Wrong Bed Baby (Crescent Cove 10)
One
Moving sucked.
Moving because your bachelor pad for half a decade was being torn down by Gavin Forrester, the hotshot big time developer in town who wanted to build more condos, really sucked.
But getting a hefty payment to help compensate for the inconvenience of moving helped ease the pain. Slightly.
“You gonna get a move on or just keep staring into the back of this SUV like it holds the answers to good sex?”
I didn’t even glance at my best friend Lucky. I knew he’d be looming over the back of my vehicle to show off his biceps to maximum advantage, just in case any ladies happened to wander by.
“I know the answer to that,” I muttered. “And it involves me and a glass of merlot.”
“That’s how you warm yourself up? You sound like a chick, but hey, do what works for you, man.”
I had to laugh. “Shut the hell up, Roberts, and grab the other end of this hutch.”
He elbowed me out of the way. “You might prefer group activities, but I can handle this one on my own, son.” He hefted up the handcrafted oak piece built by my older brother August with a grunt.
The sound made me grin as I stepped back and waved him toward the propped open door to my apartment building. “By all means. I’ll just stand here and cool off with a refreshing beverage.” I popped open the cooler and grabbed a can of lemonade before flipping open the top. “Ahh. Tastes good,” I said as I took an exaggerated swallow.
In a truly spectacular feat, Lucky managed to flip me off before hauling the hutch toward the open door.
Music suddenly spilled out, loud and unrepentant. It wasn’t something you’d hear on the local station either. This was a sinuous, exotic beat, the kind that brought to mind warm breezes, a gorgeous sunset, and an even more gorgeous woman belly-dancing with a colorful snake wrapped around her upper torso.
I took another drink. Or maybe that was just me.
Lucky didn’t seem to pay it any mind as he barreled through the doorway and headed up the stairs with his latest bulky item of furniture.
I turned toward the back of the SUV to take stock of what was left. In short, it was a lot.
This wasn’t the first trip I’d made over here, but we were in early innings. My new apartment was still mostly a barren wasteland. I’d skipped hiring a moving company, considering I hadn’t had far to go and could call on a number of fit dudes like myself to help out.
Oddly enough, most of them had become suddenly unreachable despite knowing for weeks the days I’d planned to move. August would be over later after work, but I couldn’t count on any of the rest of the slugs I knew. As if wives and children and gainful employment could keep them that busy.
Whatever.
Lucky, however, used any attempt to show off and looked at carrying heavy furniture as the best opportunity going. So far, his plan had not borne much fruit, although a couple of the gooey-eyed young baristas at Macy’s coffee shop had come out a few times to offer us refreshments. Lucky hadn’t been too keen on any of them, since most of those girls were barely legal.
He had some standards. Not a lot, mind you, but some.
He jogged up beside me as I was dragging out the small bookcase that doubled as a nightstand in my bedroom. “Dude, there’s some kind of chick party in there, and I think they’re stripping.”
I snorted and set my bookcase on the pavement. “I think heat stroke has finally warped your brain.” I swiped my forearm over my sweaty forehead and grabbed for my already sweating can of lemonade. “It has to be ninety out here.”
“Ninety-five,” he informed me, flashing me his smart watch. “Not that you’ve been doing much to get sweaty, you lazy fuck.”
I shrugged. “Conserving energy for when the help is gone is a valid strategy. We both know you’ll only stick around as long as there’s a chance you’ll get laid.”
He waggled his brows at me. “I didn’t know that was on the table.”
“Not in your fondest dreams, pal. I don’t care if you unload every piece of furniture by yourself and decorate too.”
“I don’t fucking decorate. That’s what sisters and girlfriends are for. You’ve got one.”
“A sister? Definitely. Not that she has enough time for
that shit. She’s not even around right now, remember?”
My baby sister Ivy was in LA with her husband and their baby daughter Rhiannon for a week, which had been a tactical error on Ivy’s part since we were smack dab in the middle of a heat wave. Her ice cream truck Rolling Cones would’ve made a killing if she’d been open for longer than the banker’s hours she kept the truck operating on while she was away. She had a good crew to help her, but she preferred shorter shifts when she wasn’t around to manage things. If she’d been able to stay open until 10 pm on these sweltering nights as she usually did, she probably could’ve funded Rhi’s college education.
Not that her fancy rich husband needed any help with that.
I wasn’t bitter, toiling away on a teacher’s salary. Mostly because I loved my kids. I enjoyed their curiosity and enthusiasm and sometimes even their mischief-making. Aug claimed my affinity for children came from the fact that I hadn’t matured past twelve myself, but I would’ve said at least thirteen. Maybe fourteen on a good week.