Page 8 of From the Shadows

EDDIE

I need a drink.

Air drags from my lungs as I stare at the dark screen of my phone. That was… Jesus, I don’t fucking know what that was.

I should probably check the feed from the monitor in Evie’s room, but I’m not sure I can swipe into my phone just yet without calling Jess again. She makes my head spin and my dick—she makes that uncomfortably hard.

Stubble rasps against my palm as I scrub at my face.

Frustrating. That’s what that conversation was, an exercise in frustration and control. Apparently, I’m full of one and deficient in the other, at least when it comes to Jessaline Lapin.

I pull a cut crystal lowball from the cabinet and pause before dropping a fat ball of ice into it. Whiskey enthusiasts would have my ass for defiling the purity and essence of the distilled liquor, but I’m just not a neat guy—in a lot of ways, when I think about it.

My desk, my job, my fucking personal life—all of them are leaning toward messy right now. Why would my drink of choice be the one thing I have neat?

I eye the custom-crafted bar cabinet in the corner of my living room and push out a breath. I paid a lot for that piece. I love it, but it sits empty of my carefully curated whiskey collection, holding toddler toys and extra diapers instead. It’s criminal.

Instead, I flip open the cabinet above the refrigerator and sift through my options. This feels like a moment for my crisis bottle. I always have one designated, though sometimes the label changes.

The one currently up to bat is a sherry-cask-finished Irish recommended by a friend, though I guess with the trajectory of my job he’s more of a coworker. And Teague would absolutely give me shit over the big-ass ball of ice diluting his favorite whiskey.

I pour a healthy measure into my glass and drain it just a quickly. This is a self-designated crisis after all. I refill my glass, then tuck the bottle away, and close the cabinet. With my daughter here and her nanny still out for the evening, I can’t wallow the way I’d like to drown my troubles.

Fucking responsibilities. I think I’m officially done with this day.

With my phone in one hand and drink in the other, I make my way through the apartment checking on all the details as I go. The door is locked but not bolted so Chantal can get in, and the lights are off except the small lamp on the entry table. Evie is out cold, her bum in the air, knees and fists tucked under her and hidden from sight.

Everything is as it should be, except for me. I’m restless and pissy. Moody. That’s how Jess refers to me.

Sullen.

Morose.

Dour.

She’s used each of those words at one point or another to describe me. As if I need to be told what a sad sack of shit I am. Though, she’s never gone quite that far. But she does enjoy a varied vocabulary. One of the quirky things about her that just kind of sticks in my brain. One of many.

I enter the primary suite and shut the door behind me. I’m always torn when Evie and Chantal are here… my gut feel is to keep the door open so I can hear if Evie wakes and needs me, but with Chantal under the same roof, shut is good enough. Locked is even better. She’s been nothing other than professional, but I don’t want to invite any hint of impropriety.

How is it that I have so damn many women in my life—wreaking havoc and causing headaches—but I’m still going to bed alone? And this early in the evening.

I flip the lock and pad through my bedroom to the ensuite.

The man staring back at me from the mirror is tired. He’s seen better days, for sure. Christ, I don’t know the last time I made space in my life for something as simple and basic as a haircut. It’s just become standard practice to shove my fingers through my hair and gather it in a tail at the back of my head when I’m frustrated.

Somber.

Mopish.

More of Jess’s descriptors filter through my head.

I sip my whiskey, ice cold and perfectly diluted, and turn, leaning my ass against the vanity.

With all thoughts of Jess swirling above my head like a dark cloud, I give in and bring my phone to life. I stare at her contact image for far too long and replay the entire conversation. It was a wild ride, but with Jess, that’s more like the norm.

She hops topics, gets lost in her head looking for the perfect word, and then the more perfect one, and she grabs hold of innocent statements and twists, throwing them back at me wrapped with something dirty and flirtatious.

Spinning head.