Page 79 of Ella Gets the D
He takes retreating steps and settles his eyes back on me. “Goodnight.”
“‘Night.”
Chapter 29
Julian
One more night like this, and I’m putting in for vacation. The week has been nonstop, chewing away at time to squeeze in a rugby practice or get home to see Ella and the kids before everyone goes to bed. Brooke Law International is expanding, but it doesn’t get to take everything from me in the process.
My Audi shuts off with a purr in the garage. I grab my briefcase and close the door, headed for the back steps to the basement, when light from the living room catches my eye. The first floor is always pitch-black past eight o’clock on a school night. Ella is a fun mom, but she runs a tight ship through a routine I’ve now memorized. She usually turns in after nine thirty, and if there’s a chance she’s up at ten thirteen, I’m taking it.
I move around the assortment of summer planters to reach the kitchen door. My backyard is full of seasonal perennials and remnants of water toys from a summer of fun I witnessed through photos and video clips. I’ve never been one to feel like I was missing out, but seeing their laughter from thousands of miles away twisted something inside of me.
Ella Fitzgerald’s “Summertime” is a low croon that pulls a smile. Ella and I sometimes listen to my jazz records with a nightcap after the kids go down. The slow drag of percussion instruments with an aged scotch was how I wound down after a long day. Now, I have company—company who happens to be passed out on my couch.
My briefcase hits the ground as I lean against the frame between the kitchen and the living room and take in the sleeping beauty. Ella’s chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. A silk wrap covers her natural curls in a loose bun on top of her head. Her lips part in a tiny snore. She’s not big on dressing up, but the knee-length silk gown she’s in is a stroke to the dick. I stifle a groan at the sight of her breasts under the fabric and drag my gaze down her soft stomach to her thick hips and the swell of her thighs.
Coming home to this every night would undo a day’s worth of stress and unnecessary meetings.
My focus shifts when I step into the room and spot her divorce binder next to a half-full glass of white wine. Scattered around it are catalog clippings from home furnishing stores. I open the binder to the latest entry, a collage of decor and furniture with “Haile” written in her scribbly handwriting.
A folded paper with a series of numbers between the pages falls out. It’s a wish list of items she wants for her new home and their estimated costs. Even with Charles’s monthly child support, she needs a couple more months to save. She didn’t take any furniture with her and has to replenish enough for an entire house on her own.
When I crouch down to brush the back of my hand against her cheek, I smile. The urge to protect and provide for her nuzzles itself deep between my rib cage. Ella doesn’t need anyone to save her, but she doesn’t need to do the hard parts alone.
My house is hers for as long as she wants. I take a picture of Haile’s bedroom collage and text my assistant that I’m working from home tomorrow. Then I drain the wineglass, close her divorce binder, and pick up El, cradling her to my chest.
She stirs at first but settles with a kiss to the forehead. “I got you, sweetheart,” I say against her hair as I make my way up to her bedroom.
My soft grip on her curves feels right. Her and her kids in my home feels right. I push away my desires to be more than the friend she needs and tuck her into bed.
Haile’s voice is faint when she calls out. Mine is at a whisper so as not to wake her mother. “Hey, Haile Bear. Your mom fell asleep on the couch.”
“Could you read me a story? I can’t sleep.”
That’s new.
Ella is the one who does bath time, helps them brush their teeth, and handles stories at night. It’s not my place, and I don’t want to add more confusion to the four of us living under the same roof—or cross any lines and have to deal with El in mama-bear mode. That shit is terrifying. Yet, the schedule some might consider mundane becomes intriguing the more time I spend with this family.
I glance at my watch. Almost ten thirty. “I don’t think—”
“Please, Julie? A short one.”
Well, fuck.
Ella is still asleep. Maybe a quick one. “Okay,” I say softly to Haile. “But if I get in trouble, your forehead is touching the wall too.”
She giggles and hops out of bed. “Deal.”
I meet her at the oversized chair next to a small bookcase and adjust the light from the floor lamp so it’s not too bright. Haile hops into my lap with a book. “Here.” Her little body nestles intothe small space I create, and she waits for me to readThe Year We Learned to Fly.
She falls asleep halfway through the story, her breathing evening out as she curls into me and wraps her tiny arms around my suit jacket. I sit with her cradled next to me and flip through the book of imagination and a grandmother’s wisdom.
Ella and I didn’t know each other when she was with her ex, but her children’s resilience is a testament to her love. The evidence is in their laughter, the containers of crafts and toys neatly tucked away throughout the house, and the unbreakable bond they’ve created, one that thrives without the father figure Ella pushes to be present.
“Goodnight, little one.” I put Haile in her bed and press a kiss to her hair.
If you’d asked me last year if I could picture myself with a woman with kids, I’d have laughed in your face. Settling down was the furthest thing from my mind. Yet here I am, trying to figure out how to shorten my next stretch in London.
