"What are ye doing, mon?" Sawyer bellowed when he found Devon peering at him from the side of his bed.
"Waiting for you to wake up," was the reply from the man who was like a brother to him.
"I told you not to watch me sleep," he grumbled, squinting as he ran a hand over his face.
God, he was tired.
And that had nothing to do with the hours of dancing last night, the impromptu threesome on his car, or the late hour they’d gone to bed.
It was Sean.
Sean, who’d driven hours to hit Glasgow, because his need to be with his family had reached a fever pitch.
Sawyer had fallen into bed, but he had lain awake for hours. Sean had kept the details of the case he was working on from Sascha, but Sawyer knew. As did Kurt and Andrei. Only Devon didn’t, and only because he hadn’t spent much time in Sean’s office. When they worked in there, sometimes there was no avoiding the white board that held the details of the cases Sean worked on. Even when he’d been taking pains to hide them from Sascha.
When Devon’s face didn’t even twitch with regret, Sawyer said with a huff, "I told you. It creeps me out!"
Devon shrugged, but Sawyer stared at the coffee mug in his hand with greedy eyes. "I wasn't watching you, per se. Just watching your chest."
Grunting, Sawyer pulled a face. "That just sounds even worse, ya perv."
"Why would it? If you were Sascha, then it would make sense. I'd be eying up your tits. You don't have any. There's nothing interesting to look at."
"Apparently there was enough of a show to warrant you sitting there with some damn coffee!" Sawyer argued, then he beckoned with his hand. "Give me some."
"It's mine. It's the stuff Sascha makes for me," Devon countered, hugging the mug to his chest.
"Tough shite. You woke me, you have to pay the price." He motioned again with his fingers, and with a huff of his own, Devon complied, handing over the mug as though he were handing over priceless jewels. He took a deep sip of the brew, relieved to note it was hot— an indicator Devon hadn't been perving over him for very long. Pulling a face at the taste of the decaffeinated shite in his hand, he murmured, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Devon replied. Quickly. Too fucking quickly.
He cocked a brow as he took another sip of the noxious brew. "How long have I known you, Dev?" Before he could answer, Sawyer gritted out, "Too fucking long to not know when you're lying. What's. Wrong?"
"Why was Sean drinking?"
"You heard him. A bad case. He was too late to help that little boy." Sawyer stared down at the mug in his hand; better that than stare Devon in the eye. The man’s brain chose inopportune moments to discern truth from fiction.
"He mentioned Tin though."
"Aye. He said the bairn looked like Tin."
"But he wasn't Tin. So why was he so upset?"
Times like this, it was like talking to Bender from Futurama. Except Devon didn't fart fire or drink beer.
God help them all if he ever drank beer.
That being said, there were times when Bender was more empathetic. In his own way, when it didn't concern the people he considered his, Devon was surprisingly cold.
"We're parents, Dev. Aren't we?"
Devon frowned, apparently unsure where Sawyer was going with this. "Yes."
"How would you feel if Tin was snatched from us?"
"He wouldn't be."
The confident answer had Sawyer hiding a small smile behind Devon's coffee cup. "How do you know?"
"Because I'd kill the bastard who tried to take him." Devon’s response didn’t altogether come as a surprise, but the lack of tone did.
He meant it.
One hundred percent.
Devon would kill to protect Tin.
When Sascha had given birth, he’d been terrified Devon’s quirks would manifest in such a way that he couldn’t show the boy any love and affection. But Sawyer’s fears had been for nothing.
In his own way, Devon was more dedicated to Tin than the rest of them.
Tin always sat on Dev’s knee whenever they were together, which was a lot. The boy was glued to him unless one of his other fathers demanded cuddles. And hell, Sawyer wasn’t even ashamed to admit that.
He’d never wanted fucking cuddles in his life. But when it came down to his boy? He never got enough.
"I'm sure that's how the parents of the little boy who died felt." The words tasted wrong, but he needed to make a point. “I’m sure they thought they’d kill to save their child.”
Devon pulled a face, his brow scrunching in contemplation. "People are funny about life."
"Narrow it down for me, Dev." He waved a hand. "I mean, give me specifics. Funny—ha-ha or funny—weird?"
"Funny weird," he replied after a second's thought.
"Okay, in what way?"
"To protect you, or Sascha, or Tin, or Kurt, Andrei, and Sean. Jacinta and Hamish too... I'd kill someone. In a heartbeat. I wouldn’t care if I went to prison." He paused. “I’m sure they’d still let me do math, so I’d be okay in there, and I’d know you were safe. I wouldn’t care that I’d killed someone. Not if they were trying to hurt you, anyway.”
"It's easy to say that now, when you're safe. When we're all safe."
But Devon was shaking his head. "No. I mean it. I would." He narrowed his eyes at him. "I know you think I walk around with my head in the clouds, and I do for the most part. Not much goes on that interests me. But you interest me. You all do. That means I protect you." He scratched at his stubbled jaw. “That’s what the money’s for. I don’t want it. I’d open source most of the stuff we work on, but the money?” He shook his head. “That will protect you. Even if we don’t need it so much because of Sascha’s inheritance, it’s always better to have too much, than not enough.”
He was so staunch about it, Sawyer had to punch him in the arm. "You don't have to protect us. We can protect ourselves. And hell, we have fortunes of our own." They weren’t exactly poor. Although, admittedly, Devon and Sascha were technically the richest in the household.
That didn’t seem to faze Devon though, because he simply shrugged. "I know you can. Doesn’t mean I don’t need to make certain of that though." Even as Sawyer frowned at him, surprised by this admission, Devon pursed his lips as he eyed the mug. "Are you done with that? You’re not even enjoying it. It's completely wasted on you."
Like he hadn't just been discussing murder, the topic changed direction entirely.
Sawyer handed it back then he scraped his hand over his jaw—if he wanted anywhere near Sascha today, and he did—he'd need to shave. She liked him with a bit of stubble, but not broken glass as she considered this current level of 'fuzz.' And it itched like a bastard too.
"Sean's okay," he said, his tone contemplative. "You know what he's like when he has to deal with cases where kids are snatched. And the last one was before we had Tin. Now, it's different."
"Why is it though?"
"He can empathize."
"In what way?"
"He can understand what those parents are going through." Sawyer regarded him with calm eyes. "Can't you?" He pursued the topic, even though he knew it could spell disaster for the day. "Think about if someone took Tin. How would you feel?"
"I already told you. Murderous."
Sawyer cocked a brow, surprised by the sustained control in his voice. Devon didn't handle trauma well. He shut down. He closed up. He locked the world out. He didn't get angry.
Not at anyone save himself.
Contemplating his best friend, and the usual conundrum that was a part and parcel of being the idiot's companion, he murmured, "Okay, so, you'd feel murderous. Sean, well, he doesnae feel that way. He feels sad. He feels he let the family down."
Well accustomed to Sawyer’s ‘doesnae’s or doesn’ts in regular English, Devon didn’t bat an eyelid.
"But he didn't. He didn't take the child," Devon argued, his chin setting in a way that Sawyer recognized he was in for the long haul—great, just what he needed at four AM. At least, that's what a quick glance at his alarm clock informed him.
Wait a second.
Four AM?
Wanting to complain, but knowing it was pointless because Devon had obviously been thinking about this for a while, he murmured, "Why couldn't you sleep?"
"I was worried about Sean."
"Why were you?" he asked, knowing he wasn’t speaking emotionally because Devon, at times, could be pretty robotic.
"I thought he might throw up and choke on his vomit."
Sawyer's eyes widened. That was pretty detailed—he narrowed his eyes. "Have you been watching that stupid show with Sascha again?"
Devon scowled down at his mug, reminding Sawyer way too much of Tin when he'd been caught in the act of doing something he'd been expressly forbidden from doing—like another Sudoku. "No."
"You liar," Sawyer retorted. "You have. I told you to stop watching that."
Devon hated TV, but he'd started watching it because he liked sitting next to Sascha in their lounge. He said it was because watching her crochet comforted him, but Sawyer knew the truth.
Sascha's tits were epic. Seriously. They were porn worthy.
But when she was pregnant?
Sweet Jesus, they were even more astonishing. And with the way Devon sat, he had a perfect view down her blouse.
"You're such a pervert," Sawyer snapped at him.
"Why? She doesn't mind," Devon answered, apparently knowing where Sawyer was heading with that argument. "You said it was weird, so I decided to get consent."
Sawyer pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's something, I guess."
"And anyway, you check out her arse and feel it up when Tin isn't looking. You don't get consent for that," he retorted on a huff. "So, who's the pervert now?"
For a second, his mouth worked as he processed that particularly correct logic.
Fuck!
"She checks out my ass too," was all he could think to say. "And she grabs my cock under the table."
Devon pursed his lips. "I need to have a word with her about consent too then."
"I think I should be around for this conversation," he said, striving to keep his tone bland, when, inwardly, he was snickering at the prospect of Sascha being lectured by Devon of all people on informed consent.
Jesus, it was enough to make a man cackle.
"Of course. It's good for everyone to have a refresher. I mean, no means no, right?"
Instead of chuckling like he wanted, he coughed. "Indeed it does. But, there's the issue. When does Sascha ever say no?"
That had Devon blinking. "Huh. She doesn't, does she?"
"No. She's on us like butter on bread." Sawyer wasn’t ashamed at the level of satisfaction in his voice. Their woman might be far-too-many-years-than-Sawyer-wanted-to-count younger than them, but the age difference didn’t seem to deter her.
Sascha was the bee to their nectar, and he was pretty damn smug about that.
Devon beamed at him. "She likes us."
"Only just figuring that one out, bud?" he asked, amused.
"No. But, it's nice to know we still have her interested. It's been almost four years, Sawyer," came his serious retort. "We don't want her getting bored."
Though he wasn't wrong, Devon's earnestness was cuter than a man in his forties had any right to be. Because that wasn't a line of thought he wanted to continue, not when Dev was a bigger pain in the arse than Sascha would be with a strap-on, he grunted, "You want to work?"
"When don't I?" Devon countered.
"This is also true." He heaved a pained sigh as he clambered out of bed. With his feet on the thick rug, he stretched and blindly sought out the lamp switch on the table at his bedside.
When the light came on, he squinted then grunted as he reached for his robe and covered up.
"You still working on that problem Andrei sent?"
Andrei had taken to consulting for the Veronian embassy ever since an old friend of his grandfather’s had hooked him up with the King of the country.
It was strange to think his prick of a housemate had a King's telephone number, and hell, Sawyer had no intention of helping Andrei’s head get any bigger.
"Yeah. It's interesting."
Sawyer cocked a brow, then he ruined it by yawning. "It is?" Not much interested Devon, after all. Not unless it was truly complex.
"They shouldn't be suffering such high inflation. Yet they are." Devon shrugged. "It's something to think about." He cut Sawyer a look as he stood too. "I could use your input actually. I think it's something the DIVA program could help with, and I know you're more up to date with that than I am."
The Diva program had been Sawyer's baby. It stood for ‘DIscounted Cashflow – VAlue at risk,’ the two major economic terms the program helped formulate. It was what had won them their Nobel Prize. Though Devon insisted Sawyer had been the driving force behind it, Sawyer knew that without Devon, it wouldn't exist. Though most of the initial ideas had been from his end, Devon's wild brain had taken the program and made it his bitch.
"If you think it will help, I'll take a look at the information Andrei sent over," he confirmed, then he grimaced as his brain sorted through the day's events and hit a snafu. "Shit, we're supposed go out with Sascha today."
"Shopping," Devon confirmed.
"You remembered?"
Devon huffed. "When do I forget?"
When it came to Sascha, that was true, Devon had the memory of an elephant. If that elephant also got waylaid with math problems.
"I need more sleep to deal with that particular torture though," he groused, running a hand through his already mussed hair.
"You can nap later."
"I hate napping."
Devon just grinned. "You'll forgive me when I show you the papers I've been working on."
Though he really did just want to crawl back into bed, that grin intrigued him. Shite. Devon knew how to twist him around his little bluidy finger just like Tin could Sascha!
Really grumbling now, he rounded the super king bed. When he was a foot away, he punched Devon in the arm again. "You're a gobshite."
"I have it on good authority that I'm actually rather tasty." Sawyer rolled his eyes. Then, before he could mock, Devon carried on, "And I'm not talking about cannibalism, either. Sascha isn't into that." He paused a second. “I asked her for verification.”
"No, she's just into us," Sawyer said drily, then slugging an arm over Devon's shoulder, he dragged him out of the bedroom.
Work wasn't what he wanted to be doing right about now, but he'd deal with it. As he'd done a million times in the past, and as he'd do a million times in the future, he’d sacrifice sleep for his best friend.
Even if that best friend was, truthfully, a gobshite.
The high street, as they were known in Britain, was cold.
Really cold.
She didn't know why she was out here, it was that frigid. But it was early October, she'd needed to buy some gifts, get a head start on Christmas shopping, had craved a burger badly enough to venture out, and going into Glasgow was a hell of a lot less hassle than going into London would be.
London was life. She knew that sounded crazy, but it was true. There was a flow, an energy that was unlike anywhere else. Even when Kurt and Andrei had taken her to New York City, where she'd never been before, it wasn't like this.
New York City was special, sure.
And it had been awesome to be home in the States again, but London? It was in her veins.
That didn't mean she liked shopping on Regents Street.
She'd tried to get over the traumatic event that had happened there all those years ago, and for the most part, it had worked. But not there. She hated going. And even when she went to Bond Street or any of the other shopping hotspots in the capital, she felt uneasy. Like she could be targeted again.
Petticoat Lane Market was cool, but the gifts she had to buy had to be top end, because the people she was buying for were snobs.
Kurt and Sean's parents were difficult. They'd never accepted her. Had never even made it known they were aware of her, and yet, the distant relationships they had with their sons made her unhappy.
Having Tin had made her see how easy it was for the parent-child bond to break down, and that hurt her because the notion of him not talking to them when he was older, and all because of some silly life choices, made her both mad and sad.
She'd never reject him if he turned out to be gay, or even if he turned out to have a foot fetish! Why their life choices bothered Kurt's and Sean's folks, she'd never know, but it did, and it had caused a deeper chasm between the families. Though a gift was in no way a decent patch, it was something.
An olive branch.
She'd bought Margritte a silk scarf from Hermes, and Deidre, Sean's mother, was going to receive a rather nice gold bracelet—thank God for Frasers! For the two fathers, she'd settled on expensive Scotch whisky, knowing that was the easiest route. Even if they didn't enjoy it, it was something to have on their drink trays, and both families were definitely the kind to have those.
Before she'd started working as a housekeeper in London, she hadn't realized drink trays were still used.
Not outside of James Bond movies and Downton Abbey that is.
Most people, herself included, had a cabinet in the kitchen that they stored the liquor in. Simple. Same in the USA. But in the la-dee-dah houses—as Sawyer called them—they tended to have small trays with decanters on them. Well, the richer folk of a certain age and a certain class did. Which was why Sean had one in his office, she thought, with no small amount of amusement.
It seemed surreal to think that you could judge a person's social standing on whether they decanted their booze. But it was a thing in the UK, and who was she to judge?
She was from a world of beer-pong and margarita bowls.
That was more her style.
Even if she'd been born into a different life, the one she'd led had forged her, and she wouldn't change it. Even if her beginnings did cause her some sadness.
Overhead, the sky was gray. The road was too, and the pavement under her feet—the sidewalk—was also murky. A part of her knew she should have dragged Sawyer and Devon out for the ride, especially as the drive over had been a-migraine-in-the-making torturous, but they’d been working and she’d really just wanted to head out alone. It had been snowing off and on, and while she wore sturdy boots, she'd already slipped once. That had been enough to prompt her to go back to the car but Tin who was chortling at her side—he was the only man in her life who enjoyed shopping—had insisted on heading for McDonald’s.
Like mother, like son, she feared, her lips twitching.
Sawyer hated that Tin ate Happy Meals, but hell, it was once in a blue moon! And Sascha was a firm believer that having a ‘little bit of what you craved’ did you good.
That was why she had five men.
Outright grinning at that as she peered into a store front, she eyed the sweaters, and wondered if Vasily would like one of them. He was approaching ninety-two, was moody with it, and often lamented Andrei's infrequent visits to Moscow, even though Andrei had flown over there more since Sascha's entry into their world than he had since he’d left for Oxford university decades earlier.
The sweater was in a traditional tartan, and though Vasily was a proud Muscovite, she thought he'd get a kick out of the sweater. Especially as it was from Scotland itself.
"Baby, let's go in here."
Though she loved Buchanan Street with its Victorian architecture and its upmarket shops, she also liked how there was half a mile’s worth of shopping to be had. Most of it varied.
"But McDonald’s! You said so."
Tin's whine had her rolling her eyes. But she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. She knew she spoiled him because he was Andrei’s spitting image. It wasn’t fair, not to him or to her, but whenever he crumpled his brow and pouted, it was so beyond adorable she just melted. And then there were the times when he actually managed to look regal. Regal! How an almost three-year-old managed that, she wasn’t sure. Andrei claimed it was the Russian in him, which only made her heart melt even more when he pulled that particular look.
"It's only eleven in the morning," she countered, trying hard not to laugh at him. That only encouraged him. "Who eats lunch now?"
"Happy Meal," he argued back. "Happy Meal!"
She winced at his chanting, which gathered the attention of a couple of Japanese tourists who twittered as they moved on. Tin, with his mop of bright golden curls, often garnered attention. He looked like a little angel; only his family knew he was more devil.
"After we go into this store," she negotiated, well aware that it was ridiculous to be negotiating with her toddler.
His lower lip popped out in mulish annoyance with her.
Just like his father in manner as well as looks. Tin's thought processes were already revealing themselves to be unique.
If she said they were going to McDonald’s, that meant immediately in his eyes. And, sadly for her, she’d used McDonald’s as a prompt to get him to try on some clothes twenty minutes ago.
It would have figured that with Devon around, she'd be used to phrasing things 'just so' but she was having to learn a different method with her son.
He was direct to a fault. And he was so cute with it that she often let him get away with murder, even though she'd pay for it in the end. If she’d had any uncertainty with the timing of things, there was no doubt in regards to it in Tin's face.
He was a walking, talking, mini Andrei.
It was weird.
Even weirder when he'd been a little baby.
Not that Vasily had thought that. He'd crowed when they'd hauled ass over to visit him, the baby in tow.
She smirked at the memory and tugged at Tin's hand—loving the days when she'd just lugged him wherever she went, his will be damned.
Only trouble was, as she went forward, he pulled back, and even though he was small, that gentle force on the slick pavement had her wobbling in place for a few terrifying moments. Then he compounded it by letting go entirely so he could ball his little hands into fists and stomp his foot.
For a few endless seconds, she was suspended in air. It was bizarre. She’d had zero traction on the ground, and she was both motionless and utterly out of control. Time was frozen. Just like the paving beneath her feet. Then, it crashed, just as she did. Her feet slid from under her and she, with her fucked up center of gravity, tilted forwards.
She tried to break her fall, but it was too fast. She didn’t have time. Not even enough to put her hands in front of her. She went down. Hard. Her belly took the brunt of the fall as it was closest to the ground, and the moment she felt her bump connect with the concrete, Sascha released a scream.
It pierced her own ear drums, shattered her own thoughts.
Agony tunneled through her. Pummeling her senses. But what was worse was the terror.
For what seemed like hours, she just lay there. Winded. Unable to move, unable to function. Then, Tin’s tantrum-in-the-making was put on permanent hiatus as he broke into terrified sobs at the sight of her on the ground.
She didn't really know what to do with herself as she lay there, an oversized lump on the ground. She was in pain, unable to twist, unable to take the pressure off her stomach. Her back ached, her knees pounded with a dull thud, and her skin felt frozen as the cold, wet ground bled through her coat and started to bite into her skin. But none of that mattered. None of it.
Deep inside, she felt it.
Something was wrong.
Her eyes prickled with tears, and the wind chill just made them sting all the more as she tried and failed to lift shaky fingers to rub at her eyes, then she felt them. Hands. Several pairs.
Before she realized what was happening, a small gathering had collected around her and they were helping to turn her over. As she was finally moved off her belly, a man dropped to his knees, "Are you all right?"
His voice was kind, kind enough to make her eyes burn a little more. She wanted to nod, but her head felt like it had been rattled. Her brain felt like it had been shaken better than one of Bond's Martinis. Instead of nodding, she whispered, "I don’t think so."
"The bairn?" The man jerked his chin at her prominent bulge.
She pressed her hand to it. "I-I…” Her mouth quivered. What could she say?
No.
Nothing felt right.
Seconds before, all had been well. But now? It hurt. Like, maybe, she’d torn something inside.
Sucking in a breath, she finally managed to tilt her head to the side, and as she did, she saw Tin was on his little knees, his eyes pink and his cheeks raw from crying. She hadn't realized he was clutching at her arm through her thick down coat, and that gave her some hope—if the bulky fabric cushioned his pinkies from her, maybe it would have cushioned her fall?
But that pain!
God, it was like nothing else she’d ever felt.
"We need to call an ambulance," the stranger was saying, and the small crowd of four or five nodded in agreement, their murmurs of 'ayes' blending in amongst them.
She wanted to argue; she wanted nothing more than to go home, but she couldn’t. Home wouldn’t hold any of the answers.
"Could you help me up, please?" she asked, and her voice was a little rusty. She didn’t want to sit up, but the cold of the ground and the ache in her back made laying down even more agonizing.
"O' course," came the man's concerned reply, and she placed her hand on the slick concrete while reaching up to grab his as he levered her into a sitting position.
She winced as her bones settled, and the pressure on her stomach increased. It was compounded by glass tearing through her glove and she hissed out a long breath even as she leaned back, trying to ease the heavy sensation in her stomach.
Over eight hundred pounds of whisky lay in shards around her, and it was such a perfect representation of how she felt at that moment, she knew she could start sobbing.
She took off her glove and was relieved to note that the thick fabric had taken the brunt of the cut. There was some blood, but not much.
"I'm sorry, lass. I didn't realize there was glass. I wasn't looking," he admitted, and she shot him a wan smile.
"Don't be silly. I really appreciate you stopping to help me out,” she whispered, her voice small when Tin began wailing at her side as he saw the cut on her palm. She quietened him with a shushing noise and turned in his direction but the movement had her cringing. Something was definitely not right.
Deep inside.
There was no avoiding it, no ignoring it even if she wanted to.
Biting her lip, she told her son, "Darling, it's okay. Mommy is fine."
It didn't work.
The tears fell from his eyes as freely as the snot did from his nose, and she had to sigh at the sight. God, even with a snotty snitch, as Cinta called it, he was cute as hell.
This time, however, she didn't even have to resist the urge to reach for a handkerchief to wipe his nose. She didn't have it in her to do much else than murmur, "We’ll be fine, Tin."
Apparently, her tone wasn't enough to inspire confidence in him because, once again, it didn't work. One of the crowd broke away, revealing an older woman with graying hair, a red beanie on her head. Her thick woolen coat parted as she squatted at Tin's side.
"Come now, laddy, your mummy's okay. We just need to get her seen to, and when we do, then she'll be right as rain."
The woman said 'right' as 'reet,' and Tin's eyes widened. Jacinta hadn't introduced him to that particular phrase, it seemed.
"Reet as rain," he murmured, repeating the phrase with her accent too.
The woman laughed. "Aye." She cut Sascha a look. "Be honest. The hospital?"
Sascha licked her lips, then she nodded. There was no ignoring the strange sensations fluttering away inside her.
The man at her side reached into his suit coat. It was only then she absentmindedly realized how handsome he was. A silver fox, his outfit spoke not only of wealth, but of exquisite taste. The label was definitely Armani, and underneath, it was perfectly tailored to his form. She wasn't interested in checking him out, but he seemed to shine. In the dull light of a bleak morning, with the pain intruding on everything else, he might as well have started glowing. The phone in hand, he connected the call and she realized he was ringing an ambulance.
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur as they waited for it, and as each minute passed, the sense that… Her throat felt constricted from everything she was trying to repress. All the emotions and the fear. She needed to control it not just for Tin’s sake, but for herself. She was terrified, and she felt so alone. So so alone. Why hadn’t she gone with Sawyer and Devon like they’d planned?
Why had she snuck out without disturbing them from their work?
Tin was rambunctious and stubborn enough to be strong on occasion. With the icy floor? She’d been stupid, no, reckless to come out.
Hating herself, fearing the worst as the pain deepened into a blackness that bordered on labor pains, she felt rigid, frozen with fright.
As the crowd dispersed, the woman stayed as did the man. She spoke with Tin, soothing him as she informed them both she was called Martha. And the man told Sascha his name was Joseph.
"That's a real shame about all that whisky," he murmured when the gathering had dispersed, and though she'd told him he didn't have to wait, he'd dismissed the offer without even commenting—as though her words were too ridiculous to even remark upon.
She focused her splintered wits on the broken bottles beside her. "I don’t drink the stuff, but even I can mourn twenty-five year old liquor."
He gasped as he turned over the shard with the label on. "MacAllan?"
"Yes."
"That's some gift. For your husband?"
"No. His parents," she replied, her cheeks flushing as he tilted his head to the side. Something in his gaze telling her he was asking with an ulterior motive in mind.
Considering she had a son and a baby belly, well, his interest was, in her opinion, a little unusual. Who hit on a pregnant mother?
Frowning a little, she pleated the hem of her coat between her fingers. "I wonder how long the ambulance will take," she murmured, more to herself than to him as she tried to contain, and failed, a sudden wave of agony that shattered along her side.
"You know what traffic is like at this time of the day."
She shook her head. "No, not really. I don't know the city that well." She didn't think eleven AM was exactly a busy time.
He shot her a look. "Well, it's close to twelve, so the offices will be emptying in time for lunch."
"It's nearly twelve?" Where the hell had an hour gone?
She winced, then realized she hadn't called Sawyer or Devon. What the hell was she thinking?
"I didn't realize so much time had passed," she admitted. "You really should go and get some lunch. I'm sorry for taking up so much of your break."
"I'm the boss," he informed her drily. "I can take as much of a break as I want."
She flushed again at the interest sparkling in his eyes—why did he keep looking at her like that?
Ducking her head, with the need for her men suddenly as ardent as the pain making her stomach throb, she reached for her purse only to see it wasn't there. She let out a hard sigh. "Just what I need."
"What is it?" Martha asked.
"I think one of the crowd took my purse."
Joseph swore. "That's bang out of order," he growled, leaping up to his feet as he stared down Buchanan Street, which was, as predicted, slowly filling up. "I can't believe someone took advantage of your fall."
She rubbed her forehead. "It's okay. I just..." She grimaced. "My phone."
Panic filled her. How was she supposed to get in touch with them?
The whole point of a phone was not having to remember everyone else’s number, and when her baby brain was in full effect, that became more of an issue than usual.
It might have seemed crazy, but that was literally what broke her control.
The pain, she could deal with. It wasn’t labor; that was more painful than even the car crash she’d been involved in years ago. It was this. Tin was here, scared, he needed his daddies. She needed his daddies, too. Jesus. She needed them more than Tin did at that moment, but she couldn’t have them because she didn’t know their damn numbers! Her bubbling fright she’d been managing to temper, but the prospect of not being able to contact her men?
It was just too much.
She began to cry, trying and failing to think up a solution, coming up short each time. The more panicked she felt, the harder it became to concentrate on those nine digits of Sawyer’s number. And the six digits of the house phone at Cinta’s? They swirled around her, confusing her as they made her terror surge.
The man, Joseph, squatted at her side again. “Can you remember a phone number?”
Sascha shook her head. “N-No.”
He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “It’s okay. We’ll work it out.”
She looked into his handsome face, saw the earnestness there, and didn’t know whether to be relieved or perturbed.
He was so genuine.
Was he really just a charitable man? A kind man who’d seen a pregnant woman fall, with her little boy sobbing at the sight of her on the ground?
Or was she so suspicious of people now that she couldn’t trust any act of kindness that didn’t come from her men?
She didn’t suspect Martha, so why did she feel more uneasy about Joseph’s presence than the other woman?
“T-Thank you,” she released on a breath, and with that shaky breath, she heard it.
In the distance.
The wail of an ambulance.
Tin heard it too. He’d been playing with something Martha had handed him—a fidget spinner that was attached to her key ring. His head popped up as he heard the noise and his pink cheeks, flushed from the cold, blanched.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay,” she tried to soothe, hoping like hell it would be.
She was cold and sore and in a bizarre pain that she really didn’t know how to describe. Not only that, but she was in another country, by herself, with no way of contacting her men.
She had five of them, and not one of them could be here for her.
It seemed so wrong to ask this stranger for his help, so wrong when he watched the paramedics help her off the ground and onto a stretcher.
And it felt weirder still when he climbed into the ambulance, helped her wave Martha off, and sat talking to Tin the whole way to the hospital. But she was grateful.
She wasn’t alone, and she wasn’t about to face a team of doctors without someone at her side. Joseph wasn’t one of her quintet, but at that moment, she just didn’t want to be alone.
For that, she’d forever be grateful to the stranger.