Page 83 of Black Roses

After our bath we laid in bed. He cuddled up behind me as we brainstormed ‘safe’ places to make love. Pretty much any surface in the bathroom, kitchen or living room made the list.

I can’t believe I was talking with a man about sex and smiling about it. Laughing even. How he has truly changed my life is staggering.

I twist the charm on my bracelet—for the first time not out of anxiousness, but in wonder. In hopes that she will one day find a man as incredible as Mason.

My attention is drawn back to the nightstand where his phone vibrates once, indicating a text. It’s done this several times since he left earlier.

I know he wanted to stay. I could see it written all over him. But he never asked. And for that I was grateful. I need time and he’s giving it to me. Not to mention we’re both pretty jet-lagged despite the early hour. After all, it’s well past midnight in Barcelona.

When he left, just before seven o’clock, he said he was going for a quick run at the gym before heading home. Then the plan is to meet at Mitchell’s NYC for Sunday brunch where he’ll bring me a new phone. How he’s going to manage purchasing a new one before noon on a Sunday is beyond me. I guess he has connections or something. Maybe this is all part of the stuff he said I would have to get used to if I’m going to be with a famous athlete.

When his cell hums once more, I resist the urge to turn it over and peek at the text. Instead, I head downstairs to get a snack before turning in for some much needed sleep.

On my way, I pass Aaron’s nursery. I flick the light on and let my eyes travel around the room. I take in the crib, decorated with muted tones of blue and green; the rocking chair that has a matching blanket carefully laid across the back; the changing table that has tiny outfits of all colors folded on the shelves beneath it. I stare at the collection of family pictures on the wall.

I make a decision right now to hold Aaron the next time I see him. To pick him up and study his little face; smell his sweet baby scent; touch his tiny hands.

Then maybe I can even work my way up to Jordan.

I look in the mirror over Aaron’s dresser and wonder, not for the first time since I’ve been back, if my baby looks like her. Like Jordan. After all, Baylor and I could sometimes pass for twins if not for our age and slight cosmetic differences. I touch the tiny piercing on my nose and glance at my black hair tips. Of course, Jordan is only eight months old and my daughter is more than five years old. But in my mind, she’ll always be the pink and perfect newborn I got to hold for those precious minutes before I gave her away.

I turn around and exit the room, switching off the light on my way out. I need to eat and sleep.

Tomorrow I can take care of the rest.

~ ~ ~

Incessant buzzing wakes me from sleep. Exhausted, I look at the clock, disappointed to see it’s half past eight and I’ve only been sleeping for a few minutes. Someone is calling Mason. I pull the pillow over my head and let it roll to voicemail, not daring to answer his phone.

Seconds later it dances across the bedside table with another call. This time, I pick it up and glance at the screen to see it’s not a number from his contacts. I have no idea who’s calling him. I put the phone down again and roll back over.

It vibrates again. I sigh, reaching over to shut it off. But I notice it’s the same number that has already called twice. Someone really wants to reach him. Maybe it’s Janice Greyson. I lazily smile thinking he might not have her saved as a contact.

Then I wonder if it’s not Mason who’s getting the call—butme. Maybe Mason is trying to call me from home. Does he even have a landline there?

With a pang of traitorous guilt, I swipe my finger across the screen to answer. “Hello?”

“Oh, thank God,” a young girl’s voice belts out nervously. “Is this Mason Lawrence’s phone?”

I sit up in bed, protective of my new boyfriend. Some fangirl has gotten his private number. “Who is this and how did you get this number?”

I hear tender cries and squeals of pain coming from her end of the phone. “I need Mr. Lawrence,” she begs. “There’s been an accident and I can’t get a hold of Ms. Whitmeyer.”

“Ms. Whitmeyer?” My mind cycles through an index of who I know. “Oh, you mean Cassidy?”

All at once everything clicks together.

Nervous teenager. Wails of a child in pain. Accident.

“What happened? Is Hailey okay? Where are you?” I belt out in panic-driven succession.

“She fell down the stairs. I’m only the sitter. I just got here. I didn’t even know the gate was open. I can’t reach her mom. Is he there? What do I do? Should I call 911? Can you help me—”

“Stop!” I yell through her frantic ramblings. “What’s your name?”

“A-Amanda,” she stutters.

“Amanda, you need to calm down or you can’t help her. Where are you?”

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