Twin Babies with the Billionaire for Christmas

9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Tristan

She’s huddled quietly in her seat on the other side of the car.

Her profile is occasionally lit by the streetlights as we drive, and I feel a sharp stab of something protective sitting just beneath my breastbone.

I hate seeing her feeling sick, but I think I can help.

“I’m sorry you’re feeling like shit,” I say to her as I navigate a corner slowly, trying to keep from jostling her around.

She flaps a hand at my words, her eyes closed.

“I think I might have just pushed myself too hard between the move and life,” she says, her voice thin.

“Cara says you’ve been under a lot of stress,” I say to her as I get onto the freeway to take us back to my place.

My phone pings and my smartwatch tells me that it’s a message from the IV service with an ETA for their arrival. I had set up the appointment while she was finishing up in the bathroom.

She sighs softly, and my heart does that funny clenching thing again.

“Danny and I…we were living with my boyfriend in Alaska,” she says. “He and I had been together for a few years, but we both traveled a lot and lived a few states apart. It was making things tough on the relationship so he offered to build me a writing space and hire a live-in care professional for Danny at his place in Alaska.”

“That was a big move for the relationship,” I say neutrally, slowing down for traffic and switching lanes.

She sighs again. “I thought so too.” There’s bitterness in her tone.

“What happened?” I ask carefully.

She’s silent for a while, and when I look over, I see tears slipping down her cheeks. I feel terrible all of a sudden for pressing her to keep talking about this.

“The ‘nurse’ he hired to care for Danny was just some girl he was sleeping with on the side.” She sounds like she’s speaking through gritted teeth. “I caught them together in the shower one day when I came home early from a work trip.”

“Oh damn,” I say. I suddenly want to find this guy and punch him in the face.

“Danny was crushed,” she says. “It’s hard for him to understand telling lies or being dishonest because he can’t really do any of those things. He just knew that we were moving and that I wasn’t going to let that woman or my ex see him anymore.”

“Poor kid,” I say empathetically. “And poor you.”

She looks over at me for a moment, managing a smile as she swipes at the tears on her face. “Cara is a good friend. She told me she’d find me someplace to live here in Seattle and that she’d set everything up. I was shell-shocked at the time. I have… pretty bad taste in men, as it turns out. This isn’t the first time something shitty has happened to me, but it’s the first time Danny got hurt too.”

“That’s why you didn’t want me to know about him,” I say astutely.

She looks over at me, but I keep watching the road.

“Yeah,” she says in a small voice. “I’m sorry. You’re not like that, I know, but we just…don’t know one another at all.”

I nod. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to take care of Danny and put him first,” I reassure her.

“I’m the only one who ever did,” she murmurs.

“Were your folks busy all the time with work?” I ask, thinking of my own father, who was never, ever home.

She sighs. “I hate Christmas,” she says abruptly.

I look over at her, and she tries to smile, but the expression doesn’t hold any joy.

“My dad left when Danny and I were little. My mom was getting alimony and the house was paid for. She just…took off all the time…with boyfriends, leaving me and Danny alone. She always told people that Danny was younger than his real age because she felt…embarrassed by his social skills.”

I wince internally at the pain in her words. Her parents sound awful. I can understand her pain.

“When I was eleven, Mom promised that she’d stay home with us for Christmas for once. I was so excited. She had decorated the house, we got a Christmas tree, and we even bought gifts and wrapped them. I thought everything was going to change. Danny was also happy about the holidays for once.”

She goes silent again and I see her swallowing past a lump in her throat.

“Two days before Christmas, a man came to our house and rang the doorbell. He was some ex of Mom’s, and he said that they were going to be gone for a few days but that she would be back. Danny and I spent Christmas alone. We didn’t even open our gifts.”

“My dad was a terrible person too,” I say, but I don’t expand on the thought. I reach over and squeeze her shoulder. “Having shitty parents can ruin everything.”

She swallows audibly again. “Thanks for listening,” she says, her voice sounding a little choked. “Sorry to dump that on you.”

I shake my head. “Don’t be sorry. You are allowed to be sad.”

I navigate the turn off the freeway. We sit in silence as I complete the rest of the drive to the parking garage of my place and park the car. I get out and come around to open her door.

“The IV service will be here in a few minutes,” I tell her, offering her a hand.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says to me weakly, taking my hand and wobbling to her feet.

“Yes,” I say to her, leaning over to sweep her up into my arms. “Yes, I did.”

She looks like she wants to protest being picked up, but then she surrenders and leans her head against my shoulder. I climb into the elevator, enjoying the feeling of her lithe curves in my hands.

I use my keycard to let us rise to the top floor, and then walk inside, calling for Nancy. She comes bustling out of the kitchen, her eyes going wide when she sees Rachel in my arms.

“The IV folks will be here soon,” I tell my housekeeper. “Can you buzz them up for me?”

“Yes, sir, of course,” she says quickly. “Do you need anything else?”

“Some water would be good,” I tell her as I walk toward my bedroom.

I set Rachel on her feet and slip off her coat and scarf, then I help her to sit down on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” she says to me, looking ashamed of her weakness.

“Don’t be,” I tell her. “You can’t help being sick.”

I help her to scoot back so that she can rest her head on the mountain of pillows at the top of the mattress. She sighs and closes her eyes.

“Doing okay?” I ask her, sitting down beside her and reaching out to press my hand to her forehead.

She opens one bright green eye and looks out at me from under my hand. There’s a little smile hiding in the corner of her mouth.“No one has checked my temperature since I was a little child,” she says to me.

I smile. “Same, actually.”

“Do you have a relationship with your parents?” she asks me abruptly.

I wince. This is the part of my story that I hadn’t wanted to ever share with anyone, but I realize that she needs to know this stuff to help her write my story.

“If you’re not ready to tell me, it’s okay,” she assures me.

I take a moment to get up and take the glass of water that Nancy has brought to my room, thinking about what to say. I pass her the cool glass and watch her drink some of the water before I reply.

“You need to know so that you can talk about my life,” I say. I pause. “Do you need to like, record me or something?” I ask.

She shakes her head, then cringes and closes her eyes for a second. “I can keep it all up here,” she says, pointing at her temple.

I smile and reach over to squeeze her hand, which is resting on her stomach. It’s cold and clammy, and I feel a little sliver of worry worming its way through me. To distract myself, I get up and start moving around changing clothing.

“Dinner and a show?” she asks me with a sly little smile.

I waggle my brows suggestively. “Only the best for my biographer,” I tease, slipping out of my jeans and then pulling some joggers out of a drawer. I see her eyes linger on the bulge in my boxer briefs and I feel an intense rush of satisfaction about that.

I clear my throat and keep talking. “My dad was a successful man, but a wretched drunk. He hit me, and he hit my mom. I was one of those kids who always had some story about falling out of a tree or off his bike, you know?”

Her eyes have shadows in them as she nods. “Some people shouldn’t be parents.”

I blow out a breath and then slip a more comfortable shirt on.

“My mom loves me, but she’s weak,” I say a bit sharply. I’m surprised that I’m still hurt about all of this after so many years. “She loved him even though he was a terrible person, and so she stayed, which meant I had to stay. He finally went to live with his mistress and left us alone when I was about thirteen.”

“That must have been at least somewhat more peaceful,” she says.

My lips twist. “I guess, but she was…I don’t know…damaged by all of his abuse. She won’t get diagnosed, but she probably should. I spent the rest of my childhood parenting her, basically. Without Nancy, I would have been in real trouble most days. My mom wasn’t all there after Dad left.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and I can tell she means it.

I force a smile onto my face. “It all turned out fine,” I say with false cheer. “Dad finally drank himself to death and I took over the company.”

“You’ve done very well for yourself,” she says.

I shrug. “It was the only way I could think of to atone for what he had done to so many people. Turns out, Dad wasn’t just shitty to us…he was shitty to everyone.”

“Did you ever…want to do something else with your life?” she asks me.

I bite my cheek a little, but then I smile. “I always wanted to have a ranch, spend time outside, get dirty, and grow my own food, that kind of thing. So, about ten years ago, I bought a spread in Montana. I spend as much time there as I can. I feel more…myself out there, even if I can’t stay there full time.”

“I grew up in Alaska,” she says to me. “I never feel at home in a big city. I miss the peace of being away from the hustle and bustle.”

“You’d like my place in Montana,” I tell her. “We’ll have to go there.”

She eyes me for a moment in silence, and I feel a little reprimanded. That’s right. We are supposed to be professionals.

The only reason she would have to go to Montana would be to see another aspect of my life in action. Since it’s the dead of winter, however, we probably won’t make it out to Montana before she needs to start writing the book.

“Rachel Smith?”

We both swing toward the door to see Nancy escorting the IV provider into the room. He’s carrying a bag of medical supplies and he has a smile on his face.

“That’s me,” she says from the bed. Her voice sounds a little stronger, which makes me feel better.

“What’s been going on?” the medical professional asks, and she shrugs a little.

“I might have the flu or something. This all started today,” she replies.

He starts to ask her about her symptoms, and I nod to Nancy to leave the room. I don’t want to hover while the IV guy is asking her personal questions.

She clearly wants there to be a dividing line between our professional interactions and the personal time we will inevitably have to spend together for her to write my book, and I don’t want to step on her toes.

I glance back over my shoulder to look at her lying propped up in my bed. Even pale and depressed-looking, she’s still amazingly beautiful. My heart beats out of cadence for a moment as a swoop of emotion rolls over me.

She was just supposed to be a woman I slept with casually and also the person to write my story.

Is it possible, though, that she’s become something more?