!” she squealed. “It’s a baby ’chidna.”

  I made a mental note to hold off on the sarcasm for a year or two. I decided to dazzle her with science instead. I took my phone from my pocket and Googled it – then had to eat my words because a baby echidna is indeed called a puggle.

  “How can you possibly know the things you do?”

  She grinned, reminding me too much of her mom. “I’m a smart girl, Ry.”

  “Too smart, I think.”

  We continued our slow amble down The Mall, heading nowhere in particular. Bridget didn’t speak. I thought we’d left the puggle conversation a hundred yards back, but her mind was still working on it.

  “I can say puggle, just not pock-a-pick,” she told me.

  It was like being stuck in a game of charades. I could think of only one other prickled animal, and prayed for sanity’s sake that it was right. “Do you mean porcupine?”

  “Yes, a baby one. Can you say it?”

  I racked my brain, trying to work out if I’d ever known the name for a baby porcupine. Coming up blank, I admitted defeat and Googled that too. Bridget stopped walking while she waited for my answer.

  “Porcupette,” I read in utter disbelief. “A baby porcupine is called a porcupette.”

  “I know.” She sounded a little sad. “But I can’t say it yet.”

  Bente was right. Bridget Décarie was an enigma – smarter than her own vocabulary.

  I put my hand on her head. “You will, baby,” I assured her. “One day you’ll be able to say it perfectly.”

  “What word can’t you say?” she asked curiously.

  I saw no harm in confiding in her. It wasn’t as if I’d confess my stupidity to anyone else. “I’m having trouble telling Bente something really special.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, I love her.”

  Bridget giggled. Even she realised how ridiculous it was. “Those are easy words.”

  “You’re not supposed to make fun of me.” I sounded far more wounded than I was. “I just told you my deepest darkest secret.”

  Her sapphire eyes widened as she looked up at me. “Really? A secret.”

  “A big secret,” I confirmed.

  She grabbed my hand, pulled me toward a nearby bench and ordered me to sit. “I’ll help you,” she promised. She remained standing, holding the pink bag out as if she was positioning it for the big reveal. “When I have words I can’t say, Mummy puts them in here.” I nodded, still unsure of where she was headed. Now that Charli had rated a mention, it was bound to be off the wall and crazy. “If you keep the words close to you, you won’t forget them,” she explained.

  “You have words in that bag?”

  Bridget instructed me to hold out my hands, and fumbled to undo the drawstring. I wanted to intervene and do it for her, but held off because I knew she wouldn’t welcome the help.

  “Ready?” she asked finally.

  “Born ready.”

  The little girl upended the bag into my hands. Ten scrabble letters tumbled out.

  One
by one, I placed them on the seat beside me, spelling out her word of the day. “Por-cu-pette.” I pointed at each letter as I pronounced it.

  She slowly repeated it, almost correctly.

  “There you go,” I praised. “You’ve got it.”

  Her face lit up. “I did get it,” she said proudly. “Now I can help you.”

  I looked down at the letters beside me. “These aren’t the right letters for my words, Bridge.”

  “I know where we can get some,” she replied, “but it’s very dangerous.”

  If I were smarter, I would’ve declined the offer and talked her into heading to the playground instead. But curiosity stamped out common sense. “Where?”

  “In Papy’s room.” Her expression was deadly serious. “I’ve seen them in there.”

  “His study?”

  She nodded.

  No wonder she considered it dangerous. My father’s home study was off limits to everyone under the age of twenty-one. Adam and I needed a college degree before we were allowed to set foot through the door.

  “Have you ever been in there, Bridget?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “Papy doesn’t know.”

  I couldn’t help smiling as I imagined her sneaking in. I wondered if she did it for the thrill or if there was a reason for it.

  I swept the letters into my hand and she sat down beside me. “What do you do in there?”

  “Look for things,” she replied. “I have some girls in there too.”

  Her confession made me laugh. Not only had she infiltrated my father’s sacred space, she’d sullied it with broken dolls – and he had no idea.

  “Did you hide some words in there too?” I asked, dropping the letters back in her bag.

  “No, they were already there. I found them when I was looking. I’ll get them for you.”

  We were quiet for a minute. I wanted to give her some thinking time, in case she had second thoughts and backed out of her break and enter plot. She didn’t. Bridget used the time to come up with a game plan.

  “You talk to Mamie and I’ll sneak and get them.”

  Despite the fact I was coming dangerously close to aiding and abetting a four-year-old criminal mastermind, I played along. “What if we get caught?”