Page 3 of Game Changer

This past Christmas, Lindsey got engaged, and her fiancé, Scott McClay—or as call him, S-twat McDipshit—told her it was inappropriate to spend two weeks with me. I told her to invite him along so he could see just how PG it was. This went over like a lead balloon, which is why I spent the past two months in a rental house in South Carolina, waiting to get whatever time I could with my girl.

Not enough time. Not even close.

I look up when I hear the crunch of gravel under tires and see headlights in the distance. It’s far enough away so I don’t know what the hell it is, but close enough to know it’s not Mom. If the height of the lights didn’t give that away, then the fact that Mom wouldn’t have lights on at dusk would.

I push up out of the chair, walk over to one of the posts, and lean against it as I watch the car I recognize, but it can’t be.

But when the white BMW SUV stops at the end of the drive, I realize I am wrong—the vehicle is exactly like the one Lindsey has in South Carolina, but there is no way it’s her.

The sun is positioned in just the right spot that I can’t see beyond the reflection, so I have no idea who it is. After a few seconds, I see the back driver’s door open, and Lindsey slides out, her dark blonde hair that she dyed red in college drapes over one shoulder with our little flower head resting on the other.

“Hey,” Lindsey says softly, her Southern drawl more pronounced every time I see her. She nods toward the table where the envelope lies. “I figured you’d get another one.”

I let out a slow breath, stuffing the letter into my back pocket. “Did they send you here to make sure it was delivered?”

Her face softens, and she shakes her head. “They don’t know I’m here. As far as my parents are concerned, I’m with Mila in Jersey for the weekend.”

I’m unsure if it surprises me or pisses me off after the fight we had over it—her parents and S-twat winning in the end … of course.

I head to the bottom of the stairs.

“Just stay there. You don’t have shoes on,” she whispers.

When she gets close enough, I run my hand over Lily’s back. She stirs a little, blinking her sleepy eyes up at me, and then she smiles. Her tiny fingers flex as she reaches out for me, and I takeher. She snuggles in, and I watch as her little eyes begin to close. Within seconds, she’s asleep in my arms.

“She wanted to see her daddy,” Lindsey says, her voice barely above a whisper. “And we need to talk.”

I nod toward the door, and we head into the house.

“You still have a room made up for her like in the pictures you sent?” Lindsey asks quietly.

I nod.

“You mind if we crash here for the night and head out in the morning?”

“Of course I don’t mind.” Well, I don’t like the part about leaving in the morning, but one step at a time, and she didn’t just stop showing up here, going off the grid—she leaped.

Once Lily’s tucked into the crib that she was damn-near too big for already, and I have the monitor situated, Lindsey and I head downstairs.

“Mind if we sit on the porch?” she asks.

“Go ahead on out, and I’ll meet you there in just a minute.”

When I come out, she’s sitting in one of the rockers, looking out at the horses. I hand her a glass of sweet tea, sit down in the one next to her, and do the same thing.

The silence stretching between us until my eyes drift to the envelope. “I’m not going to give her up. I can’t, Linds. I know it’d be easier for you if I did, but …” I shake my head.

“I know,” she says, her voice trembling. “And I don’t want you to. But my parents?—”

“Screw your parents!” I cut in, sharper than intended. “You don’t need them, Linds. I’ll take care of you and Lily like I have always promised I would. Whatever you need, I’ve got it.”

She looks down at her tea, her fingers tracing the rim of the glass. “It’s not about money, Beau. It’s about … security. Stability. Family. I don’t want to take her away from you, but if I stand up to them and Scott?—”

“You think they’ll cut you off?” I tilt my head, studying her. “Let ’em. You’ve got me. And Lily’s got us.” Saying his name without a venomous bite behind it is difficult, but I manage. “Scott loves you. He’ll —”

“It’s not that simple,” she cuts me off, her eyes shimmering with something between fear and hope, something that doesn’t have that tool of a fiancé’s involvement at all, but still,

“It is,” I insist. “Move to New York. Let me be there for her—for both of you. We’ll transfer her to a preschool there, and I’ll help with the day-to-day. You don’t have to fight them alone, Linds.”

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