Zoey pulled Oliver a little closer, wondering for the millionth time how she wound up in Harrison Beckford’s living room, snuggling with his kid, hearing stories about his dog, when she hadn’t even known him two hours before.
She’d thought a lot about what returning to life in Southern California was going to feel like. She’d never thought it would be anything like this.
Chapter 4
She was too good to be true.
She had to be.
She liked his kids.
His kids liked her.
She had a warm smile that she shared generously; she had this quiet, effortless confidence that he found sexy; she was chill and easy to be around; and so far, she’d only asked him one question about his show, which didn’t count since it had actually been about his house.
He wanted to ask her out. He was going to ask her out. Except, when? The kids had already been at his sister’s house all day. They couldn’t go back there. His mom and stepdad were pretty good about coming over in the evenings, and Samantha’s parents were always willing to keep the kids, but then, the whole point of Zoey being in California in the first place was so she could stay with Ms. Emily in the evenings and on the weekends. Which meant . . . daytime dates? But during the day, he was working and now, hopefully, Zoey would be with his kids.
Dating-wise, their schedules would allow for . . . basically nothing. Bet Ms. Emily hadn’t thought this part through.
Zoey crossed into the kitchen, her bag pulled onto her shoulder. “Why are you frowning?” she asked.
He almost told her; she knew as well as he did what her grandmother hoped for. But then he remembered the way she’d sidestepped the conversation when he’d brought it up as they left Ms. Emily’s house earlier, and he chickened out. If he asked and she said no, would it make her want to turn down the job? He liked her, but he needed someone to help out with the kids more than he needed a date. “Um, nothing. Sorry. Thinking about a work thing.”
“Oh. Okay, well, I have to be back by five, so if it’s all right with you, I’m going to take off. It’s close enough that I can walk home.”
“You don’t need to do that. I’ll drive you. I need to pick up dinner for the kids anyway.”
“Are you sure? I mapped it. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”
“Yeah, but it’s July. Don’t do that to yourself unless you have to.”
Her shoulders dropped. “True.”
“So, what do you think?” Harry asked, reaching for his keys. “Who’s hungry?” he called into the living room. “Get your shoes on and we’ll go get some dinner.”
“What do I think?” Zoey asked.
“About the job?” Harry prompted.
“Oh! The job. Of course I want the job. Your kids are dolls.”
Harry smiled. “They really are. Here.” He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, then handed it to Zoey. “Do you mind giving me your number? I’ll text you later and we can talk about pay and that sort of thing. Can you start on Monday?” Really, he could stand her starting tomorrow, but there was only one day left in the week and giving her the weekend to get settled at Emily’s felt like the right thing to do.
Zoey nodded. “Sure.”
The look on her face told Harry she had something she wanted to say, but maybe wasn’t sure how to say it.
“What?” he asked. “You can ask me anything. I don’t want to pressure you into saying yes if you have hesitations.”
“No, no, it’s not that.” She glanced around the room. “But I do want to ask . . .” She shook her head. “It’s not my business, but I guess I want to understand what happened.” She looked over her shoulder toward the living room where Hannah was helping Oliver put on his shoes. “Will they talk about their mom? Ask about her? Is there something specific you want me to say if they do?”
Harry breathed out a sigh. “Samantha left when Oliver was eighteen months old, and we haven’t seen her since. They know they have a mom. She sends Christmas and birthday cards full of cash. And her parents are still around; they see the kids every couple of weeks. They might mention her, but they know the deal. It’s not like they’re expecting her to show up any day now.”
Zoey nodded, her eyes sad. “Got it.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair. “She’s not a bad person, their mom. She’s just not . . . a mom. She wanted a different life.”
Zoey shook her head, judgment clouding her expression.
It’s not like Harry could blame her. Stepping out on your kids wasn’t exactly the honorable thing to do. A year after his divorce, he’d only just started to let go of his bitterness.
“I don’t understand,” she finally said. “The house, the kids, the dog, the . . .” Her words trailed off and she swallowed, looking Harry up and down, before a trace of pink filled her cheeks.
Harry kept himself from grinning, but silently cheered over her implied meaning. Maybe she was drawn to him as much as he was to her.
“It seems like the kind of life everyone dreams of,” Zoey continued.
Harry shrugged. “Not everyone.”
She slowly nodded. “I’m sorry, Harry.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be. Samantha was young when we found out she was pregnant with Hannah. We both were. We got married because it seemed like the right thing to do but raising a kid while I built my career—the first season of Right-On aired the year after Hannah was born—it just, it was too hard. I think Oliver was her last-ditch effort to try and make our life into something she wanted, but it did the opposite. I know it makes her sound selfish, but I don’t fault her for it. It isn’t what she ever wanted for herself. I’d rather she be in New York and happy than here and miserable, making the rest of us miserable too. For my sake, and the kids’.”
“What’s in New York?” Zoey asked.
“Broadway. Samantha’s an actress. She’d landed a pretty big role here in L.A. right before she found out she was pregnant with Hannah and had to back out because of the pregnancy. She decided if she was ever going to make it, she had to be in New York.”
“Wow. You have a remarkably generous and mature outlook.”
Harry chuckled. “Like I said. It took me more than five years to build this house. That’s a lot of therapy.”
“Okay. So, no need for tiptoeing around the mom talk, be here between eight and nine, playdates twice a week, dance class for Hannah once a week, and you’re home by four every day? Any food allergies I should know about?”
“You got it. And no, no food allergies. Oh, I did forget to mention the SUV in the garage for you to use when you’re with the kids. It needs servicing or I’d let you drive it home tonight. I’ll take care of it tomorrow, so it’ll be ready for you to drive next week. That way, you won’t have to worry about moving car seats around or anything.”
She nodded. “Sounds great.”
Later that night, after he’d taken Zoey home, picked up In-N-Out for dinner and put the kids to bed, Harry collapsed onto the couch in the living room, too tired to do much more than sit there. His life did require a lot of juggling. It was worth it; he recognized how fortunate he was to have healthy kids, a job he loved that allowed him to be as involved with his kids as he wanted to be, and a pretty stellar support network with his sister and two sets of grandparents close by. But it would be nice to have a little something for himself mixed in there too. A dating life, for one. Even just a day at the beach for some good surfing without having to worry about the waves eating his children. He suddenly wondered if Zoey surfed. She’d moved from Chicago, but if he remembered correctly, she’d grown up here. Maybe he’d find a way to ask her on Monday morning.
He took his phone from his pocket and pulled up the text thread she’d started that afternoon, when she’d programmed herself into his contacts. She’d sent a single text to herself with nothing but his name, Harry Beckford. The fact that she’d called him Harry instead of Harrison made him unreasonably happy. She’d chosen to think of him as
friend Harry. Dad Harry. Handyman Harry. Not TV-star Harrison.
Could he text her and ask if she liked to surf? Was there a way to bring it up in a way that made it seem pertinent to her working with the kids?
He tossed the phone onto the cushion beside him. Probably not.
The phone suddenly dinged with an incoming text and he scrambled to grab it, somehow hoping that Zoey was reading his mind and voluntarily texting him the answer to his question.
The text didn’t mention surfing, but it was from Zoey.
Look how pretty! the text read. It was followed by a photo of her closet, fully organized, shoes lined up in neat rows, clothes stacked in the canvas storage bins he’d left for the lower shelves.
It looks amazing, he texted back. You didn’t waste any time putting the space to good use.
I have a lot of shoes, she texted back. They needed a home. Plus, organization makes me ridiculously happy.
You and Hannah will get along great. Her ponies live in color-coordinated bins. He cringed after he hit send, thinking the best way to woo a woman probably wasn’t to keep talking about his kids. But then, somehow, he felt like Zoey wasn’t the kind of woman who would care.
I knew she was my kind of girl. Thanks again for your help today. And for the job. The dots at the bottom of his screen kept blinking so he waited to see what she’d text next.
I’m really glad we met.
His pulse picked up and he rolled his eyes, annoyed that he had so little control over his emotions. He wasn’t a fourteen-year-old boy texting his first crush.
Zoey’s text could be totally benign. She was glad because she needed a job that was flexible, and she liked kids. That could be all it meant. But the way she’d looked at him today . . .
He keyed out a response. I’m glad we met too.
He reread the text before sending. Was that enough? Should he say more? He added, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a long time.
No. That was probably too forward. He deleted the second sentence, sending the text with only the original line. It was true. As soon as Ms. Emily had shown him Zoey’s picture and started talking about her granddaughter and all the reasons she thought he’d like her, he’d wanted to meet her. But if he came on too strong, he might mess things up for the kids. He wanted Zoey to be a great thing for him, but he was positive she would be a great thing for his kids, regardless. He couldn’t risk screwing that up before it had even begun.
Chapter 5
Zoey pulled Harry’s SUV into his driveway a little before eight in the morning. She still hadn’t grown used to driving such a fancy car. When Harry had taken her out to the garage on her first day to turn over the keys, she’d almost hit the floor. She’d heard SUV and thought Ford Explorer, not fully tricked out Porsche Cayenne. The car was easily worth more than a hundred grand.
“Wow,” Zoey had said, as she’d stared at the car. “This is the kid car?”
Harry had shrugged but looked chagrined. “It’s the only kind of Porsche that makes sense in my life right now.”
Two weeks of driving the Porsche and Zoey was convinced it made sense for her life, too. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be happy behind the wheel of a normal car again. The garage door automatically eased open as she approached, and a silly thrill raced up Zoey’s spine. Even that simple convenience—an auto-sensing garage door—still felt exciting.
She pulled out her phone and checked her email one last time before going inside. She tried not to get it out too much when she was with the kids. Harry was paying her generously—she’d asked for double what she would have made fact-checking and he hadn’t even hesitated before agreeing to the amount—and she wanted to be as engaged as possible. But she was growing tense for the lack of information coming in from Chicago stations. She’d emailed every producer she knew letting them know she was looking for a new position; she’d updated her LinkedIn profile; she’d done everything she could think to do and still, her inbox was dry.
With a sigh, Zoey dropped her phone into her purse, wishing she’d inherited her father’s patience. A therapist by profession, he was all about steady contemplation and giving life the chance to “settle.” That’s what he would call this jobless period of her life. The chance to reset. To settle in and evaluate her goals. There was probably wisdom in such council for some people, but Zoey didn’t need to evaluate anything. She knew her goal. She always had. She would be an evening anchor in Chicago if it was the last thing she did.
Unless no one ever emailed her.
Zoey grabbed the trash left over from the six-dollar latte she’d grabbed on her way home the night before and tossed it into the trash can inside the garage. She locked the SUV behind her, a wave of guilt washing over her as she did. There were worse ways to spend time in between jobs.
Zoey used the number pad by the door to let herself into the house. Harry had insisted the keyless entry was easier than him having to run to the door every morning just to let her in.
Zoey headed toward the kitchen. “Hello?” she called out. The house was unusually quiet.
The kitchen and living room were both empty. Alarm filled Zoey’s chest when the kids’ bedrooms were empty as well, but then she found the entire family—even Marigold—sound asleep in the master bedroom. Harry was in the middle of his king-sized bed, a kid tucked in on either side of him. A mostly empty bowl of popcorn and several discarded juice boxes littered the floor.
Zoey glanced at her watch. She’d put money on Harry needing to be at work pretty soon. She approached the bed, not wanting to disturb the peaceful scene, but feeling obligated to at least make sure Harry wasn’t missing anything important.
A laugh caught in Zoey’s throat. Harry’s face was covered in make-up. Blue sparkly eye shadow. Bubblegum pink lipstick. Either he’d fallen asleep before Hannah did, or he’d been a really good sport and let her give him a makeover.
Zoey leaned down, gently nudging Harry’s shoulder. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” she said softly, not wanting to wake up the kids.
Harry stirred, his eyes slowly drifting open. He looked at Zoey for a long moment before asking, “What time is it?” his voice groggy with sleep.
“A little past eight,” Zoey said. Harry jolted into a seated position, his eyes wide.
Zoey lifted a finger to her lips, motioning to the kids on either side of the bed.
He repositioned Oliver to create a little more room for himself, then shimmied down to the foot of the bed where he stood up. “I was supposed to be on set half an hour ago.” He ran a hand through his hair, narrowly missing the two pink bows Hannah must have secured the night before.
Zoey bit her lip. Not laughing was getting harder and harder.
Harry picked his phone up off the floor and tried to turn it on. The screen stayed black and he swore.
Zoey stepped forward. “I’ll take this and charge it,” she whispered, wanting the children to sleep as long as they needed to. “And I’ll make you some coffee. You go change.”
His shoulders relaxed and he nodded. “Thanks.”
Five minutes later Harry stumbled into the kitchen holding his work boots, wearing faded jeans and a light blue flannel the same color as the makeup still gracing his eyelids.
Zoey finished filling a travel mug with coffee, tightening the lid before pulling a washcloth out of a drawer beside the sink and running it under the warm water.
“You’ll need this,” she said, setting the coffee on the counter next to him. “But not before you use this.” She handed him the washcloth.
Harry furrowed his brows. “What for?”
Zoey laughed. “You haven’t looked in the mirror yet this morning, have you?”
“I didn’t have time.” Harry left the kitchen, washcloth in hand, and moved to the entryway where a large mirror hung by the front door.
Zoey followed behind him, not wanting to miss his reaction.
“Wow,” he said, when he saw his reflection. “She did good work.”<
br />
“So I guess this was a ‘Daddy’s sleeping’ makeover and not one you submitted to willingly?”
He rubbed at his face, doing more smearing than anything else. “Why is this not working?”
Zoey stepped closer and pulled the washcloth from his hands. “Here. Stand still. And close your eyes.”
Harry followed her instructions, not moving an inch while she rubbed the washcloth over his eyes and lips. His lips . . . she might have lingered there a moment longer than necessary. Had they always looked so kissable?
“We stayed up to watch the new Frozen movie,” Harry said.
Zoey winced. Harry was standing very close to her.
“Oh no,” Harry said, his hand flying to his mouth. “I need to go brush my teeth, huh?”
Zoey smiled sheepishly, hoping that would soften the blow. No one liked being told they had dragon breath. “That would probably be a good idea.” She stepped back. “There. You’re done.”
He nodded, his hand still cupped over his mouth. “Thank you.”
He turned to head back to his room, but Zoey stopped him. “Actually, wait.”
He looked back over his shoulder.
Zoey laughed quietly as she reached up and pulled the bows out of Harry’s hair. One was tangled in and it took a minute to free the clasp. This part of Harry smelled really good and she felt herself lean in, a pulse of heat running through her body. She suddenly wanted to keep her hands in his hair, slide them down to his shoulders . . .
“Did you get it?” Harry asked, startling her out of the moment.
Zoey took a wide step back. “Yep.” She held up the pink bows. “There were two. But I got them.”
Harry shook his head as he made his way to his room. “That girl,” he muttered under his breath.
A few minutes later, Zoey met him at the front door with the coffee she’d fixed him earlier. He looked as though he’d splashed some water on his face and finger combed his hair as well as brushed his teeth.
“Thank you,” he said as he took the mug. “For everything.”
Zoey nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”
Always You: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (ABCs of Love Collection Books 5-8) Page 54