by Lila Monroe
5
Jules
It’s not too far,” Cal promises a couple of hours later, driving downtown in the rapidly gathering dusk. We went out for pizza in the North End to celebrate after the hearing, although in between the Little League team screaming their heads off at the long table next to us and the full cup of soda Ezra spilled directly into my purse, we didn’t exactly get a chance to talk.
Still, this is the longest stretch of quiet I’ve had since I got off the train this afternoon, and my mind is racing. It was one thing to agree to this crazy assignment in theory; it’s another to be here, with two living, breathing kids—and Cal in the driver’s seat beside me, one expert hand resting casually on the gear shift of his tidy little coupe. There’s a part of me that wants to tuck and roll right out of the moving car and hoof it all the way back home, but when I glance in the rearview mirror at the two kids sacked out in the backseat, something stops me.
You need the money, I remind myself firmly. That’s all this is about.
Cal lives in a penthouse right on the water, a study in granite and stainless steel with a whole wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the harbor. It’s beautiful—and sterile, and chilly enough to hang meat in. “You could play floor hockey in here,” Ezra comments cheerfully as the kids drop their bags on the polished concrete floors, all of us gazing around at the tall, cavernous space.
“Um, should we get you guys settled?” I ask, suddenly remembering that according to the whole “fiancée” story, I should have been here tons of times. Ezra ignores me, flopping himself dramatically over a leather ottoman and crowing something about being stabbed by pirates, deep in a game only he understands.
Lottie, meanwhile, is watching me carefully, suspicion written all over her freckled, intelligent face. I can’t say I blame her—all the changes she’s been through in the last few months, plus some random woman butting in besides; I’d be cautious, too. “You want first dibs on bedrooms?” I ask her quietly. “Don’t tell your little brother, okay?”
“Sure,” she says, mouth twitching in a way that isn’t quite a smile. “Thanks.”
Ezra’s an easier sell, predictably: “You guys wanna do some hot chocolate before bed?” I ask him. “This one time, special occasion?”
“Definitely,” he says. He’s still draped over the furniture, sneakers leaving kid-sized scuff marks on the leather. “And some for Howard too, okay?”
I nod seriously. Howard is Ezra’s stuffed badger, a robust and well-loved specimen—his fur is matted and he’s missing one eyeball, giving him a rather rakish look. “Some for Howard too,” I promise.
“So, one glitch,” Cal mutters, when I find him in the kitchen and report on the plan. “I don’t actually have any milk.”
Of course he doesn’t. “Got it.” I smile. “Be right back.”
I run down to the Starbucks around the corner, catching them just before they close. Back up in the apartment I knock on Lottie’s open door and hold one out to her like an offering. “Special delivery,” I say.
She shakes her head, barely looking up from the book she’s reading. “That’s okay.”
Swing and a miss, as my dad the baseball fan would say. I grin anyway: “More for Howard, then.” I set it down on the dresser and look around at the space-age furniture. Cal clearly spent a ton of money on a decorator for this place—I’d guess the fur-covered pillows on the bed cost more than a month of my rent—but it’s a patently ridiculous setup for a ten-year-old girl. “We’ll go by the house tomorrow,” I promise, “get all your stuff.”
Lottie nods, picking at the fringe on a cashmere throw blanket. She’s a sweet-looking kid, all milky skin and snub nose, with a quick-witted expression in her deep brown eyes. “How long have you been dating Cal?” she asks suddenly.
I hesitate, thinking back on the pack of lies I fed the judge earlier. That alone could cost me my law license, I know, but for some reason I feel even guiltier fibbing to a kid. “A little while now,” I answer, hedging, then stand up and wipe my suddenly sweaty hands on my skirt. “I’m sorry we’d never met before today. It’s got to be a lot of new people lately, yeah?”
Lottie shrugs. “It’s fine,” she says, and it sounds almost like she’s daring me to contradict her. “I don’t care.”
“Fair enough.” I smile again. “I’ll let you get back to that,” I tell her, motioning to her book. I sneak a look at the title. Wonder Women, I see: 25 Innovators, Inventors, and Trailblazers Who Changed History. “I’ll send Cal in to say goodnight to you guys, sound okay?”
Lottie nods and I head out into the living room, where I sink into the expensive-looking—and absurdly uncomfortable—sofa, finally slipping my feet out of my heels. I can’t believe that thirty-six hours ago I was interviewing Alicia, of the prison pen-pal boyfriend. A gentleman caller in supermax isn’t even close to the weirdest thing about my week.
What the hell have I signed up for?
I’m still collapsed there when Cal comes into the living room a little while later, unbuttoning the top button of his dress shirt and rolling his sleeves halfway up his arms. “And they’re out,” he says, pushing a hand through his rumpled hair.
I smile tiredly. “How’d they do?”
“Great,” Cal says breezily, like orphaned children drop into his life all the time and these two are his fourth or fifth set of the week. “They’re aces, both of them.”
“They seem really wonderful,” I agree, although they also seem punchy and bewildered and out of sorts. It occurs to me to wonder, not for the first time, how much experience this guy actually has with kids.
“You want a drink?” Cal asks, heading over to the state-of-the art kitchen and opening up a wine fridge, pulling out a chilly-looking bottle of white. “I’ve got beer too, if you’d rather.”
I shake my head. “Wine’s great.”
I go perch on an uncomfortable stool at the massive, marble-topped island and watch as he pours two glasses, plucking a container of expensive-looking olives from the fridge. Before he shuts the door I get a quick glimpse at the rest of its contents: a couple of lemons, a hunk of moldy cheese, and what I’m fairly certain is a week’s supply of Soylent. I try not to grimace too visibly, wondering why a guy this rich doesn’t have a housekeeper to do the shopping for him and mentally adding “grocery shop” to tomorrow’s to-do list.
We clink our glasses and drink in silence for a moment. I glance down at my shiny new ring. It feels like the world’s most awkward first date, except for the part where we’ve already given each other orgasms. Finally Cal clears his throat. “So,” he says, “how did you wind up . . . working for Olivia?”
“Oh, I don’t work for her,” I say too quickly. I don’t know why it feels important to me that he understands that, that I don’t do this kind of thing all the time. “I mean, I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Me neither,” Cal assures me, though I don’t actually know if I believe him.
“I was working for a law firm,” I explain, “and I had a little bit of a run-in with the managing partner’s son.” I fill him in as quickly as possible, Cal’s eyes widening and then narrowing as I sing the sad ballad of Tommy Milstein.
“What an asshole,” he says when I’m finished. “Guys like that make me fucking furious, I swear.”
“You and me both,” I sigh.
“Good for you for knocking him out.”
“I mean, sure, except now I’m . . .” I gesture vaguely. “Doing this. Not that this is bad,” I clarify, feeling my cheeks warm. “It’s just . . . not what I expected.”
Cal nods like, fair enough. “Maybe it’s for the best, though, right?” he asks, leaning his elbows on the island and leaning in. “Your job, I mean. When we were in Vegas you were talking about maybe doing women’s rights work, weren’t you?”
I can’t believe he remembers that—or that I told it to him to begin with. It’s true that I wanted to do those things, back when I was fresh out
of law school, but practicality—and student loans—won out pretty quick. Still, I shrug. “That was a long time ago.”
Cal shrugs back. “Not that long.”
The tone in his voice is unmistakable; for the second time today, I can tell we’re both thinking about that night in his hotel room. I give into the urge to stare at him: broad chest and sturdy shoulders, the faint beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes. He’s got a tiny birthmark on his clavicle, I remember suddenly. Just for a moment I imagine peeling the collar of his shirt back, touching it with my tongue.
Pull it the hell together, Robinson, I scold myself. This is strictly business, remember?
I clear my throat. “So, the kids,” I say, sliding my wine glass slightly further away. Alcohol is not about to help this situation, that’s for sure. “What’s your game plan?”
“Game plan?” Cal looks at me blankly. “Like, for custody?”
“No, for the kids themselves.” I frown. “For school, therapy, that kind of thing.” I hesitate. “Cal, are you sure you know what you’re getting into?”
“Of course,” he says, and I can tell he’s bristling a little. “I love those kids.”
“No, of course,” I echo quickly. “I know that.” I do, too. I can tell by the way he looks at them: the way he hauled Ezra over his shoulder on the way to bed earlier and the familiar way he teased Lottie about her favorite boy band. I think again of that speech he gave the judge this afternoon, the how sincere and unpolished he sounded; I’d be willing to bet good money that’s not par for the Cal McAdams course. “Have you really thought it through, though?” I ask gently. “It just seems like maybe your life isn’t totally set up to take care of these guys yet.” I gesture around. “I mean, that car, this place—”
“What do you mean?” he interrupts, eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong with my place?”
“I mean, nothing, if you’re Patrick Bateman,” I say before I can think better of it.
“What, like American Psycho?” he asks, sounding wounded.
“I mean, without the murder and sadism,” I clarify quickly. “Like, hopefully.”
Cal makes a face. “Thanks a lot.”
“I’m kidding,” I promise—smiling, trying to lighten the mood a little bit. “I just mean that kids are a handful, is all.”
Cal doesn’t smile back. “People always say that,” he complains, “like parenthood is some exclusive club you need a password to get into. But kids are little people, that’s all. If you treat them like adults, they’ll behave like adults.”
I raise my eyebrows, I can’t help it. “You really think it’s that simple?”
“I don’t think it’s as difficult as you’re making it out to be,” he shoots back.
Now it’s my turn to bristle. Of course you think everything is easy if you’ve spent your life breezing through the VIP line looking like a Greek God, I think. Still, I bite my tongue. “All I’m saying,” I begin carefully, “is I wonder if maybe—”
“Look,” Cal interrupts. “No offense, but I’m not actually paying you to give me childcare advice, all right? I’m paying you to look nice in front of the judge.”
My mouth drops open in outrage, cheeks flaming. “Oh, really,” I manage. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” Cal says flatly. “It is. I’ve got this handled, thanks. I don’t need some random stranger butting in every thirty seconds thinking she knows best.”
My eyes widen, a disbelieving scoff escaping my lips. First of all, I wouldn’t have called us strangers, though clearly, Cal feels differently. Second of all, there’s no way he’s got this handled—one look at the expression of raw panic on his face at the courthouse today made that crystal clear. I’m about to call him out for being such a patronizing ass when I’m interrupted by Ezra’s tiny voice.
“Hey Cal?” He’s standing at the mouth of the hallway in his PJ pants and Boston Bruins T-shirt, holding what looks like—oh God, what is definitely—a super-sized box of condoms. “What are these weird balloons you had in the nightstand?”
I look from Cal to Ez, then back again. “Sorry,” I say sweetly. “What was that you were saying?”
“Uh,” Cal says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, buddy, they’re actually—”
“Are they for balloon animals?” Ezra continues, opening the box and pulling out a long strip of foil packets. He rips one open before Cal or I can stop him, holding up its contents between two small fingers. “The colors aren’t very good,” he observes, sounding disappointed. “And they’re kind of . . . sticky.”
“Oh, bud, give me that.” Cal holds his hand out. “Here—”
“Can you make a dog?” Ezra asks hopefully. “My dad knew how to make a dog.”
“Yeah, Cal,” I say, sitting back on my barstool and tilting my head to the side, biting back a grin. “Can you make a dog?”
“I—” Cal breaks off with a grimace, looking from Ezra to me and back again. “Of course I can make a dog,” he says, then puts his mouth around the condom and blows.
6
Jules
The next morning I wake up with a gasp in one of Cal’s many guest rooms. For a moment, I’m not sure where I am before I suddenly remember.
Kids. Custody. Cal.
I roll over and groan into the pillows, then I heave myself out of bed and shuffle off to the kitchen in search of coffee, pushing a hand through my greasy, tangled hair.
It’s barely light outside the massive plate-glass windows—in fact, I was counting on nobody seeing my unwashed, unbrushed self—but I find Cal standing at the ridiculously complicated-looking espresso machine, already dressed. “Hey,” he says, cheerful as a Boy Scout. “You’re up.”
“Um.” I pull my cardigan tighter around me, acutely aware of the fact that I’m not wearing a bra under my tank top; I can feel my nipples tighten up under the thin, translucent fabric. “Yup.”
“Morning.” If he’s still annoyed at me from our conversation last night he gives no indication, nodding genially at the machine. “Coffee?”
“I’d love some, thanks.” I watch as he grabs a mug from the cabinet, twirling the handle around his index finger before setting it down in the bay and pulling a series of levers, efficient as any barista. I’m surprised he knows how to do it at all: I keep expecting a gaggle of housekeepers and assistants to appear from some hidden servants’ quarters, but I have to admit that for a rich dude, Cal seems remarkably self-sufficient.
Any goodwill I’m feeling in his direction vanishes a moment later: “So hey, would you mind hanging with these guys for a while this morning?” he asks, setting the mug in front of me. “I gotta go into the office, take care of a few things.”
“Wait a sec,” I say, pausing with the coffee halfway to my lips. “You’re going into work?”
Cal holds his hands up like, what can you do? “Won’t be long.”
“It’s Saturday.” I glance at the clock on the stove. “And it’s not even seven a.m.”
“Just got some stuff to sort out,” he says. “Thanks a million, Jules.” Then, with the same kind of winning smile I’m sure has been helping him get his way for thirty-five years—and which makes me want to punch him in the face—he’s gone, the front door snicking quietly shut behind him.
“What the fuck,” I say out loud, my voice echoing in the quiet apartment. I sit there for a minute, fuming dumbly, before finally taking my coffee down the hall to the bathroom for a shower. I’m just pulling a clean pair of jeans on when my phone vibrates on the vanity, Olivia’s number lighting up the screen.
“Jules,” she says, her voice as clear and rested as if she’s been up and working for hours; what is it with these people and their early rising? “How’s it going?”
Well, your billionaire fucked me through the mattress three years ago in Las Vegas and I’m pretty sure I hate him now, I think and don’t say. “Fine,” I promise instead. “You know, just getting settled.”
“Glad to hear it,” she tells me wa
rmly. “I heard from Cal that you were incredibly helpful during the hearing yesterday.”
Something about that surprises me, though I’m not sure why—after all, he’s the one who hired the Agency to begin with. Of course they talk. Still, there’s something unnerving about the idea of them debriefing our little arrangement. I wonder what else he said about me, then tell myself I don’t care. “It seemed to go well,” I agree brightly. “We’ll just have to see what the judge says for the long-term.”
I’m just hanging up when the phone vibrates again with a text from Hallie, who offers none of Olivia’s tact: details immediately!!! she demands, and I know she’s just woken up and seen the frantic, emoji-laden update I sent her last night. How’s it going?
Kind of miserable, actually, I key in, wandering back to the kitchen and poking around until I find a spotty banana, shoving half of it into my mouth while I type. He’s about as qualified to be a parent as I am to be a billionaire’s fake fiancée. The apartment is a total joke—I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s the size of an airplane hangar, but still, a total joke. He has no idea what he’s doing with these kids. He just randomly dumped them on me and took off, probably to oversee a corporate merger or buy a prostitute. It’s a miracle nobody has drowned in a swimming pool yet.
Oh nooooo! Hallie texts back, along with a line of wincing faces. That bad?
Worse, I complain. Okay, I’m venting, but after the way he acted last night, can you blame me? I honestly feel like maybe they should live with their ice queen aunt after all. She looks like Cruella de Vil, but at least she seems to give a crap.
It occurs to me that it’s possible I’m being the tiniest bit unfair—clearly Cal cares about Lottie and Ezra—but I’m pissed. Those kids just got here. Shouldn’t he want to be spending every possible second with them?