Page 33 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)
TWENTY-FOUR
LIA
Now
I f I step on one more damn safety pin, I might cry actual tears. At least it's not straight pins. Being a human pin cushion is not the way I want to go, especially when I've got a toddler and a deadline bearing down on me like twin freight trains.
The studio floor looks like a battlefield, half-finished garments on dress forms, bolts of fabric stacked like sandbags, my laptop blinking somewhere beneath a stack of sketch pads, and Chloe in the middle of it all, babbling to herself as she scoots along the mat in pursuit of a measuring tape.
Her little fingers grasp at the metal end, determined to conquer this new toy with the same fierce concentration she gets from me.
Right beside her? Glitzy. Her Highness. My unofficially self-appointed baby monitor and the world's most judgmental feline.
She's sitting upright like a sentry, tail twitching in judgment every time Chloe squeals or gets too close to the pile of tulle she can probably find Narnia in.
Those eyes track every movement my daughter makes with aristocratic disdain.
She actually hissed at me earlier because my bottle prep apparently didn't pass her quality standards.
As if the diamond-collared prima donna knows the first thing about formula temperature.
"You're a cat," I mutter under my breath, pinning a sleeve to a mannequin, the pins between my lips making my words come out garbled. "Not a Michelin inspector. And those pink toe beans don't make you the boss around here."
My phone buzzes against my thigh. With a sigh, I reach into my culottes, cursing as I search for my pocket amongst all the fabric.
These are my work pants, practical with a million pockets for scissors, measuring tape, and my phone, but sometimes I swear they eat things.
Finding my phone finally with a huff of relief, I swipe it open, praying it's not more chaos.
My fingers are cramping from pinning all morning, and my eyes burn from squinting at tiny stitches under my work lamp until 3 A.M.
Tobias: You awake? Never mind. Dumb question. Miss you, beautiful. Send me a Chloe pic. Preferably with Glitzy's evil glare included.
I smile before I can stop myself, glancing at Chloe, who's now attempting to stuff the measuring tape into her mouth and Glitzy, who is actively trying to stop her.
Her big white paws press down on the longer end of the tape in an attempt to grab it away.
Honestly, it's hilarious this enormous fluffy beast playing tug-of-war with my determined seven-month-old.
Gosh, Chloe is seven months, where is the time going?
"Oh,Glitzy, you're going to learn that the baby always wins." I chuckle as I snap and send the picture to Tobias. The light catches Chloe's chubby cheeks just right, and even Glitzy looks majestic in her indignation. "She's got that Scott stubbornness. You don't stand a chance."
A few seconds later, the phone buzzes just as it's about to be lost inside my pockets once more. I fish it back out, blowing a strand of hair from my face that's escaped my messy bun.
Devan: Just saw the photo you sent Tobias.
I swear Glitzy's starting to look like she wants shared custody.
I miss you both, Li-Li. Kiss my Munchkin.
Don't forget to eat something. Also, I found a donut shop in Denver that almost made me cry.
I saved you a bear claw. I hope it survives the plane ride home. Love you.
I press the phone to my chest for a second, eyes stinging.
God, I miss them. I hate that I can't say that out loud without feeling exposed.
Raw. Like I'm admitting to needing something I've spent years convincing myself I don't. Independence is safer.
Needing people means they can leave you.
Everyone leaves eventually. . .Nope, we believe differently now.
We are reshaping our thoughts on the matter.
"You want to keep this to yourself a little bit longer, Lia," I mutter as my phone buzzes again. The warmth in my chest feels dangerous, like something that could consume me if I let it. Both of them, caring for me from different angles. It's beautiful and terrifying all at once.
"Well, I'm popular today," I say with an exhausted eye roll, pushing away the moment of vulnerability.
This time, it's Marla from the Vipers PR Team. Her name flashes on my screen with an aggressiveness that matches her personality, all business, all the time, with a smile that could cut glass.
I brace myself before answering. "Hey, Marla. What's up?" I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder.
"You sitting down?" she says, way too cheerful for what's definitely not good news. Her tone means I'm about to get steamrolled, and she knows I know it.
"Standing. Surrounded by chaos. One of them is still covered in applesauce from lunch. How can I help?"
She laughs. "Great. So! We're moving up the merch launch."
My stomach tightens into a knot the size of a hockey puck. "How far up?" Please don't say next week. Please don't say next week.
"February. We want to kick off the new quarter with a bang. There'll be a full press reveal, rooftop presentation at the Vipers' main facility. GM's from other teams will be there. Big exposure."
I glance around the room, the fabric scraps, half-finished designs, the mood board that still needs reworking, the stress rash forming on my neck that's already starting to itch.
February is eight weeks away. Eight weeks to complete what I'd planned for three months.
The house isn't even ready for Christmas yet.
Fuck! Christmas, oh no! Well, shit. There's no way I'll be ready, but it seems I am going to have to wing it.
"Okay," I say, voice tight. "Let's do it. "
"You sure?" Marla's voice carries a hint of doubt. She knows my timeline was already aggressive.
No. Of course, I'm dying a little inside at the mountain I'm going to have to climb to pull this one out of my ass. I'll need to hire help, cancel sleep, and possibly sell my soul to the devil. This is my shot though, my biggest contract yet, and I can't show weakness.
"Absolutely," I say, smiling through gritted teeth. Marla can't see me, thank goodness. If she could she would see straight through my bullshit, see the panic rising behind my eyes and the way my free hand is already cramping from imagining all the extra sewing.
We hang up and I just stand there, one hand tangled in my hair, the other gripping my phone so tight my knuckles are white.
Chloe is now squealing because Glitzy has stolen her rattle and is playing keep-away, batting it across the floor with her paw, then snatching it back when Chloe gets close.
I'm officially one crisis away from a full meltdown.
My glasses are slipping down my nose, there's a stain on my shirt from lunch, and I can't remember if I brushed my teeth.
I round my cutting table to stop the major blow up between the baby and the cat when the doorbell rings. Oh, for fuck’s sake, just give me a minute. One goddamn minute where something isn't demanding my attention.
Scooping up my baby girl from the floor, she slaps me in the face with her sticky fingers with the biggest smile, leaving what feels like a trail of applesauce across my cheek.
I can't help but stop and nuzzle her sweet little face.
She is the reason why I work so hard. So she knows her Momma works hard for her benefit.
So she never has to wonder if she's enough, the way I did growing up.
"Who's mommy's little helper? Is it you?" I coo at her, momentarily forgetting the chaos surrounding us. She babbles back, a string of nonsense that somehow makes perfect sense to my heart.
The doorbell rings again, and for a second, I just stand there, Chloe perched on my hip, Glitzy winding figure eights between my legs like she's personally offended I haven't gotten to it faster. Her tail flicks against my ankle in what feels like deliberate annoyance.
"I should let you get the door, Glitzy." I chuckle, stepping around her as I make my way out of my studio and down the two sets of stairs with Glitzy hot on my heels, her nails clicking against the hardwood.
"Since you're so concerned about our visitor.
Maybe it's a delivery of that fancy cat food you pretend not to like but secretly devour. "
I open the door to find Brea standing there like a warrior goddess ready for battle.
Her locs are piled high in a topknot, oversized sunglasses shoved up on her head, jeans perfectly cuffed at the ankles, well-worn sneakers on her feet, and a t-shirt that boldly declares "Welcome to Lark Bay.
Home of the Songstress Brea Brookes." The confidence radiating off her is almost blinding in the afternoon light filtering through the stained-glass panels of my entryway.
I raise a brow in question, trying not to let my exhaustion show, and she brushes it off with a casual wave of her hand, bangles jingling softly on her wrist.
"My best friend, Red, is selling these at her bar back home and sent me one. She's got jokes," she says as she breezes past me, the scent of her signature jasmine perfume trailing behind her. Her arms are loaded with what appears to be several shopping bags, each one more mysterious than the last.
Closing the door behind her with my hip, since my hands are full with Chloe, I turn as she sets the bags down on my entryway table and faces me.
She takes one long, appraising look at me, barefoot, hair escaping from my messy bun, with a baby perched on one hip and what is definitely a glob of applesauce smeared across my vintage band tee.
She raises a single perfectly arched brow, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern.
"You know you've got applesauce on you, right? Like, everywhere?"