Doughn’t Let Me Go

by Hunter, Teagan

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Teagan Hunter

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer quoting brief passages for review purposes only.

  Editing by Editing by C. Marie

  Proofreading by Deaton Author Services & Judy's Proofreading

  Cover Image from iStock

  Formatting by AB Formatting

  Contents

  Slice One

  Slice Two

  Slice Three

  Slice Four

  Slice Five

  Slice Six

  Slice Seven

  Slice Eight

  Slice Nine

  Slice Ten

  Slice Eleven

  Slice Twelve

  Slice Thirteen

  Slice Fourteen

  Slice Fifteen

  Slice Sixteen

  Slice Seventeen

  Slice Eighteen

  Slice Nineteen

  Slice Twenty

  A Slice of the Future

  THANK YOU

  A Pizza My Heart Preview

  Other titles by Teagan Hunter:

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dear Reader,

  Stay gold.

  Slice One

  Porter

  “Are you sure you’re good watching her?” I glance back into the house for the billionth time. “You know what? I’ll just take her with me.”

  Foster, my best friend, steps in front of me, blocking my path. “Dude, we got this. Besides, your kid loves me.”

  “She loves you because you feed her sugar and let her bounce off the walls.”

  “So?” Foster shrugs and sends me an evil smirk. “It’s not like I have to deal with the fallout.”

  “Dick.”

  “You love me, which is why you moved out here—to spend time with me.”

  “I moved out here for my daughter, to raise her in a good community, and that’s it.”

  I did miss my best friend, but I’m not about to get all mushy with him. Being sentimental with anyone other than my seven-year-old daughter isn’t my style.

  “Don’t worry, I know how you really feel. You confessed your love for me when you got trashed a few months ago.”

  “It was my birthday! One of the last of my twenties, thank you very much. You’re saying it like it was some random Wednesday day drinking or some shit. Birthday blackouts don’t count as blackouts,” I argue.

  He leans into me. “You got naked and swam in the ocean. In the middle of the winter. It counts.”

  “It was so fucking cold too.”

  “Oh, we all saw just how cold it was,” says Foster’s wife, Wren, as she slides up next to him.

  I don’t even bother getting embarrassed. It wasn’t my first time getting butt-ass naked in front of strangers, and I’m sure it won’t be my last. I’m fairly sure those lyrics about tequila making clothes fall off were written about me.

  “We’ll be fine. Now go, or you’re going to be late for your appointment, and you don’t want to set a bad example for your future employee.”

  “Good point. I’ll be back by six.”

  “We’ll be here.”

  “Kyrie?” I call out. “Be good for Uncle Foster and Aunt Wren, okay?”

  “I will! GOSH!” She rolls her eyes.

  “As you can see, seven is really fun so far,” I say to the couple as I try to suppress the urge to ground my intolerable child.

  I love my daughter, I love my daughter, I love my daughter.

  “So much attitude for such a little person.”

  “Don’t I know it. Good luck with that.”

  I wave goodbye to them before they can change their minds about watching her and climb into my luxury SUV, steering it toward my destination.

  I won’t lie, this car has gotten me more than one WTF stare since Kyrie and I moved here. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a multimillionaire under thirty and live in a small beach town. You’re bound to turn a few heads.

  Granted, I wasn’t a multimillionaire when I first bought the house out here. That didn’t come until later in the year, after another night of tequila and nakedness I won’t discuss with anyone other than my former intern who had to sign an NDA.

  Most people would think I’m insane for leaving behind my million-dollar internet security business in California and moving to North Carolina, but I want something stable for Kyrie after a rocky first six years of her life, and I know I’ll be hard-pressed to find what I want in LA.

  I’m not out here looking for love or the white-picket-fence thing—though I wouldn’t argue with it, either—but having a good group of friends I can rely on would be the dream come true.

  Which is why I’ve come. My best friend Foster swore being out here changed his life, and maybe it can change mine too. I promised him one year. One year and then we re-evaluate. See how Kyrie feels, how I feel, and go from there.

  Plus, I could use the break. I’m worn out mentally, and not only is that not a good thing when you’re a single dad, it’s also not good when you’re trying to run a successful company.

  I can already feel the anxiety of being away from my pride and joy eating at me, so this summer will be the test to see if this move lasts or not.

  I pull my SUV into Slice, the pizzeria all the locals—and tourists—are obsessed with. If I had a dime for every time Foster talked about this place back when he lived in California with me, I’d be twice as rich as I am now.

  If he wasn’t going on and on about Winston and Wren, his childhood best friends, he was gushing about the extravagant slices the owner, Simon, would cook up.

  I won’t lie, he made my mouth water more than once. The first thing I asked to do when I visited Foster last year was come here. I was dying to see if this place lived up to the hype.

  Spoiler alert: it did.

  I put my SUV in park and check the time on the LED screen. Made it here with five minutes to spare.

  Flipping down the sun visor, I check my hair to make sure I don’t look like too much of a mess, then hop out and head inside.

  “Hey, Porter!” the owner calls out as I walk into the little pizzeria.

  “Simon.” I stick my hand out, clasping his, and give him a pat on the arm. “Good to see you again.”

  The owner of Slice is none other than Wren’s father, which would explain why Foster was so obsessed with it. Foster was madly in love with his best friend’s little sister for years and never had the balls to tell her. When she put him in the friend zone, he rebounded…and shit went very far south after that.

  Fast-forward many years and mistakes, now he’s back here and with Wren.

  I like to think if he can wade through all the bullshit life’s thrown at him and end up happy here on the East Coast, I can too.

  “I’m meeting someone here for dinner. Can I get a quiet spot in the back?”

  He raises his brows. “You got a hot date already? You’ve been here, what—two weeks?”

  I laugh. “No, no. Nothing like that. Just meeting my potential new assistant to see if we jive well together.”

  “Jive?” Simon wrinkles his nose. “There’s no mistaking it—you’re definitely a dad.”

  “Steal your word, old man?”

  He eyes me, but th
ere’s no real menace in his gaze. “Watch it, son. I’ll give you the broken booth.”

  I hold my hands up in surrender. “I take it all back.”

  With a grin, Simon leads me through the tables. “Can I get you anything?”

  “A water would be great.”

  “You got it.”

  He takes off, and I’m left here alone.

  I glance at my phone, checking a text.

  MEL: Fran Millman

  Fran, huh? Like the hot nanny Fran Drescher?

  MEL: And no, not like the hot nanny.

  I laugh at the text from my current assistant, who can apparently read my mind all the way from California.

  “Mr. Jones?”

  “Yes,” I say, pulling my nose out of my phone and standing to greet the older woman hovering at the end of the table who I didn’t even hear approach. She’s a ninja—noted. “You must be Fran. Please, call me Porter.”

  Much to my dismay, this Fran looks nothing like The Nanny.

  Which is probably for the best. The last thing I need to do is get involved with my employee…again.

  “Have a seat, Fran.”

  She scoots into the booth, pushing her shoulders back and holding her chin high.

  Confident—I like that. I like her already.

  But I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me. When I announced to my team I was possibly moving to the other side of the country permanently, it was hardest for me to tell Mel, my assistant, we’d no longer be working together directly.

  Over the last two years, Mel and I have grown close. Not in a romantic way, which wouldn’t work for us anyway considering she doesn’t play for my team, but in a way you would be close to a sibling. When Foster left, Mel was all I had to help me cope with the divorce and the fallout of everything that came with it.

  Though I was crushed when she told me she couldn’t move to North Carolina with me, I completely understood. I was already uprooting my little family; I couldn’t ask her to do the same.

  She did, however, jump at the opportunity to help me find a new assistant out here. Since she probably knows me better than anyone else, it’s no surprise I already like the candidate sitting across from me.

  “Tell me a little about yourself, Fran.”

  “Well, I’ve lived here my entire life, save for a few years I did at State, but I moved back right after graduation. I’ve been a receptionist at my father’s chiropractic business off and on for years, but I’d like to do something a little more adventurous now that my kids are all in college and my divorce is finalized. I’d like to expand my horizons a bit.”

  “Ah, another recent divorcee. I can relate to that.”

  “Yeah? Did your husband cheat on you with his dental assistant too?”

  I frown, letting my shoulders slump. “Worse—he never even loved me.”

  Her lips twitch at the dramatics. “His loss.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “I think I like you, Mr. Jones.”

  “I think I like you too, Fran. And please, call me Porter. I’ve never been a fan of formalities, and if we’re going to be working closely with one another, you might as well get used to calling me by my name now.”

  “Does that mean you’re hiring me?”

  “Straight to the point—I like it.” I laugh. “Yes, I’d love to hire you. I trust Mel implicitly, which is why I’ve basically left her in charge while I get everything settled, so if she picked you as her top candidate, you’re hired.”

  “Well, hell, kid.” She blows out a breath, relaxing into the booth for the first time. “That was easier than I thought it was going to be.”

  I laugh. “You can start tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes, definitely. However…”

  “Ah, here they come—the stipulations.” I wave my hand in a circle. “Let’s hear ’em.”

  She chuckles. “I just need to know one thing. The pay your assistant mentioned…is that real? And the benefits too?”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “It’s very real. My business is doing a lot better than I ever expected and I’m needing all the help I can get. I’m willing to take a personal pay cut in order to provide my employees with top-notch pay and benefits to keep them working hard for me so I can one day give them and myself more.”

  “Are you even human?”

  I blink. “According to my ex-wife, no.”

  She laughs. “Okay, I’m in, then.”

  “Thank god.” I wipe my forehead. “You had me worried for a minute there. If I had to fetch my own coffee for another day, I don’t think I’d survive.” I wink at her to let her know I’m teasing as I reach for my phone to text Mel. “I’ll have my current assistant email you the various forms you have to sign, and no, we will not discuss the Tequila Clause. Just know it’s necessary.”

  “My interest is piqued.”

  “And piqued it shall stay.” I take a sip of my water and slide my phone back in my pocket. “I’ll also have Mel send over my home address and security code. I know it’s last minute, but if it works for you, I’d like to meet at seven tomorrow morning to go over the questions I’m sure you’ll come up with overnight and get our schedules synced a little better. I already have a few appointments tomorrow and I can’t move them.”

  “That’s fine.” She waves her hand. “Seven works perfectly for me. I’m an early riser.”

  “You’d have loved my schedule in LA, then. I was up at five to combat the time differences.”

  “I’m not sure I meant that early.”

  “It’s unfortunately engrained in me now. I’ve been trying to break the habit since we moved here, but no dice just yet. Anyway, things are likely to be a bit hectic these next few weeks as we get settled into a routine, so I just want to preemptively say I appreciate your patience and hard work.”

  “I’m woman enough to admit that scares me a bit.”

  “Don’t be scared, Fran. I’ll go easy on ya.” I wink at her again. “At first.”

  “Don’t flirt with me, Porter. I’ll flirt right back, and I don’t think you could handle all this.”

  I throw my head back in laughter. “We’re gonna get along just fine, Fran.”

  My phone buzzes and I pull it out to see it’s Foster calling me.

  I hold my finger up to Fran. “Just one moment,” I say as I bring the phone to my ear. “What’s wrong?”

  “Am I really such a bad babysitter that asking what’s wrong is your first response to me calling you?”

  “Let’s just say I worry for little Nellie’s future.”

  “How dare you,” he mutters. “Nothing’s wrong—quite the opposite. Kyrie wants to know if she can stay the night.”

  “Wait…seriously? She hates sleepovers.”

  “She and Wren are apparently best friends now. There’s even a NO BOYS ALLOWED sign on the nursery door. I feel very left out right now.”

  “Do you really want to have teatime with them?”

  “Yes. I look damn good in a tiara.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” I laugh. “She can stay the night. I’ll grab some clothes and bring ’em over for her.”

  “Did he say yes?” I hear my daughter ask in the background. “Dad, did you say yes? Please say yes!”

  “I said yes.”

  “He said yes, but he said you and Aunt Wren have to include me in teatime.”

  “No way. Girls only!” my daughter argues.

  “It’s really unfair that Nellie gets to attend and I don’t. She can’t even drink tea!”

  “Foster, dude, you’re arguing with a seven-year-old over teatime.”

  “And I’m gonna win the argument,” he says quietly to me.

  “Dad, I need my teatime dress!”

  “How about this,” Foster says, “you let me in on teatime and I’ll take you to the store right now to buy you a brand new teatime dress.”

  “You, sir, got a deal!”

  “Did your daughter just call me sir?” Foster asks as I hear Kyrie
run off, yelling excitedly to Wren to get ready because they’re going shopping.

  “I think I might have taken her to work a few too many times. Did she make you shake on it?”

  “Yes. What kind of kid are you raising?”

  “A businesswoman, apparently.”

  “God, I love her.”

  “I do too.” I laugh. “I guess since you’re going shopping, I don’t need to bring anything.”

  “Nah, we’ve got it handled. I’m sure we’ll be fine. You just go enjoy a random night off, maybe get some unpacking done. Or get laid,” he adds casually.

  “Unpacking doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” I say, ignoring his other comment—not just because Fran is sitting across from me, but because he knows I’m not really into casual sex. “My house looks incredibly bare.”

  “I still don’t know why you just didn’t hire someone to unpack for you. You’re like a bajillionaire or some shit—I think you could afford it.”

  I laugh. Foster knows that’s not my style. I haven’t always had money, and I’ll be damned if I waste what I have now on paying someone else to move my shit.

  “I’m a little fancy, but I’m not that fancy. Call me if you need anything. I’ll keep my ringer on.”

  “Will do. Later, dude.”

  We hang up, and I turn back to Fran. “So sorry about that.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t apologize. I raised two kids myself, and they come first, always.”

  “Glad we’re on the same page with that. Boys or girls?”

  “One of each. Twins.”

  “Twins?” I balk. “I can’t imagine two at once. Kyrie is a big enough handful.”

  “I assure you, it was very exhausting.”

  “Bless your beautiful soul.”

  She chuckles. “I know we were supposed to have dinner,” Fran starts, “but would it be terribly rude to want to duck out early? I apparently have an early morning tomorrow, and I’d like to get started on looking over that paperwork. Your assistant is really on her stuff and has already sent it over.”