Page 12 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)

NINE

LIA

Now

T he hum of my desktop is drowned out by Chloe's wailing.

Again. My poor baby. I've made like a thousand trips down to the first floor.

I've changed her, attempted to feed her, strapped her to my chest, bounced her on my knee, sung every lullaby I know (which, honestly, isn't many), and even tried that white noise machine Alexis swears by.

Nothing is working today. Not a single damn thing.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and lean back from the tablet, my renderings blurring as my eyes burn from staring too long.

The mockups are due Monday, and the revised colorways I'd just uploaded to the client portal now feel completely wrong.

The reds are too orange, the blues too muted.

Maybe it's exhaustion talking. Or maybe it's the fact that I haven't had more than four hours of uninterrupted sleep in almost a week. My creative judgment is shot to hell.

This is what you asked for Lia. I remind myself. Independence. Motherhood on your terms. Your business, your rules, your life. I can do this. I can. I just need a minute. Just one freaking minute where someone isn't crying or needing something from me.

"Shhh, baby, Mama's coming," I call out as I walk out of my studio to peer down at her from over the edge of the railing, my heart squeezing at the sight of her tiny red face.

Chloe's cries echo up from the first floor like a siren call, sharp and piercing, making my chest crack open.

Each wail feels like a physical blow, like someone's reached inside and is twisting my insides.

I hate to hear her cry. I feel absolutely helpless.

What kind of mother can't soothe her own child?

I glance at the blinking notification on my screen: Incoming call – Everett Ross, Seattle Vipers PR Director.

Oh crap. I sprint over quickly and click to answer, adjusting my glasses and forcing a smile. My hand automatically smooths down my hair, which I realize is sticking up in at least three different directions. "Hi, Everett, sorry for the delay?—"

"Oh, not a problem at all. I wanted to connect and throw something your way.

Ridley mentioned you've been killing it on your latest line.

I had a thought, we are working on new clothing merch ideas, maybe a custom capsule collection for the Vipers?

Some off-ice, cozy-luxe crossover? We've got a few new campaigns coming, something with more edge than the standard team gear, you know?

Your aesthetic would be perfect for what we're envisioning. "

Chloe's scream intensifies.

My stomach drops. I need to get to her before she goes subatomic. Before she hits that point of no return where she's so worked up nothing will calm her down.

"Uh, give me one second—" I scoop my phone up and dash down the stairs.

It's a precarious balance, phone pressed between shoulder and cheek, dodging baby tummy time mats, a scattered collection of teething rings, and that stupid singing elephant toy that keeps going off at 3 AM, trying not to eat it in my fuzzy socks.

Chloe is red-faced and squirming in her rocker, fists tight and furious, little legs kicking like she's trying to launch herself to the moon.

"Hey, Everett, I— Can I call you back in twenty? I love the idea, seriously, I need to settle my daughter down." I'm already reaching for her, my body on autopilot.

"Oh sure, Lia! Absolutely. I'll email over a summary and we can reschedule. No stress," he says easily. Too easily. Like this is just a minor hiccup and not me potentially tanking a massive opportunity because I can't get my shit together.

I hang up, shoulders sagging with guilt. So much for first impressions. What they are offering will be monumental for Designs by Masters. The kind of exposure and legitimacy I've been working toward for years. Here I am, blowing it because I'm drowning in motherhood.

Chloe sobs harder as I scoop her up. Her skin's flushed, and her tiny gums gnaw at her fist. She's drooling more than usual, and when I run a finger along her gum line, I can feel the hard ridge of a tooth trying to break through.

"Teething, huh? I wish those little teeth would just push through already," I whisper, rocking her as I pace through the house, my feet shuffling along the hardwood. "I get it, kiddo. Life's a bitch sometimes. Growing hurts. Everything important does."

She doesn't appreciate the commentary. I get it. Teething sucks. Being a baby sucks. Being a mom sometimes sucks too, but I'm not supposed to admit that out loud.

I head toward the kitchen, bouncing her gently, trying to prep a bottle one-handed while she squirms against me.

Her cries rattle against my chest, vibrating through my ribcage until I feel like I might shatter.

My arms are starting to ache, and my nerves are frayed, frayed, frayed—like the edge of my favorite jeans, the ones that don't fit right anymore because my body is still not entirely my own.

The doorbell rings.

Of course it does. The bells chiming make me want to throw my head back and howl just as loud as my screaming daughter. Maybe we could harmonize, create a mother-daughter duet of exhaustion and desperation.

I groan and start the long walk back to the front of the house, still juggling Chloe, who's gone full banshee now.

My hair's falling loose from its clip, cascading around my face in unwashed waves.

My glasses are sliding down my nose, smudged with fingerprints and what might be dried formula.

My tank top has spit-up on it I didn't even notice, and there's a suspicious stain on my leggings that I'm choosing to ignore.

I'm a mess and I don't have it in me to care.

You wanted this. You didn't want help, remember. My traitorous brain throws out at me as I unlock the door with a hip bump and wrench it open, ready to send away whatever poor soul has the misfortune of encountering us right now.

Tobias Groves stands there, holding a takeout bag in one hand and a six-pack of something local in the other.

He’s in joggers and a hoodie, hair damp from the rain, and that little silver ring in his right eyebrow catches my full attention.

It shouldn’t work, but of course, this man wears a piercing well.

His broad shoulders fill the doorframe, his presence somehow both imposing and oddly comforting.

"Hi," he says, with a crooked smile, which quickly falls at the utter devastating cry coming from Chloe. His eyes widen slightly, taking in the scene before him, me disheveled and wild-eyed, Chloe red-faced and screaming. I'm sure I don't look the greatest myself. "I, uh. . .brought food."

I stare at him wordlessly, I mean, I know he lives next door, but what is he doing here? With food? For me? My brain can't process this development through the fog of exhaustion.

"I figured. . .you might not have eaten." he says, jostling the food bag and drinks in front of him like he's offering tribute to a particularly volatile goddess. "I heard. . .well, I could hear that things were rough over here."

I eye the bag, stomach grumbling from the delicious aromas wafting towards me. I don't even know when the last time I ate. Breakfast? Yesterday? Does coffee count as a meal? The protein bar I inhaled between client calls feels like a distant memory.

His voice is calm. He doesn't even flinch when Chloe's scream reaches another octave jarring me from my thoughts. Most people would be backing away slowly by now, making excuses to escape the chaos but he's just. . .standing there. Waiting. Patient.

"I. . .yeah. Okay," I mutter, stepping back to let him in. "Excuse the mess."

The mess is a smattering of burp cloths, teething rings, baby books, and a blanket fort in progress.

The living room looks like a Pinterest nursery exploded.

There are half-finished sketches on the coffee table, fabric swatches pinned to the curtains for color comparison, and at least three mugs of cold coffee abandoned at various stations around the room.

He steps inside like he's used to chaos. Like it doesn't bother him. He just follows me through the house without a word. His presence is strangely steady behind me, like an anchor in the storm of my current existence.

"Where should I put this?" he asks from behind me.

"Kitchen," I say, turning toward it as I sway with Chloe. "Sorry. She's been inconsolable all day. I've tried everything short of selling my soul to the devil, and I'm considering that option next."

He follows me into the space, setting the food down on the counter. "Teething?"

"Unfortunately. She won't eat. Won't sleep.

Doesn't want to be put down. Doesn't want to be held.

Doesn't want to exist in her current form.

And I'm behind on work and possibly just blew a big opportunity and—" My voice cracks, and I bite the inside of my cheek hard, trying to hold back the sudden wave of emotion threatening to spill over.

I will not cry in front of him. I will not.

Tobias steps closer. "Want help?"

"There's nothing you can do," I say, knowing I sound absolutely exhausted and a little sorry for myself. "Unless you've got a magic baby mute button hidden somewhere."

"Lia."

His tone makes me stop. I turn, still bouncing Chloe, her cries a steady, miserable rhythm between us. The kitchen light catches in his hazel eyes, making them look almost golden.

Tobias takes another step closer. "Let me hold her."

I blink. "What?"

"Let me try," he insists, holding out his arms to me. His hands are large, with calluses I can see even from here, hockey hands, strong and capable.

I hesitate. She's still wailing, still rooting against my shoulder. She needs to eat, I need to return Everett's call. I need to finish those designs. I need to shower. I need to sleep. I need. . .I need so much.