We meet the real estate agent at Apartment 507. Ethel is a little old lady with wispy gray hair tied into a braid. “Welcome, welcome.” She ushers us inside with a hand wave.
3 bedrooms. 3 baths. 1500 square feet. Eh, still small for all six of us and a baby, but it’s considerably bigger square footage than the townhouse.
“How’s the security?” Thatcher asks, getting right to the point. He moves in the direction of the windows.
Ethel adjusts a bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter, the apartment staged for showings. “Very secure. We’ve never had any problems with any of the units in the building.”
“Before we keep talking,” I say. “Can you sign this NDA?” I pull out my phone with the digital document and explain everything it entails.
Confusion wrinkles her actual wrinkles. “Should I know who you are?” She gasps at herself. “I’m so sorry—that was rude of me. I just don’t keep up with the internet.” She leans forward to scribble a signature on my screen.
If she did keep up with it, she’d know the baby strapped to my chest is the headline on just about every tabloid in the grocery store. I would know because I was recently there and saw the headlines at the check-out rack.
MAXIMOFF AND FARROW HAVE A BABY!
DID THE NEW FATHERS ELOPE?
HOT DAD ALERT!
We knew Ripley would be salacious news. But I didn’t expect Maximoff to shut-down the grocery store for an hour. With no hesitation. He rarely ever does that.
But we had Ripley with us, and Maximoff’s first reaction was to do what his parents did for him in the face of hellish media. Take extra precautions.
Ethel passes me the signed NDA and then shows us around the apartment.
It’s okay.
Nothing special about it.
She guides us back to the kitchen. “I must confess, I think this unit is a bit big for just the two of you and your little one, but I do think you make such a lovely couple.”
I choke on air, my brows high-jumping. “No, we’re not—” I start saying just as Thatcher tells her, “Thank you, ma’am.”
I stare hard and wide-eyed at Moretti.
He’s unruffled, and a shocked breath scratches my throat. This is not how I saw today going.
Ethel touches her heart and winks at me. “Your secret is safe with me, sweetie. I’ll leave you both to discuss.” She shuffles off towards the living room.
Omega would be fucking doubled-over laughing if they were here. I look to Thatcher. “You’re not my type, Moretti.”
“That’s fine, but we also don’t need to waste fucking time giving her a biography of your life.”
“I could’ve easily ended that conversation just as fast with the truth,” I tell him. “We really need to extract you from the Cobalt Empire and their dramatics. Shit, you’re over here pretending to be my boyfriend.”
His brows pull together. “I’ve always been like this, even before I started living at their mansion.”
I nod a couple times. “Makes sense why it took us so long to be friends.”
Thatcher actually laughs, and then he glances around the apartment. “What do you think about the place?”
“It’s not half-bad.”
He nods. “But I don’t like the optics of the hallway.” He goes into more security measures we’d have to take.
Four apartments and an hour later, we end up with the same conclusion. En route to the fifth and final one, Ripley is nonstop bawling.
“I think he needs changed.” I unbuckle and crawl into the backseat, confirming that Ripley, indeed needs a new diaper. Thatcher pulls into a gas station, and I unclip Ripley from his car seat. “Can you hand me…?”
Thatcher is already reaching for the diaper bag.
I lock eyes with him. “You and Jane talk about babies yet?”
“Yeah.” Thatcher unzips the bag. “What do you need out of here?” He looks confused as fuck.
“Man, just give me the whole thing.”
He passes it back. “We’re not trying for them until after we’re married.”
I ditch the dirty diaper in a sealable bag and wipe Ripley clean. He smacks his lips, less fussy. “Jane’s not worried her cats will get territorial?” Cats have a habit of hating babies. Or so I’ve heard and read, since Ripley will be around all seven of Jane’s cats when we all move back in together.
“Hell yeah. She’s worried.” Thatcher runs a hand through his thick hair. “Which is why we’ve put a pin in it for now.”
I look him up and down after getting the new diaper on. “Honestly, you’re good for her. For each other.”
Static fills my eardrum from the radio. The low chatter turning to something more incessant. “George to Farrow. George to Farrow. Um…I have a problem.”
The temp in charge of Maximoff is radioing me with a fucking problem. And that right there is a problem. Thatcher sits up straighter, listening to comms.
I click my mic with one hand and zip up the diaper bag with the other. “Farrow to George, what’s going on?”