Single Mom's Protector - Complete Series

by Nella Tyler

  I’d bought three water guns. They weren’t the super soaker kind, but they were enough for a little bit of fooling around at the park between the three of us and easy enough for Brady to be able to use without stressing. It was setting up to be a hot day, and I knew we’d all enjoy the relief of spraying each other with a little water. I’d packed a few extra bottles of water just for the purposes of the guns. Between that, the ducks, and the playground next to the picnic area, I figured that Brady would have enough to do that Zeke wouldn’t have to worry too much about entertaining my son and could relax as much as I planned to.

  I hoped that Zeke would be punctual as he always seemed to be. We got to the park and I hauled the picnic basket and the blanket—as well as the bag holding a change of clothes for Brady, along with the water guns and the water to fill them—out of the car and carried it with me to the entrance. It was slow going; Brady of course was a perfectly competent walker, but I didn’t want to risk letting go of his hand in the crowd around the front of the park or have him get distracted and run into the street. So my hands were most definitely full while I wanted for Zeke to arrive.

  With five minutes to spare, I spotted the tall, good-looking man approaching the entrance to the park, and I couldn’t help but smile to myself at the sight of him. The first thing I noticed was that he was actually in a regular pair of jeans and a tee shirt, along with some sneakers—and that he made the simple, casual outfit look better than it had any right to. The second thing I noticed was that in spite of the fact that I’d told him the night before that I had everything covered, his hands were full: in one hand, he had a gift bag from one of the biggest toy stores in the city, and in the other, he had a bouquet of bright red and orange tulips.

  “Zeke! I told you I had everything taken care of,” I said, shaking my head even as he extended the flowers towards me. Brady started to hide behind my legs just as he had at the mini-golf date, but then he realized that he recognized Zeke and stepped out in front of me instead.

  “Hey, Brady,” Zeke said, giving me a quick look as he knelt down on the ground in front of my son. “I got this for you on my way over here. I hope you like race cars?” He handed Brady the gift bag and I suppressed the urge to groan; I felt weird about the fact that I’d let Zeke buy me a few things for my son in our previous date together and he’d only made it that little bit worse by bringing a gift for my son. At least, if he’s going to bring the boy something, it’s good that he brought something Brady would like, I thought ruefully, as my three-year-old son ripped the tissue paper out of the bag and threw it onto the ground in his haste to get at the present. It was one of the nicer toy race cars I’d seen—shiny, with big bold text on the package that said that it made all kinds of noises and could be “upgraded” with additional accessory parts.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I told Zeke as he stood up from his crouched position. He shrugged.

  “I remembered you mentioned Brady liking race cars, and I saw it somewhere and thought it’d be nice for him to have it,” he said matter-of-factly. “Just like I thought it would be nice for you to have these.” He extended the tulips toward me again and I waved at the basket and bag at my feet.

  “I don’t have enough hands,” I told him tartly. Secretly, I was almost equally thrilled, charmed, and appalled at the gesture Zeke had made. I was touched that he had remembered my preferences, even weeks later; I was charmed that he had thought of a gift that would almost certainly keep Brady occupied even if nothing else in the park would. I was appalled that he was buying more things for me—and for Brady—after our most recent date. Get to the end of the date, and then have a discussion about boundaries with him, I told myself firmly. There was no sense in derailing anything right then—not when Brady was there to witness any possible temper that could erupt.

  “You’re right,” Zeke said blandly. “The bouquet is too big; I should have thought of that. Two hands aren’t going to be enough to hold it.” I frowned at that comment, confused; but before I could ask what he meant, he leaned down and collected the handles for both the basket and the bag, hefting them together and extending the flowers to me with his free hand once more. Brady was practically dancing with impatience to get into the park and find the ducks to show them his new toy car, so instead of arguing, I accepted the flowers and shook my head to let Zeke know that I wasn’t fooled by his strategy.

  I led the way into the park, keeping a sharp eye on my son as we walked to the picnic area. I knew that in some respects, it would be more practical to snag one of the tables that were set aside for the park’s patrons, but Brady would climb all over the table and I didn’t want to stress out over keeping him from hurting himself, so I grabbed the blanket and spread it on the grass, a little distance away from the pond where the ducks were swimming.

  I was worried that Zeke would be bored, but right away, he was on the ground with Brady, showing him all of the new toy car’s features, and when Brady suggested that they feed the ducks—by excitedly pointing to the flock and calling out the silly names he’d given them, before turning to me and asking for “duckie food,” Zeke was 100% on board with the idea and fished a quarter out of his pocket to get a handful of the pellet feed that the park kept topped off in dispensers near the pond to go with the halved grapes I’d set aside.

  “The ducks are going to have quite a feast,” I said with a laugh as Brady led the way towards the pond. “Watch out, little man. We don’t want you falling in that dirty pond.” I watched as Zeke and my son distributed the food to the ducks, smiling to myself; Zeke had said that he felt awkward around kids, but with Brady, he seemed to be right at ease.

  I broke out the picnic food after Brady had satisfied his curiosity about the ducks, and Zeke even managed to keep him engaged throughout the late lunch, asking about his babysitters, about the toys he had at home, about the ducks’ names. I let Brady wander over to the playground after that and Zeke immediately moved to help me put everything away and clear up; he might not have had the idea for the date, but he seemed to be committed to making it work.

  “You’re really enjoying yourself,” I observed as we stood near the playground, watching Brady brave the jungle gym.

  “It’s a great day out, the food was excellent, the kids are entertaining; what’s not to enjoy?” I grinned to myself, remembering the water guns. I hoped that Zeke would be on board with my plan for the later part of the date—but I couldn’t be sure until Brady came up, hot and sweaty, and asked for his drink.

  “I’ve got something better,” I told my little boy. I led him back over to the picnic blanket and broke out the water guns. I looked at Zeke to see his eyes were gleaming with amusement. “You in, Zeke?”

  “You are going to get so soaked. Isn’t she, Brady?” I had to explain to my son what the water guns were, but as soon as they were all loaded up, and I fired off a squirt at Zeke to start everything off, the battle waged on. Brady toddled around us, spraying indiscriminately, and Zeke alternated between focusing on me and playfully defending himself from my son. We all alternated focus: sometimes I was getting squirted from both my son and Zeke, sometimes Zeke was under attack from both Brady and me, and a few times—playfully and carefully—Brady found himself besieged by the two grown-ups, until there was no more water for the guns.

  By then, Brady was thoroughly tired out and I knew the date had to come to an end. Zeke sensed it, too, and he offered to help me carry the basket and bags back to the car, so that I could carry my flowers and my son. As I strapped Brady into his car seat, sparing a moment to watch a still-damp Zeke walk towards his car on the other end of the parking lot from us, I realized that I wished he were coming home with us. I wanted to spend more time with him. Shit. I put all my attention on Brady’s straps, making sure I didn’t do anything wrong in my distraction. But once I was behind the wheel and driving home while my son fell asleep in the backseat, I couldn’t escape the realization that I was developing actual feelings for a client.

/>   I knew I shouldn’t have let Zeke kiss me the first time. I definitely shouldn’t have let him kiss me a second time; and maybe most importantly, I shouldn’t have let him get Brady involved in any of our dates. I had gotten personal with a client, and now I was going to have to deal with it myself. I had kept all of those details from Katie in my reports—and now I felt guiltier than ever. I had to wonder: should I go to her and ask to be taken off of the assignment? I thought that I could manage my feelings, but I had already let things get too far with Zeke. My heart beat faster in my chest and I tried to think of what the best solution would be. Of course, the first halfway decent guy I meet happens to be a client. Of course he is. I sighed and pushed the idea of Zeke out of my mind, telling myself I could handle the situation.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Zeke

  I sat in my living room, staring at my TV, pretending that I was watching the show flashing across the screen but actually thinking. I had asked six women out since Katie had called me to give me permission to start “homework dating,” and every single one of them had turned me down. I probably should have at least been grateful for the fact that none of them had laughed in my face or told me I was an asshole, but it didn’t make it any easier to know that of the six women I had asked out, none of them had wanted to give me a chance.

  I had had enough pride not to push the point and keep myself from asking why they didn’t want to date me, but as I sat in my apartment, feeling more than a little sorry for myself, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something fundamentally wrong with me. Even after the coaching I’d gotten from Natalie, even after the assurance that I was ready for dating, none of the women I’d gone after as practice dates on my own had wanted me.

  I checked the time; it was nine o’clock at night—not exactly late, especially not for a Friday, but an awkward time for calling anyone who might commiserate with me. I closed my eyes, resisting the urge to text my friend Jim; he’d be out at a bar, chatting a bunch of women up—probably getting shot down just as much as I had been, but because he did it all the time, he wouldn’t care. I wasn’t about to disturb his night out with my pity party.

  You could talk to Natalie. You’re paying for a dating coach; she should be able to at least give you some tips on how to get a better response. I dismissed the idea almost as quickly as I’d thought of it. Natalie was my coach: that didn’t mean that I could call or text her whenever I wanted. She had a life of her own and a kid to take care of. But Brady—at three years old—was probably already in bed or very close to it. How much harm could it really do? If she’s busy, she won’t answer your text. The temptation was too real. I groaned, scrubbing at my face with my hands. I felt pathetic. Just send a quick text to see if she’s free, and if she doesn’t answer, give up on it for the night. I took a deep breath and picked up my phone off of the coffee table where I’d left it.

  I typed and deleted, typed and deleted, typed and deleted until I finally had a message I thought would be short enough without being demanding or sounding pathetic. How’s Friday night treating you? I tapped send before I could think about it too much and put my phone aside, standing and walking into the kitchen to give myself something to do. I didn’t want a beer; I definitely didn’t want anything harder than a beer—the idea of drinking my sorrows away, all alone in my apartment, seemed even more pathetic than contacting Natalie had been. I settled for a glass of water and a bowl of popcorn, telling myself that waiting for the popcorn to finish would at least kill three minutes’ worth of time.

  By the time I sat back down on the couch with my bowl of popcorn, Natalie had replied. Relaxing and watching a movie that isn’t a cartoon or a sing-along! My Friday night is terribly exciting. You? I considered bluffing, but there was no point in it. I bit the bullet and replied honestly. Or at least mostly honestly.

  I’m wallowing in self-pity—I asked four women out this week and not a single one of them said yes. I could use a pep talk if you’re not enjoying your relaxation too much to offer it. I put the phone aside so I wouldn’t be tempted to stare at the screen waiting for a reply and flipped through the channels for a while, eating popcorn. When I heard the chirp that told me that there was a new text message, I made myself count to twenty before I looked at it.

  Only four? If you promise you’re not drunk, you can call me if you want. I laughed in spite of myself. I set aside my popcorn, took a sip of water to get rid of the salty, buttery taste in my mouth, and took a deep breath before tapping the icon to call her.

  The other end of the line rang twice. “Hey, Zeke,” Natalie said; in the background I could faintly hear dialogue from something on the TV—not clearly enough to make out what was being said, just that it was between two women. “So, you’re getting rejected?”

  “Ouch,” I said, smiling wryly. “When you say it that way, it hurts that much more.” She laughed softly.

  “Sorry, I should have been more delicate,” she said. The warmth in her voice, the friendly bantering quality was so soothing in a weird way I couldn’t define. “Four women?”

  “Six, actually,” I admitted. “I was trying to salvage the little bit of pride I had left to me.”

  “Six isn’t bad,” she said. I thought I heard her moving around somehow—though I couldn’t say just how.

  “Six women decided they didn’t want to even grab coffee or a drink with me,” I pointed out. “Six women in three days.”

  “There are a couple of points I’d like to make before we get to the pep talk portion of this conversation,” Natalie told me.

  “You have the floor,” I said.

  “First: you’ve only asked on average three women a day. That tells me that you’re being at least a little selective in who you’re asking—which, believe it or not, is kind of an advanced trait compared to some of the guys I’ve worked with.”

  “I shudder to think that three women a day is a small number of date requests,” I said, shaking my head.

  “One of the guys I coached about six months ago, once he got the go-ahead, asked ten women out in one day—and predictably, he got turned down ten times.”

  I laughed, trying to picture a man running up to every woman he saw around him to ask her out. “Point taken.”

  “So you’re being selective in who you’re asking out—that’s good. The second point I’d like to make is that you’re at least asking women out at all.”

  “Of course, I am. That’s the whole point of this,” I countered.

  “Again: you’d think it’d be obvious, but I had another guy that I coached that when he got clearance to start asking women out, he couldn’t pluck up the courage to do it.”

  “This isn’t the part of the conversation that’s the pep talk?” I took another sip of my water, smiling—and feeling better—in spite of myself.

  “No,” Natalie said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “This is that part: dating is a numbers game in a very real way.”

  “But the guy who asked out ten women…” I let the end of the sentence trail off unfinished.

  “He took it to an extreme,” she told me. “No matter how hot you are, no matter how wealthy or stylish or great, you’re not going to be a match for every woman on the planet. I guarantee you that even when he was famous—before he was married—Brad Pitt got turned down at least a dozen times for dates. Johnny Depp has been shot down. Prince probably got shot down, too—though I’m not convinced that he wasn’t some kind of alien from a race that existed solely for the purposes of having sex.” I laughed.

  “I take that point,” I said, laughing again. “Okay, fine. Everyone gets rejected sometimes.”

  “You have to ask a lot of women out to get a yes, and women have to ask a lot of guys to get a yes, too.” I imagined Natalie shrugging. “That’s why when you get to the actual matchmaking part of your contract, it’s not like you’re only going to be set up with one person.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said. “How many chances am I going to
get?”

  Natalie snorted. “Usually Katie or someone else compiles a list of at least five or six women who would be a decent match for a client, based on reports and interviews and profiles. So with them, you won’t have to worry about getting turned down—they’re already going to have interests that go along with yours, and they’re going to be interested in going on a date with you.” I considered that.

  “I’m trying to decide if it’s more pathetic that I can’t get dates with women I just ask out of the blue, or if it’s just practical to go with women who have been pre-screened for me,” I said after a moment.

  “It’s practical,” Natalie told me. “If I weren’t working for the company, I’d use them.”

  “Maybe you’d have ended up one of my matches,” I suggested playfully.

  She chuckled. “Maybe! But who knows? Maybe whoever coached me to be a better date wouldn’t be done with me until after you’d already found your Ms. Right. Or vice versa.”

  “That’d be a shame,” I said, shaking my head. “What are you watching?”

  “Just a dumb comedy,” she said. “You? I can hear the TV on your end.”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted. “I’ve just been flipping through the channels. We’re both such thrilling, exciting people.”

  “Very much so,” Natalie agreed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why aren’t you out at a bar asking women out there? You’d have great success.”

  “I don’t want to ask a bunch of drunk women for their phone numbers,” I told her. “I’d rather be able to tell myself that women who are sober and fully aware are interested in me.” I paused for a moment; an idea tickled the back of my mind, a temptation so great I couldn’t resist it any more than I’d been able to resist the urge to reach out to Natalie in the first place. “Would I be totally out of base if I suggested that since we’re both not doing anything exciting on a Friday night, we could do nothing but watch TV together?”