Page 102 of Plays Well With Others

Mac tosses her head back, laughing. “Stop. You’re good at hair. You said you were good at hair. Don’t backtrack now,” she says, and if that isn’t a Wilder-ism, I don’t know what is. This kid is full of Daddy’s words of wisdom.

Wilder sets her down then turns to me, a sincere look in his eyes. “I can’t thank you enough,” he says, then to Carter, he adds, “I am truly grateful.”

“We had a good time, Mr. Blaine,” Carter says.

“Wilder.”

Carter smiles, but his eyes say Wilder isn’t winning this one. “Yes, Mr. Blaine.”

I laugh, then take the man up on his offer. “You’ve got a great kid, Wilder. I hope your meeting went well.”

“It was fantastic. Is there anything I can do for the two of you?” he asks, so earnestly wanting to repay us.

He truly doesn’t need to, but how many times does a billionaire think he owes you a favor? Impulsively, I say, “Well, next time Carter helps win the Big Game, maybe my friend Fable can design your rings. She’s a jewelry designer.”

He smiles, looking pleased that I took him up on it. I bet he likes it when people operate in his sphere of understanding—trading favors for favors, deals for deals. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.

With another thank you, he turns to go, holding hands with Mac.

“Daddy, I learned to trash talk today,” she says proudly.

I cringe. Oh shoot. Did all our goodwill just go down the drain?

“Is that so, sweetie?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty good at it too,” she says.

I love this kid’s confidence.

“Of course you are. You’re pretty good at everything you do. Just remember—time and place.”

“Time and place,” she repeats, like it’s their mantra, as they head down the stairs.

Leaving them to their daddy-daughter time at last, I push my door closed, then turn to Carter.

I’m ready formyalone time. Pretty sure he is, too, from the way the heat flares in his eyes.

“Your turn,” he says, tipping his head toward the couch. “Time and place and all.”

I swallow past the dry patch in my throat, then obey by walking to the couch with a pulse beating between my thighs.

I sit on the floor in front of it. He sits on the couch behind me and reaches for the hairbrush, wordlessly runs it through my hair. Closing my eyes, I try to sink back into the attention, to indulge in his caring touch.

But I’m not used to someone touching me with such focus and intention. I need to fill the silence so it doesn’t overwhelm me. I return to something that stood out when Mac asked Carter about ADHD. “Quinn didn’t think it was real?”

He pauses, letting the question register, then runs the brush one more time through my hair and sets it down. “No, she didn’t.”

Reaching for another hair tie, he loops it onto his wrist.

“Like, at all?” I ask.

Carter runs both thumbs through my hair near the crown of my head, gathering a chunk. “She saidIt’s just your excuse for everything.”

Maybe because he asked earlier, I’m compelled to do the same. “Why did you stay with her so long?”

But what I really want to say is—why did you propose?

As he sorts my hair, he takes a deep breath. “There were things I liked,” he says, but he sounds…evasive.

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