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THE QUAINT TREE-LINED street of Hudson Avenue is where Fiona and Ethan’s very old East Lincoln Park home is located. Originally built in 1886, the narrow brick building with three floors has a charm that I just love.
Easing down the street, I take a left about ten homes from theirs to circle around to the alleyway where their driveway is positioned.
Spotting the black Range Rover parked there puts me on edge. The chrome wheels and tinted windows immediately give it away. It belongs to Nick Carrington, one of the biggest real estate developers in Chicago. Nick also happens to be Ethan’s former college roommate and best friend. Oh, and did I mention, he’s Max’s Godfather.
What the hell is he doing here?
Last I heard he was in Miami for an extended amount of time working on a really big real estate deal. Then again it isn’t like I keep tabs on him. He and I don’t exactly get along.
Yes, we’ve been forced together in the same social settings at least a couple dozen times since Fiona and Ethan met. But to be honest, I’ve never really given him a second thought—other than to say he’s kind of a jerk.
Out loud.
So he could hear.
Many times.
Sure, he’s tall, dark, and handsome. And yes, he has the best ass I’ve ever seen, and I mean ever seen quite literally. You see he mooned me at Fiona and Ethan’s Fourth of July barbecue last year, which pretty much defines his personality.
He always has to be the life of the party.
He’s also arrogant.
Rich.
And a playboy.
Every time I see him, he has a different woman on his arm. I can say this about him—he doesn’t discriminate. Tall, short, blonde, brunette, they’ve all gotten their turn with Chicago’s most eligible bachelor. From what I’ve heard, he just never keeps any of them around long enough to give them a chance.
Plain and simple, he’s a manwhore.
And I’ve had my fill with manwhores. So seeing his vehicle in the driveway isn’t making me extremely pleased right now.
Again I ask myself, “Why is he here?”
Unless.
No, please no, don’t tell me something happened to Fiona.
Hitting the gas, I floor it into the driveway as fast as I can. Once I put the SUV in park, I hurry to get Max out of his car seat.
Rushing inside with Max on my hip and his gear on my shoulder, I take the stairs up to the main floor two at a time and come to a screeching halt.
Oh.
My.
God.
Holy shit!
Coming down the stairs is all six-foot-two inches, and I mean all six-foot and two inches of Nick Carrington in his glory.
Wet.
No towel.
Completely naked.
He looks at me, only a little surprised, and mumbles, “Shit,” or something like that. I’m not really listening right now. There is so much white noise in my head that I don’t think my ears are working properly. Or my hat is on too tight.
Wait.
Ignore that two inches part because he is, well, to be blunt . . . huge.
“Uncle Nick,” Max screams in delight, jolting me out of the trance I had fallen into.
“Nick!” I scream in outrage, while at the same time relieved that nothing must be wrong with Fiona or Ethan.
He covers himself with his hands and shrugs.
“Nick! What the hell!” I yell.
“Uncle Nick!” Max exclaims again with glee.
My head jerks in Max’s direction. Instead of following suit and covering his eyes like me to shade his vision from the sight of Nick’s smooth, tanned, muscular chest, tight six-pack, and well, his huge endowment, the almost three-year-old reaches out for him.
Traitor.