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Revenge of The Uterus
LEIGHTON
August
Hefting my seven-million-pound tote higher on my shoulder, I raised my hand to knock on the imposing solid wood door of Oliver Hart’s monstrosity of a house. If I had a superpower, it would be making fast friends—and my sister’s new brother-in-law and his kids had been no exception.
What can I say? I’m delightful like that.
Our lives had only collided three months ago, but this ten-thousand-square-foot testament to modern architecture had already become a home away from home for me.
Before I could so much as knock, the door flew open. I staggered back a step, eyes widening as I took in a rather haggard-looking version of the sexiest single dad in the city. It took all my self-control not to laugh at the man who occupied most of my brain space these days.
“Thank you,” he exhaled like I’d just plucked him from a burning building instead of showing up to babysit.
Ollie looked like he’d fallen through an irrigation canal before being hauled out and hung off the back of a truck bed to dry. His normally coiffed black hair was disheveled, his button-up shirt hung open, revealing that spectacular, tattooed chest he liked to parade around at family functions like a walking thirst trap. Only... I was fairly certain there was jam on his hair-dusted six-pack. And what on earth was smeared over the hem of his sleeve?
“Um. Good morning?” I hedged as I stepped into the foyer. Ollie shoved his luscious, shampoo-commercial-worthy hair away from his face, and I tried not to wince at the dark circles under his eyes.
“Another one bites the dust, huh?”
“She’s trying to kill me, I swear to God.”
“Cruella?” I asked, snickering when he glanced around in irritation.
The 'she' in question was his terrible, gold-digging, narcissistic ex-wife. But being the chivalrous goodie-goodie he was, Ollie hated when we disparaged her in the kids’ vicinity. I grimaced, wishing my mouth would sometimes let my brain catch up before opening. Wincing, I muttered, “Sorry.”
“Meh,” he grunted, which I took as resigned agreement. Now certain the kids were out of earshot, he shook his head. “I swear, does Carly think this is some kind of game? This is the eleventh nanny in the last twelve months she’s run off. It’s like she enjoys reducing sweet, college-aged girls to tears. Grey is helping me find a permanent solution, but you’re saving my skin.”
Greyson—Grey to his inner circle—Hart was the formidable Titan of Emerald Bay, i.e., my new brother-in-law. He knew everyone, and for God knows what reason, everyone else seemed to fear the asshole. Maybe it was his penchant for taking over companies with the ease of making a sandwich. Maybe it was the whole ex-Navy SEAL thing.
Neither stopped me from frequently reminding him I’d feed him to the nearest pig farm if he hurt my sister.
If I wasn’t one of a litter of siblings, I’d find it peculiar how the two of them shared DNA. Okay—yeah, they had the same olive skin and dark features, but man oh man, I certainly wasn’t about to show up unannounced with pizza and a new vinyl at Greyson’s. Something Ollie seemed to love.
“Y’all will find somebody great. You always land on your feet.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, shoulders slumping in defeat. I was about to ask where the kids were when the pitter-patter of little feet thundered through the living room toward us, and my face split in a grin as Ollie’s four-year-old son, Beau, came sprinting in.
“Did you b’wing it?” he squeaked excitedly.
Swinging my personalMary Poppinsbag off my shoulder, I snagged my camera and dropped it to the floor as he squealed in victory.
Diving in, pudgy arms first, he fished out the superhero masks he always tried to squirrel away. The moment he jammed one on his face, I snapped a photo before he bolted, clutching them in his little hands.
“You’re a saint,” Ollie sighed.
“And don’t you forget it.”
Later that morning, as our Minecraft game reloaded, I asked, “Why does everybody call you Mattie?”
Ollie had sounded so damn stressed when he called last night for last-minute coverage. His uncertainty was a testament to his idiocy, becauseof courseI’d hang out with the kids while he was at work today.
I was the tenth of twelve siblings, though that label was generous—seeing as the eleventh slid into the doctor’s hands precisely ninety seconds after I did.
Being at the tail end of a dirty dozen meant the house was always full. These days, I found my empty Emerald Bay condo unbearably boring. Little Beau’s declarations of war over his toy soldiers and Matilda’s ongoing yammering were infinitely more familiar—and significantly more appealing—than the silence waiting for me at home.