Page 4 of Give My Everything
I’ve never thought of Remmy as anything other than one of those dimwitted socialites she so clearly detests, and in the past thirty minutes, she’s demonstrated herself to be quite the inquisitive, curious, and thoughtful sparring partner.
I allow myself to consider her points for a moment—just a brief one. I try to see things from where she sees them, because you can’t control a chessboard if you don’t understand the purpose and perspective of each piece in play.
“Is that your only concern?” I ask, folding my hands together. “You think I haven’t thought the baby part through?”
She sits in silence, assessing me, before she nods.
Interesting. That means I definitely have her on the hook, means she’s finding enough value in what I’m saying to actually mull it over in that very busy mind of hers.
“I’ve gotta go,” she says, cutting off my thoughts before I can identify the best way to convince her that a baby is actually—in my mind—the best part about this deal, the least worrisome. It is for me, at least.
Wyatt and I took care of my sister when she was a baby. We changed diapers and fed her bottles when my mother was out on the town and too self-absorbed to be worried about breastfeeding.
Being a father is actually something I’m truly looking forward to in life, something I’ve wanted for quite some time.
It’s finding the right mother that concerns me. The idea of finding a wife. Kids are innocent and perfect until we corrupt them.
I can manage a baby. What Ican’tmanage is a woman who plans to use me without my knowledge, betray me when it suits her, stab me in the back and leave me behind, bleeding on the ground.
Which is why this arrangement would be perfect with Remmy. We would both go into it knowing exactly what it is. A chance for us both to use each other for what we need. A solution to both of our problems.
Even if I don’t plan on sharing with Remmyjusthow perfectly she fits into my plans.
But before I can vocalize any of that, she stands abruptly, her chair grinding across the concrete floor of the rooftop where we sit overlooking the pier and promenade.
“Where are you going?” I ask, confused about her sudden desire to flee. “There’s still a lot to talk about.”
But she just shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I think…I think you’re insane for even suggesting this idea, and I don’t want any part of it.”
My shoulders drop when I realize my plan has failed. It doesn’t happen often, so when I actually do get pushed down, it tends to knock the wind out of me for a bit longer than I’d like.
Perhaps another woman would be a better fit.
“I’ll see you around, Bennie,” she says, her voice taking on a soft quality I doubt she shows very often. “And thanks for considering how you might be able to save me,” she adds, “even if it isn’t going to work out.”
Then she steps over and places a kiss on my cheek before maneuvering through the other tables and down the stairs to get back to ground level.
I stay in my seat for a while longer, my eyes shifting down to the beach where the Pier-to-Pier Swim is still finishing up, the weakest of the swimmers dragging their exhausted bodies out of the water and making for the finish line. They look drained to the last drop, like they could pass out there in the sand as they crawl toward their end goal.
Watching them spikes my pulse with a hint of inspiration. A reminder that you rarely get what you want on the first try, with the first attempt, on that first plunge into the ocean.
I know marrying Remmy Wallace is a decision that would benefit both of us in more ways than she can possibly imagine, even if I wasn’t prepared to share my true reasonings with her just moments ago.
And if I’m planning on getting what I want, I just need to work a little harder, do a better job of convincing her, find the right method to show her exactly what we could be.
Because she really is the perfect woman.
To help me with my ultimate revenge, that is.
With that thought, I finish my drink in one long swallow and head back to work.
“Ingrid, you can’t tell a customer to get up and get their own drink just because you’re irritated with them.”
My newest waitress gives me a smile that falls somewhere between plastic and nauseated.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Calloway. It won’t happen again.”
It will happen again. I know it. She knows it.
