Page 51 of Third Time Lucky

Chapter Eight

Joey

A is for Awkward. As fuck.

Allow me to set the scene. Last night, I was bundled up and walking along the well-populated waterfront in my new neighborhood, enjoying the small shops and restaurants, as well as the music drifting out from one of the local bars. Beside me was a well-dressed gay man who got into Pilates to balance out his love of baking, preferred Marvel to DC and had been a Big Brother for years, as well as the doting uncle to six nieces and nephews. He also listened to me as if everything I said was fascinating and/or we’d be having a pop quiz at the end of the night.

This was JD’s pick for date number one. He was real—I saw him blink and eat at dinner, and on paper he couldn’t be more my type. He even got all my random references.

That kind of perfection makes me instantly suspicious. JD’s husband does work for people who could study my search history and put together a dossier for my dates. Not that they’d ever do that because that would be crazy. Probably.

When I managed to avoid his attempts at hand holding and a goodnight kiss outside my building, he charmingly insisted on walking me all the way to my door. I’m not sure if he thought the elevator ride would give him time to change my mind or he really was that much of a gentleman, but things did not go the way either of us had planned.

Nodding at the interested Mr. Gordon as I walked through the lobby, I wondered what was wrong with me. This guy wasn’t bad looking at all, he was good company and he clearly wanted to smash. Instead of getting leg cramps in the shower, I could get naked with a man who wasn’t conflicted for a change.

Why didn’t I want that?

When a large, masculine hand stopped the doors right before they slid closed, I had my answer. Elliot was why. He was what was wrong with me.

Universe? You and I need to have a talk.

If you’ve never experienced it, there is nothing quite like being trapped in a narrow metal box between the sporty single dad you jerked off to in the shower and the debonair homosexual bachelor you showered for. The one who actually wants what’s in your pants.

Awkward AF.

My date never did get that goodnight kiss. Possibly because Elliot decided to start a conversation with him, lingering in the hallway and making it clear he wasn’t in a hurry to leave us alone together. Then he disappeared without explanation as soon as the elevator doors closed.

After I showered and changed, I stood on the balcony for an embarrassing fifteen minutes, huddling in my jacket as I waited for him to hop over my railing, sit too close for comfort and explain what the hell that was about.

He never came out, but I did find a picture of Rue and her giant tower of pancakes in my email.

For the princess.

I spent another sleepless night wondering what it all meant, and how I could miss a habit I’d barely started with someone I barely knew. Why hadn’t he joined me on the balcony?

Now I’ve walked into the middle of a family feud. Coming home late in the afternoon—following an office plumbing emergency and a phone meeting with my case managers that I wasn’t supposed to join but couldn’t concentrate on anyway—and wondering if Elliot’s disappearance last night meant we wouldn’t be having that beer after all.

“I thought I should finally take a look at this place, since you want my daughter and grandchild to spend the night here alone. And I’m glad I did. EJ, how can you think it’s a good idea to raise a child here, even temporarily? With some cross-dresser guarding the door and smut on the walls?”

This is what I hear before I even step into the hallway. Neither one of them look up when the elevator arrives, too focused on their conversation. I don’t want to invade Elliot’s privacy, but I can’t help glaring at the back of the petite woman’s head. I recognize that voice.

Did Elliot’s mom call Mr. Gordon a cross-dresser because of his glasses?

“There is nothing wrong with this building or anyone in it,” he says testily. “It’s safe and secure, and Rue loves being this close to the water. She loves it so much, she wanted to share it with her aunt and cousin. They have no problem staying the night, and I am not about to let you ruin their plans by throwing a fit about it.”

Direct hit.

“A fit?” His mother sounds as if she’s been struck. Even her short, elegant bob is trembling. “I can throw a fit, son. But why don’t we talk about what you’re doing to ruin things instead? You should be thanking your stars that they’re willing to give you a second chance to play for a team that could make it all the way to the World Series. You remember, that thing you and your father were always dreaming of? You could be there now if you hadn’t left, and I think they know it. You can bet your big bank account that they won’t be so understanding if you mess things up next season.”

Can I hit her now?

Elliot manages to restrain himself, so I follow his lead. “Oddly enough, they understood that finding out I had a child who needed me was something that might require my full attention. What I don’t get is why you don’t.”

Her huff is disbelieving. Practiced. “You’ve never appreciated what your father and I did for you. Not once. You’ve turned down endorsements, you’ve refused every suggestion to increase your media presence. Joan was a star before she broke her ankle and allowed some grifter to knock her up. What you have is that fastball and your consistency as a player. If you were smart, you could have taken the option to let Rue—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” There was an undercurrent in Elliot’s voice that physically sends his mother back a step.

My feet are in quicksand. I can’t move. If I did, I might need to go over there and tell that woman off. How could someone like that have raised someone like Elliot?

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