by Max Monroe
I look down at my toes and sigh. I’m a fucking mess. I don’t know if I have any extra clothes in my car, but if not, I’m going to have to drive home practically naked. Because there’s no way my Infiniti’s seats will survive this.
Hiking the strap of my purse farther up onto my shoulder, I start my walk through the sand, headed back to where I came from on the other side of the Hotel Del. We’re down a little ways, and I’ve lost sight of Jake, so I’m sure he’s gone.
I dig in my purse, grab my keys, and bleep the locks on my car as I approach. The parking lot is mostly empty, thankfully, so I head straight for my trunk and pop it with the button on my key fob.
Please God, let there be something in there that can help me.
And, for the love of everything, please make finding a new Bachelor Anonymous easy.
Jake
Stuff tossed into the bed and dry towel resting on my driver’s seat, I climb up into my truck, shut the door, and turn the key to fire up the engine. The radio comes on, and immediately, I turn down the knob to soften it.
Normally, I listen to my music loud. I like to jam as I drive, but I’m not the same person who got into the truck this morning to come here, a father whose teenage daughter would never dream of signing him up for a fucking dating contest.
Now, I’m torn between knowing my daughter is still sweet and loving and kind and an amazing human being—and a huge fucking shit-stirrer.
I cannot believe she did this behind my back.
I’m honestly shocked.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back onto the headrest. I take a minute to gather my thoughts, to process the whole cluster of a morning I wasn’t expecting.
I come here to swim every day. Every day for the last seventeen years, that I’ve been home, I’ve gone swimming in the ocean to start my day. None of them has shaped up quite like this.
I open my eyes again, prepared to put the truck in gear and head for the house when I see the lone car across the parking lot light up as the locks bleep.
Holley materializes from the beach onto the sidewalk, heading directly to the Infiniti.
What I should be doing right now? Putting my car in drive and heading home to figure out what in the hell Chloe was thinking with this Bachelor Mysterious—or whatever the fuck it’s called—stunt.
But what I’m actually doing? Still sitting in park, watching the enigma that is Holley Fields.
She moves to her trunk and pops it open, dropping her bag on the one side and leaning so far in all I can see is her sand-covered ass.
I bite my lip, laughter so close to the surface I can feel it in all the features of my face.
She’s something. Awkward. Kind of a mess. But really, that’s just camouflage. After ten minutes on the beach with her, it’s more than obvious she’s both funny and beautiful.
I take my hand off the shifter and relax into my seat, unable to stop watching the show. She roots around for a while, looking for god knows what, and when she finally emerges, she holds a towel in the air like it’s Simba and she’s Mufasa, presenting it to her kingdom.
I chuckle a little out loud.
“What’s she going to do now?” I mutter to myself as she moves from the trunk of the car to the passenger side door, rustling around on the floorboard.
She pulls out a previously opened bag of chips and takes the clip from the folded edge and tosses it on the top of her car.
Then she looks up, glancing around the parking lot, sweeping right over me in my truck. Apparently, she can’t see me with the backlighting from the sun.
Falsely surmising the coast is clear, she steps into the open door of her car again to shield herself slightly—though it does nothing for someone looking on from my direction—and yanks off the soggy black blazer before tossing it to the pavement.
Next, she wiggles her hips, working at the waistband of her pants while facing away from me, and finally shimmies the sand-logged material down to the ground. Her panties are black lace, and I suddenly feel like I’m doing something very, very wrong by watching her without her knowledge.
I don’t want to startle her by driving away, though, so I don’t move.
And against my better judgment, I don’t close my eyes either.
Holley Fields was definitely hiding one hell of a body under that business suit.
Struggling against the wet fabric of her top, she peels it from her skin up over her head, tossing it onto the pile in the parking lot as well. I look on at the tanned skin of her bare back and the unbelievably beautiful shape of her ass.
Christ.
She grabs the towel from where she previously left it on the seat, wraps it around her entire body, and then takes the chip clip from the roof and secures it at the chest.
It’s ingenuity at its finest. But necessity definitely is the mother of invention, isn’t it?
To be completely honest, that could be the slogan for my life as a parent. Because when I first had Chloe, I didn’t have a goddamn clue what I was supposed to be doing. The only option I had was to make it up as I went along.
Finally ready to leave, Holley grabs her bag out of the trunk, slams it closed, and rounds the car to the driver’s door.
She sinks down into the seat and disappears. I wait, watching as her taillights come on and she backs out of the spot, before putting my truck into gear.
Her reverse out of the spot is quick, and she’s off like a shot toward the entrance of the parking lot before I even get rolling.
She puts her right turn signal on, pulls to a stop, and then starts to go and almost runs over a couple crossing the road.
“Shit.”
The brake lights come on as she narrowly misses them, and I can see her arms going crazy through the glass of her back windshield.
I don’t know exactly how I can tell, but I know they’re the motions of apology.
Still, the couple glares before finishing their stroll across the sidewalk at a jog.
Fairly traumatized, she sits there at the stop sign for a full minute, swinging her head back and forth before she finally takes the leap again, pulling out onto the street with caution.
I pull up to the stop sign myself, give Holley’s retreating car one last glance, and then turn the other direction. Toward home. Toward Chloe.
Toward answers.
Sorry, baby girl. It’s time to face the fucking music.
I put my truck in park, kill the engine, and jump down to the driveway without pause. Normally, I would pull into the garage, but my mind is too chaotic to allow me the patience needed to do it, so I’ve settled for the simpler parking spot in the front circle drive. My need for answers from Chloe has only grown with the passing moments of my twenty-minute trip back home, and the quicker I find her, the better.
I climb the front steps two at a time, unlock the front door, and shove it open.
“Chloe!” I yell as soon as I cross the threshold. When she doesn’t respond immediately, I shout her name again. “Chloe! We need to talk right now!”
I circle around the front stairs and go down the hall to the kitchen. She’s not there, so I walk into the den, over to the back staircase, and take those steps two at a time on my way to her room. As I approach, an open door becomes obvious. With just that, I know she’s probably not in there, but I continue until I’m far enough to look inside anyway.
“Chloe!” I yell again, a little edge of panic starting to make its way in alongside the anger.
Where is she?
I jog back down the stairs with ankle-snapping speed and circle back into the den, my head swinging back and forth and coming up empty once again. I’m just about to head back out to my truck to find my phone when she steps inside from the back patio, an undeniable look of culpability on her face.
“Chloe,” I say, this time as calmly as I can manage.
A lone tear runs down her cheek almost immediately, but I try to stay strong in my role as a father who needs to question his daughter when she
does something incredibly stupid.
“What were you thinking?” I ask, my voice rising in irritation.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and a few more tears stream down her cheeks.
Shit. For as angry and desperate for answers as I am, I still can’t ignore the power of her sadness on my own emotional scale. It’s incredibly ironic that I, the former Navy SEAL, can crumble like a ton of bricks at the mere sight of my daughter’s discomfort.
With two long steps, I pull her into a tight hug.
She shoves her face into my chest, and the waterworks amplify in intensity.
“Hey, Chlo,” I say softly. “Calm down, okay? Shh.”
Gah, I hate when she cries. Why does it suck so much when a woman cries?
“So, it’s safe to say, you’re familiar with why I’ve come home?” I start, and she nods into my chest, squeezing her arms tighter.
I sigh and let my lips fall forward to her hair.
“Calm down, and let’s just talk, okay?”
She shakes her head, and I almost laugh. Apparently, the music Chloe thinks she’s about to face sounds like the song they play at funerals in New Orleans.
“I’m not going to yell. We’re just going to talk,” I promise.
She takes her face out of my chest and looks up at me, her mascara a smeared mess not entirely unlike that of an almost-drowned Holley Fields. “You’re not going to yell?” she asks to confirm.
I smile. “I wanted to. But no. There’s no need anymore. I just need you to be honest with me. No lies, no details left out. I need to know what exactly you were thinking. And, Chlo?”
She looks up at me with quivering lips.
“I need to know it right now.”
Finally, she nods, stepping back and wiping the skin under her eyes with both hands. “Okay,” she agrees. “But I really need cookies for this, so can we please go into the kitchen?”
I laugh before nodding in agreement. “Yeah, cookies sound pretty good right now.”
She nods. “I’ll make some.”
“While we talk,” I order. “No delaying the inevitable, got me?”
She nods yet again. “I can bake and talk at the same time.”
“Good.” I walk her into the kitchen and into the pantry where she can gather the ingredients she needs. I decide I’ll give her the peace to do that without me barking questions in her ear, but not much else. After all, baking is pretty precise, and despite everything, I really would like to be able to eat some of these cookies.
“You get started getting everything you need,” I tell her. “I’m going back out to my truck to get my phone. I’ll be right back.”
She nods mutely, and I turn and make my way to the front door, walk down the steps, and lean in the passenger side of my truck to get my phone, keys I left in the ignition, and the article from the front seat.
When I get back inside, I lock the front door and head for the kitchen again. Chloe is already at the kitchen island, adding ingredients to the bowl.
I toss the paper onto the counter next to her, the heart-circled ad right there for her to see.
“Single Dad Seeks Juliet?” I question simply, pulling out a stool at the island and sitting down across from her.
She winces, cutting open a bag of chocolate chips, dumping them into the bowl and stirring them in with a wooden spoon.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time?” she says, the inflection of remorse tinged with an obvious air of excuse-making.
She regrets getting caught; that much is certain. But I don’t think she regrets doing it at all. And I desperately need to know why.
“Chloe,” I prompt, and she sighs.
“Okay, fine. I…maybe I shouldn’t have done it, but I had to do it.”
I furrow my brow. “I don’t understand.”
“I had to, Dad. I had to try everything—do everything I could—to look out for you the way you looked out for me.”
“I’m not your responsibility, Chloe. And my love life certainly isn’t. I’m the parent, and you’re the child. Simple as that.”
“No,” she dissents immediately. “It’s not that simple, and you know it.”
“It is,” I insist. “I take care of you. Not the other way around. It’s my job as a parent.”
“It’s your job to make sure I’m fed and clothed and loved, Dad, but you’ve always gone way, way, way above and beyond that, haven’t you?”
“Chloe—”
“No!” she snaps, and I almost open my mouth to tell her to cut the attitude, but she beats me to the verbal punch. “It wasn’t your job to join a single dads’ club when I was a toddler to make sure you were doing all you could to help me adjust to growing up without a mom.”
“Chloe,” I whisper.
“And it wasn’t your job to take me to tea parties when everyone else was there with their mom, or dance on stage to help me at my first recital when I couldn’t remember the moves.”
Emotion crawls into my throat and thickens it so much I don’t know if I’ll be able to swallow.
“It wasn’t your job to take a lesson at the salon so you’d know how to do my hair, or go to the women’s center to research all you could about getting your period so it wouldn’t catch me off guard.”
She stops stirring and leans into the counter to look me in the eye, her amber ones shining brightly with unshed tears.
“You went the extra mile to be the absolute best father you could be, but that wasn’t your job. Just like taking care of you isn’t mine. But I’m going to do it anyway, and I’m going to do it the way you always did with me. Maybe signing you up to be the bachelor in some newspaper thingie was extra, but I stand by it.”
“Chloe.”
“I’m grown, Dad. Grown,” she emphasizes. “My needs are different than they used to be. Now, I need to know you’re set. You’ve been my best friend for my entire life, and if you don’t want happiness for your friend, you’re not really a friend at all.”
“If you want me to meet a woman, there are a hundred ways to do that that don’t include being the pawn in a ridiculous farce called Bachelor Mystery.”
“Bachelor Anonymous,” she corrects me on a giggle.
“Whatever.” I sigh. “It doesn’t matter what it’s called. What matters is that there are plenty of other, not ridiculous ways for me to find someone.”
“Fine. You’re right,” she agrees. “But if you were going to do any of them, you would have done them years ago. Just give this a chance, Dad. Please.”
“Why is this so important to you, Chlo?” I ask, a knot of unwelcome emotion clogging my throat as I think back through the movie reel of our lives. So many memories. So many tragic moments. So much beauty and love and happiness. “Why do you think I need a woman so badly? Have I cheated you by keeping you to myself all these years? Did you miss out by only having a dad to look up to?”
“I didn’t miss out. You did.”
I shake my head. “My life has been exactly what I’ve made of it, Chloe, and I made it that way for a reason. I wouldn’t change it.” I laugh a little. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’m equipped to compromise with someone on everything anymore. I’ve been on my own, in charge of my own decisions for a long time. Sometimes it’s hard to unlearn living that way. And I don’t know if I want to.”
“With the right person, you won’t have to compromise all that much.”
I shrug, sighing internally at myself for having all those conversations about empowerment in a relationship over the years. I wasn’t prepared to have her feeding all my own crap back to me so soon.
“And you think this—whatever this contest is with the paper—is going to produce the right person?”
“I think you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,” she fires back, quoting me from yet another parental speech.
It’s like I loaded the gun for her, for God’s sake.
I sigh heavily and consider her closely, and she does the same to me.
We stare at each other with the weight of our lives—years and years of counting on each other and trusting that even if it seems crazy in the beginning, it’ll all make sense in the end.
“This is nuts, Chlo. You realize that, right? You entered your forty-year-old dad in a dating contest run by a newspaper.”
“A dating contest in which readers voted and chose my forty-year-old dad to be the most eligible bachelor in San Diego.”
I stare at her in confusion, and she shrugs.
“I might have written the ad, but the SoCal Tribune readers voted you in.”
“This just gets better and better, doesn’t it?” I mutter, and a soft giggle pops from her lips as she turns to preheat the oven.
“Just do it, Dad. What’s the worst that could happen?” she questions with a glance over her shoulder. “You meet an amazing woman who catches your eye, and you actually enjoy spending time with her?” She feigns disgust. “Ew, gross.”
Am I really going to do this fucking thing?
Silver lining? You’ll get to see the intriguing woman that is Holley Fields again…
“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to do this.” I shake my head and bring it down to the counter, and she shrieks a cheer into the air.
Hell, just what am I getting myself into?
Holley
Papers flutter into the garbage as I toss another heap from my desk into the trash can near my desk. Hundreds and hundreds of personal ads and application information to go through, and still, finding another viable option for Bachelor Anonymous seems impossible.
The instant I left Coronado Beach, I stopped at my house for a quick shower and a change of clothes and headed straight back to my office to try to figure out a game plan that won’t end in me losing my job.
I’ve been working on said game plan for the last several hours, and I’m only certain of two things: Jake Brent is a no-fucking-go and, besides the cleaning staff, everyone in the office has headed home for the night.
Basically, I’ve yet to move past square one—find a new Bachelor Anonymous.
I can’t do another vote—there’s no time. Not to mention, having Tribune readers know the process has been fucked from the jump isn’t the kind of image I’d like to portray. As a general rule of thumb, I try to make decisions that won’t get me fired.