Page 75 of Turning Back

He takes the stroller and the packages, which leaves me with just Adley’s carrier, and we trudge up the stairs to my loft.

That’s when I realize, with blushing cheeks, that the person who is hogging the elevator is me.

Well, not me.

But Bric.

Chapter Fifteen - Bric

The alarm beeps as the door leading to the stairs opens and Rochelle appears with a man.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

I could ask her the same thing. “The furniture came in,” I say, eyeing the man. “What’s going on with you?” It comes out… challenging. Which surprises me. Almost… jealous. Even more surprising.

“Oh.” Rochelle laughs and turns towards the guy. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” the guy says, and then disappears back into the stairwell.

“I was coming…” She stops, then starts again. “I went shopping. Got some new clothes.” She holds up some pretty bags as her proof.

Was she going to say, I was coming home? And then felt conflicted on whether or not this place was home?

“The shops are going to deliver the rest of my stuff on Monday. This is just Adley’s things. What furniture?” she asks.

I look over my shoulder at the team of people—all busy inside Adley’s bedroom. “The crib, remember? There was just the floor model left. Well, it came in yesterday afternoon so I hired people to pick it up and put it together. So she can stop sleeping in that travel thing.”

Rochelle leaves all her things in the front sitting area and brings Adley’s baby carrier over to the couches and sets it on the coffee table so she can unbuckle her. “She likes the travel thing, Bric. You shouldn’t overspend on a crib.”

“How do you know I overspent?” I ask, sitting on the couch across from her. “You haven’t even seen it yet.”

Rochelle is making a silly face at smiling Adley, but she pauses to shoot me a look. “Because I know you well, Elias Bricman. Subtle isn’t in your DNA.”

I consider this. She does know me. I know her. We know each other. Three years—even three years of two-days-a-week game playing—is a long time in the relationship world. If Rochelle was an illegal immigrant looking for a green-card marriage, we could pass that investigation thing they do. That one where they ask you your partner’s favorite color and stuff. Their favorite movie. Do they cry at weddings? Do they like burgers with onions?

Purple. The Blues Brothers. Yes. And no.

In fact, I might know more about Rochelle Bastille than any other woman on this planet, including my mother and Marcella Walcott.

“You like antique stores and old things that smell weird,” I say.

Rochelle bursts out laughing as she slips a pink sock off Adley’s foot. “What?”

“I know what you like,” I say. “Velvet and lace. Especially if the lace has that little yellowing edge to it. And long flowing skirts that someone found in their grandma’s closet after she passed away and decided to donate to the unfortunate. You really shouldn’t take clothes from the unfortunate, Rochelle.”

Adley is laughing at her mommy, who is laughing at me. I stand up and walk around the large square coffee table and sit down next to them, reaching for Adley at the same time.

She comes to me happily, her wide blue eyes staring up into my dark ones. “I read somewhere that all babies have blue eyes,” I say.

“I don’t think that’s true. Not entirely, anyway. But I asked her doctor if she thinks her eyes will change color. She said she didn’t know.”

“Whose eyes will you have, baby?” I ask Adley. I hold her up in front of me like a prize. Trying to see her future. Wondering if she has anything of me inside her. She sticks her chubby little foot in my mouth in response.

“Well, you like five-thousand-dollar suits, Mr. Bricman. And that’s an excessive use of money if ever there was one. You could feed an entire village in India for that kind of money.”

“Not true,” I say, setting Adley down on my knee. “Smith and I actually support an entire village in India and that shit is expensive.”

Rochelle chuckles as she leans back into the couch arm, resting her feet right up next to my leg. “I forgot, you’re a habitual do-gooder. Never mind. Wear your damn suits if you want. Now tell me—what’s really going on in that bedroom?”