Goldie and the Three Wisconsin Bears

Jeb raises his eyebrows. “How about the father of that imaginary baby she’s claiming?”

“He’s obviously not in the picture.”

“Either that or she’s lying.”

I can easily tell from Jeb’s tone of voice which option he believes.

“Look, if she’s lying, we’ll give her some money and drive her straight to a hotel.” I set the oatmeal to simmer and turn back around to face him. “But she agreed to sign the NDA and the contract as soon when we give her back her car. And Mitch is out getting a pregnancy test right now.”

Jeb’s hands tighten around his metal coffee cup. Then he asks, “What was her name again? I’ll run a few checks on her when I go out to the shed.”

I grimace. Then admit. “She said she preferred not to tell us her name. So we’re just calling her Goldie for now.”

A beat of stunned silence, then Jeb erupts. “What the hell are you thinking? She won’t even give you her real name, but she knows all of ours? She’s lying. You should have taken her ass to the hotel last night instead of letting her have your bed and sleeping on the couch.”

Okay, I understand why Jeb is the way he is. The foster system, followed by doing God knows what in the Middle East, probably wasn’t the best way to cultivate a general sense of trust within anybody. But the fact is, not everybody’s out to get him. And I trust my intuition about this woman more than I trust Jeb’s instincts.

She’s gorgeous, sweet, and weirdly innocent. The way she tentatively offered to have sex with us, like she thought there was actually a chance of any red-blooded man in his right mind turning her down. It made me want to do things to her. Bad things that would make the other players on the team think twice about calling me Saint Nic.

Also… “She’s got nothing but a dress and a hoodie to her name. You really think a girl in her situation would know how to do enough research on us to find out about this cabin? Then purposefully leave her car on the side of our property road for us to tow? Then lie to us about being pregnant and willing to have sex with us in exchange for money?”

Jeb glowers for a moment as he considers my words. But then he volleys back with, “I wanna know how she ended up pregnant and stranded out here in the first place. And how do you know she’s not an addict? These woods are pot farm central.”

“Mitch says she isn’t.”

That shuts Jeb up. After growing up the son of pot farmers, Mitch can sniff out addicts into anything heavier than weed, better than a K-9. How many times had he nixed a prospective conquest or sent an escort back with just a squint and the word “junkie” as an explanation?

I say out loud what Jeb’s probably thinking. “We both know Mitch wouldn’t have offered her paperwork if he thought there was even a chance of her being on drugs.”

Jeb nods in grudging agreement. But then he says, “I don’t care if she passed Mitch’s sniff test. I don’t trust her.”

I shake my head and turn back to the oatmeal. “Bro, why are you acting like she’s the one taking advantage of us? Considering the position she’s in, we’re the ones taking advantage of her!”

“Yeah, poor little Goldilocks,” Jeb mutters behind me. “Bleeding heart like you, I’m surprised you’re willing to go along with Mitch’s plan.”

“Paying her the five figures for one week helped me get over my reservations,” I admit, pulling two bowls down from the cabinet above the stove. “And she needs money to set her and her baby up. I figure we’re both making out on this deal. Also, like you said, she’s a total smokeshow.”

Silence from Jeb. And I take advantage of it to ladle oatmeal into the bowls. I pour some honey and a few walnuts into mine and two tablespoons of brown sugar and some craisins into Jeb’s.

I made his oatmeal just the way he likes it, but he’s still gritting his jaw when I set his bowl in front of him.

“It doesn’t matter because she ain’t pregnant,” he informs me as I sit down across from him. “And soon as that pregnancy test comes back negative, I’m kicking her pretty little ass out of here myself.”

I pick up my spoon. “Jeb?”

“What?” he grunts.

“What are you going to do if you’re wrong? Because you know you want her too.”

Silence. And I guess Jeb’s done calling us all sorts of fool for the day. Instead of answering, he fists his spoon and tucks into his oatmeal.

We’re most of the way through our bowls when Mitch comes through the door with a bunch of groceries.