“Then we need to stop.”
“Why?”
“Because it was just one night.”
Her words halt my assault.
She’s right. What the fuck am I doing? I’m trying to make this more than it is.
That’s my downfall, though.
I like broken things, and I like fixing them. Funny, because I’m broken too, but I can’t seem to ever get myself put back together just right.
My dedication to broken things is the reason I’ve ended up with a failed marriage under my belt.
I couldn’t walk away. I had to help.
Sure, I got Kyrie out of it, but at what cost to myself?
I can’t get involved with someone broken again. I have too much on the line.
I put distance between us, retreating to my side of the room. I head for the smooth white dresser sitting against the wall and grab my phone.
I note the missed texts from Foster, kicking myself for not actually turning my ringer on like I planned.
Luckily, nothing was wrong. He was just panicking about what kind of donuts to fill my daughter up with this morning. Asshole.
Opening an app, I order a ride for Dory from the only car available in this tiny town.
I wish I were more of a gentleman in this moment, offering to give her a ride back to Slice, but I have a feeling she wouldn’t accept it anyway.
“Your ride will be here in about ten minutes, and it’s already paid for. There’s a coffee pot in the kitchen. Feel free to help yourself to whatever. I’m going to shower.”
She blinks at me.
Then blows out a relieved breath.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
I slide open a drawer, grabbing a pair of underwear and socks, and then stand here.
Waiting.
For her to leave.
For me to leave.
For this to end.
I move first.
I have to move first.
“Porter?” she calls to me.
I stop but don’t turn.
“I’m sorry about the kisses.”
* * *
“Good morning, Mr. Jones.”
I frown over the rim of my coffee mug. “Please, Fran, call me Porter. Mister makes me sound all fancy and shit.”
“But, sir, you are fancy. And shit.” She winks, walking past me and into the house.
I laugh, closing the door behind her and leading the way to the kitchen.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee? Something to eat?”
“I’ll pass on the food, but coffee would be wonderful. I’m not much of a breakfast person.”
I tsk. “Just when I thought you were perfect, you go and drop that bomb on me. Breakfast food is the answer to all of life’s problems.”
“Just think of it this way: if I skip it, just means more for you.”
“Okay, I like you again.”
She laughs, taking a seat at the expansive island I had installed during the remodel.
The house I purchased is right along the coastline. It’s the one thing I really wanted when I bought my first house with my ex-wife, but we were much too broke to afford this sort of view.
Now, though, it was on my must-have list.
With the island being such an old community, all the houses I looked at needed major updates, which ended up working out perfectly for me. The remodel was going to take several months, and I didn’t want Kyrie to start the school year on one coast and finish it on another. So, I hired a designer, gave her my list of requirements, and let her make it happen while I got my affairs in order back in California.
I told Kyrie at Christmas that’d we be moving when summer came around.
After some initial reluctance, not a day went by that she didn’t bring it up. I think she actually wanted out of California just as badly as I did.
“Did you have a chance to look over the paperwork last night?” I ask Fran, pulling open the cabinet above the coffee machine.
“I did.”
“Any questions?” I pour her a cup of coffee. “Cream or sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
I leave room in the mug, replace the pot, and head to the fridge for the creamer.
“No questions from me. Everything was very straightforward and detailed.”
I smile at her, sliding her coffee and fixings across the counter. “I can’t take any credit for that. It’s all Mel.”
“I bet you’re sorry to lose her. I feel like I have some big shoes to fill.”
“Nervous?” I ask, brow raised.
She sits up straighter, pushing her shoulders back. “No.”
I grin. “Good. That’s what I like to hear. So what’s on the agenda today?”
“You have a phone call with a Bernard at nine. Then you’re free until you need to meet with your potential nannies starting at ten. Up first is—”
I hold up my hand, cutting her off. “No names, please.”
“Sir?”
“It’s a thing of mine,” I explain. “I don’t like to know names of potential hires until the very last moment. I feel like the less I know about them, the less likely I’ll be inclined to hire them based off my preconceived notions. First impressions mean a lot to me, and I don’t want my judgment to be clouded.”
She nods. “I like that. Keeps things fair.”
“Exactly. So I’ll need you to text me about five minutes prior to the first interview. All I need is a first and last name so I know what to call them. That’s it. I’ll handle the rest.”
“Just a first and last name? No pictures so you know it’s really them?”
“God no.” I wince. “I made that mistake before. I won’t do it again.”
Her lips pull up. “I assume that has to do with that NDA I signed.”
“Yes.”
She chuckles. “Fair enough. Is there anything you’d like me to help with while I’m here today?”
“Actually…” My eyes drift to the boxes stacked near the stairs leading to the second deck. “I wouldn’t mind if we could work on organizing my office a bit.”
Other than the fact that the house sits along the coastline, the other thing that drew me to it was the second deck.
It’s one giant room with the perfect view of the water. The moment I stepped foot inside it, I could see myself spending my nights in there getting caught up on work.
The previous owner used this as the master bedroom. I don’t blame them, but with my rule about not taking work to bed, I don’t mind making the sacrifice of downgrading to the smaller bedroom on the main floor. We had to do some rearranging to give me an en suite down there, but we made it work.
Her eyes follow mine, and I see the excitement in them.
Mel told me Fran loves organizing, so I’m certain this will be a fun project for her.
“I’ll do the heavy lifting,” I entice.
“Deal, sir.”
“Just Porter.”
“Fair enough, Just Porter.”
I shake my head, smiling into the coffee mug poised at my lips. “I think we’re going to get along just fine, Fran.”
“I think so too.”
* * *
FRAN: Marybelle Harp
I get the text just as the door to the local coffee shop swings open for my first interview.
Mel and I struck a deal when I moved here: if I was going to run the company from the other side of the country, I had to hire a nanny to help lighten my workload.
I agreed, so here I am, waiting for the first potential hire.
Just like I did with Fran, I had each applicant choose the venue for where they’d like to conduct the interview. It’s another thing of mine. I do this to get to know the interviewee before we meet, because the places people feel comfortable say a lot about them.
An older woman scans the shop, and when her eyes fall on me, I know it’s Marybelle.
Slowly—painfully so—she makes her way to me.
I wan
t to try to give her a fair chance because she took the time to apply for the job, but I can already tell she’s going to struggle to keep up with Kyrie.
Hell, I’m thirty years younger and work out regularly and I have trouble keeping up with Kyrie on most days.
“Mr. Jones?”
I stand. “Please, call me Porter. It’s nice to meet you, Marybelle.”
“Likewise.” She takes a seat, and I sit too.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today.” I wrap my hand around my to-go cup. “Would you like a coffee?”
“Oh, no. I’ve already had the max amount today.”
“There’s a limit to how much coffee people can drink?”
Her eyes widen. “Of course there is. I read an article online once that if you drink more than twelve ounces a day, you’re seventy-five percent more likely to have a heart attack.”
I don’t think that’s true, but I decide not to call her out on it, just making a mental note that she takes her health advice from the internet.
Strike one, Marybelle.
I take another sip of my drink, pointedly looking at her the entire time. Should I let her know this is my third one of the day?
No, best not to scare the old woman.
“So, what makes you want to be a live-in nanny?”
“I hate my apartment. It’s dreadful. Way too many young people living in the complex. They’re exhausting, up at all hours of the day and night.”
What the…
“And I like children. All of mine are grown and out of the house and refuse to give me grandbabies, much to my dismay.”
She says this like her children owe her grandchildren.
Strike two, Marybelle.
I clear my throat, unsure how to respond.
“How old is your child, Mr. Jones?”
I don’t correct her on my name.
“Kyrie is seven.”
“Kyrie? What sort of name is that? Strange. Very strange.”
Strike three.
Though I know this interview is over, I continue going through the motions.
By the end of it, I’m certain there is no way Marybelle truly believes she has a shot at the position. I’ve made it clear in my curt responses and closed-off body language.
“Thank you again for meeting with me,” I say, getting to my feet.
She stands as well. “No, thank you for this wonderful opportunity. I very much look forward to working with you.”
This woman…
I give her a tight smile, grab my phone and coffee from the table, and make a hasty exit before I blurt out something I can’t take back.
I fold myself into my car and check my phone. The next place I’m meeting someone is at Slice.
Interesting choice.
I make the short drive over and check my clock. I’m nearly thirty minutes early for the appointment.
I could go in early, but an uneasiness settles in my stomach.
I hate the idea of going in there because all it’s going to do is make me think about Dory, and I’ve been doing a really damn good job of not thinking about her all morning.
I didn’t think about her when I was in the shower and my cock ached with a heaviness like it hadn’t just spent the night buried inside the hottest heat it’s ever felt.
I didn’t even think of her when I found her socks tangled in my sheets as I stripped my bed so I could wash away the memories of our night together.
She didn’t once cross my mind when Fran asked me how I spent my impromptu night off, noting that if this was the state my house was in when she came over, she couldn’t imagine how much work I got done last night.
But now, sitting in the parking lot of the place where it all started, she’s there, creeping in the background of my thoughts, just begging to be at the forefront.
I could both curse and thank Wren and Foster for offering to take Kyrie again today while I conduct the interviews.
Curse because I could use the distraction.
Thank because I don’t think I could paste a fake smile on my face, not even for my daughter.
I glance at the clock. Still twenty-five minutes to go.
Might as well go on in and grab some lunch.
I pull myself out of my car and head inside.
“Porter!” Simon calls out.
I give him a weak smile. “Afternoon, Simon. How ya doin’?”
“Can’t complain since I see we’ve made a repeat customer out of you. Here for dinner and lunch the next day?” He taps his chest. “Hits me right in the heart.”
I chuckle at him. “Can I get a Slice of breakfast pizza?”
I don’t think about the fact that I’m ordering a comfort food.
There’s nothing to comfort. I’m fine.
“Sure thing. You want the biscuits and gravy one or thinking eggs and bacon?”
“Surprise me. I never turn down any sort of breakfast food.”
Simon brings me a water—because it’s much too early for a beer and I should probably settle down on the coffee for the day—and leans against the bar top.
“How’s the East Coast treating you so far?”
“Not too bad.” I take a sip of my drink. “Gonna get a little easier since I hired an assistant yesterday and am working on hiring a nanny today.”
“God, I wish I’d had a nanny when I was raising the twins. Those two kids were hellions.”
“Having met them both, I can see that.”
“Add Foster into the mix and the missus and I were screwed. They were always getting into trouble.” He shakes his head. “Exhausting bunch.”
“I heard the first time they all met each other, they got into a fistfight.”
“Sure did. Little shits.” Simon grins. “But it cemented their friendship. I guess shedding some blood for each other will do that.”
“Their friendship has definitely stood the test of time, gone the distance. Hell, when Foster was out in California with me, all he did was talk about Winston and Wren. He’d remind me all the time that I was his ‘California best friend,’ like he didn’t want to replace either of them, even with words.”
It’s obvious in the way Simon smiles that he loves Foster like a son, which I guess is lucky for him since he’s now his son-in-law.
“He’s a good kid,” Simon says fondly.
“Yeah, he is, but don’t tell him I said that. I don’t need him rubbing that shit in my face.”
“How’d you and Foster meet? I don’t think he ever told me.”
“At a bar. We were both there drowning our sorrows one night, trying to drink away our awful marriages, and we bonded over the fact that we’re both from around here. Eventually we crawled our asses out of the bar and out of the funk we were in and made changes in our lives, but our friendship stayed strong.”
“I didn’t realize you were from here.”
“Kind of. I only spent the first four years living on this coast before my parents split and my mom whisked me away to California to live that Hollywood lifestyle.” I laugh dryly at the thought of what my life turned into because of her making that move. “My dad still lives a couple hours away. We reconnected a couple years ago, and he was ecstatic we were moving back. He finally gets to meet his granddaughter.”
Simon watches me closely as I lift my water to my lips, gulping nearly half of it down.
I fucking hate talking about my past, not just because it sucks and it hurts, but because I feel that all-too-familiar anger begin to boil whenever I think too much about it.
I don’t want to be angry anymore.
“You’re doing a good job.”
He says it so quietly I almost don’t hear him.
I flick my eyes his way, then dart them back to the water glass clasped between my hands.
“Let me go grab that slice for you.”
He pushes away from the counter like he didn’t just utter the words I didn’t even know I needed to hear.
I close my eyes and
take a deep breath.
I need to get my shit together. I don’t have time to dwell. I need to keep moving and keep pushing forward.
It’s been working the last few years, so why stop now?
“Here you go, son.”
He slides the slice of pizza in front of me and I glance down, grinning.
Biscuits and gravy, my favorite.
“Thanks,” I murmur to his retreating back as he leaves me here to drown myself in carbs.
I’m not usually one to eat such unhealthy meals back-to-back. Not only do I bust my ass at work, I bust it in the gym too. It’s where I get all my aggression out. But, you can’t outrun calories—well, you can, but nobody wants to do that amount of cardio—so I always do my best to keep my nutrition on the up-and-up as well. I feel it helps keep my business mind sharp too.
Further proof that last night fucked me up.
I’m devouring carbs and grease and all kinds of gooey goodness right before an interview.
For a mere second, I contemplate pushing the pizza away so I can keep a clear head.
But it’s pizza.
I’d never push that away.
“Porter?”
I’m hearing things. I have to be hearing things…right?
Slice in hand, I turn toward the intrusion, taking a lazy bite.
Great. Now I’m seeing things too.
The vision of the angel I was forced to leave this morning is conjured before me, looking as gorgeous as ever.
Nobody can possibly look that good on three hours of sleep.
This is a dream. It must be a dream. I must have fallen asleep on my pizza.
“Porter?”
She says my name again, and it sounds so real.
I want it to be real.
“Hey there, what can I get for you today?”
The waiter behind the counter speaks this time, and I realize he’s talking to her.
Shit. She is real.
I drag my eyes to her face. Her dark brows are slashed together over her wide, blue eyes. She looks confused, and maybe a little annoyed.
“Dory?”
Slice Four
Doris
When I first pulled into the Slice parking lot and saw Porter’s car here, I thought maybe in my haze of lust last night I just dreamed he drove a fancy SUV, or maybe someone else had struck gold and splurged on one too.
Doughn’t Let Me Go Page 4