by MJ Fields
The plan is simple. Get my shit together here in my hometown of Holiday Springs, Colorado and apply for a great job where I can use my business degree and earn credentials for my resumé. Then march my way back to New York City with enough money to rent an apartment as close to Manhattan as possible as an independent woman who doesn’t need a stick-up-his-ass-rich dick to show me I’m anything less than worthy.
I inhale the thought, hoping that it will sink into my psyche if I repeat it often enough. Unfortunately, it hasn’t yet.
But it will.
It has to.
Landing back here in my hometown was the last thing I ever wanted. But what choice did I have? Everything once thought mine was tied to my now ex-fiancé.
I have to regroup.
With that thought and a little bit of pep in my step, I leave the store.
Outside I inhale the scent of the October air and smile as the crisp cold air kisses my warm skin. Shutting the front door behind me, it stops an inch too early—some things never fucking change—the bells above the door chime as I use my entire body weight to pull the door shut. From years of experience, I know that I have to twist my legs to the side to get some leverage.
With a loud yell, it finally closes. “Well, halle-fuckin-lujah!” I look into my purse for my car keys. Shockingly, I find them immediately.
“Do you need a hand?” A British accent has me jumping backward, dropping not only my keys but my bag as well.
Behind me, a sexy as hell voice—completely foreign to a place I once pretended felt like home that I can’t wait to leave again— and on the sidewalk before me, my keys and my coping mechanism—chocolate truffles.
Quickly, I bend down and start to gather the handfuls of single-wrapped, orange foiled deliciousness when the Brit—whom I’d thought I’d ignored long enough he’d get the hint and walk by, leaving me to my miserable existence—steps in front of me.
As soon as I see the shiny, black Ferragamo shoes, a stark contrast to the dusting of the season's first snowfall, I glare up at him as he begins to squat down.
His scent hits me, woodsy, clean, sexy as hell, and I know immediately that this man isn't native to these parts. He’s... one of them. But that accent though...
Shiny, black Ferragamo shoes? The warning bells ring—rich prick alert. Abort!
The sun blocks me from seeing him until he steps even closer, obstructing its blinding rays. And when I look up, my jaw nearly comes unhinged. He holds my gaze and a second, an eternity—I have no idea how long it takes—but I finally steal my eyes back from his magnetic gaze. Completely and totally embarrassed by my gawking and wondering how much of my door-shutting episode he saw. But when he squats down, picks up my bag, and begins shoveling the candy back into it, I realize the door-shutting episode doesn't hold a candle to this mess.
I blink my eyes and look him over. He’s gorgeous. He must be over six feet tall with chiseled features, eyes covered in tinted aviators, and perfect dark hair, a bit of that sexy salt and pepper dusted around his temples, leveling up his gorgeousness to dashingly distinguished. God, I just can’t. I look anywhere but at him. My eyes dart to the street where a shiny Harley Davidson sits. Looking back at him, I swallow hard. He’s in a leather jacket. A nice one, obviously expensive, too. I can see some tattoos on his forearms. This man is a contradiction if ever I saw one.
And here I am, on my knees in front of another rich prick, whose smirk indicates that he knows exactly the effect he has on me.
I raise my head, ready to snap, but he hands me my keys as he stands and takes my elbow, helping me up, as if I need it. I want to tell him, I’ve only gained ten pounds, asshole, I can do it myself, but he steps back and looks down at me, his square jaw set as if I’ve done something to offend him.
I don’t have to wonder long.
“My son was here. He took a sweet from you?” He reaches in my bag and pulls out a piece of my special stash, unwraps it, and pops it in his mouth, chewing as he reaches in his pocket and then holds out his hand, turns it, and shows me two shiny nickels. Even his damn money sparkles, sitting pretty in the center of his large and heavily calloused hand. “For his and mine.”
Oh, no, he didn't! But my mouth doesn't cooperate, as I open it and close it just like a fish out of water. His lips tighten, fighting a cocky rich prick smirk.
I clear my throat, look above him, focusing on the beautiful oak trees lining the street instead of the drop-dead gorgeous rich asshole in front of me.
With as much strength as I can muster, I finally speak. “You should teach him not to take things without paying for them.” I can’t even deliver my comment with forceful eye contact. Obviously, Tinsley’s ‘lessons’ didn’t imbed themselves as deeply as I had thought.
“Well, I must say you’re obviously a pro at making boys quake. He told me about the verbal tongue lashing you gave him. Let me assure you,” his eyes move from my feet up to my face, “he wasn’t trying to starve you.”
His full lips purse together, telling me he’s trying not to laugh. Without another word and before I can tell him to go fuck a stack of Benjamins or his black card, he walks away, gets on his bike, and drives off.
Rule Number Two
Never look a redhead straight in the eyes
Raff
Two hours ago, I shot off a text to my son and his aunt Faith, apologizing profusely that I was stuck in traffic. It was quickly worked out; Nathaniel was more than happy to walk the four blocks to his favorite store on Main Street in Holiday Springs, Winterfield’s Sweet Spot, to wait for Faith’s one employee at Bookland bookstore to cover her so that she could meet Nathaniel and they could walk back to her place and wait for me.
Thirty minutes later, he called me.
“Dad,” he whispered, and I felt anxiety’s invisible claw grip my chest so tight I almost couldn’t respond.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you whispering? Is aunt Faith—”
“I’m in her bathroom. I did a really bad thing, and I didn’t want her to know.”
My body tensed, and I willed myself to be calm when I reminded him, “You can tell me anything, Nathaniel, you know this.”
He proceeded to tell me what had happened, and I was less than impressed with whoever this new employee at Winterfield’s was. For fuck’s sake, aside from the owners, Elden and Gloria Winterfield, their daughter Nellie—who wouldn’t ever speak to Nathaniel that way because she wants me—I’d never had an unpleasant experience in the Sweet Spot, and neither had Nathaniel.
Nellie typically worked the after-school and evening hours alone, and she would never give Nathaniel a hard time. Because just like the rest of the single, divorced, or widowed women, from the ages of eighteen to eighty, she’d all but told me she’d like nothing more than to warm my bed.
Come to think of it, no one gave Nathaniel a hard time; the entire town adored him, spoiled him rotten. And although I am not a fan of a child being handed the moon, the fact that this new employee was downright rude to my son pissed me off.
“I’ll stop by and have a chat with this person before coming to Bookland.”
“Dad, don’t be mean,” left his mouth in a whisper, and I was taken aback.
“When am I ever mean?” I huffed and quickly added, “And why, in this instance, should I not be? Someone was rude to my son and—”
“Just don’t, Dad. I was wrong. Plus, she looked like she was having—”
“Don’t make excuses for someone’s poor behavior, Nathaniel. If she was rude—”
“She looked like she was having a crummy day. Nobody deserves a crummy day. Everyone deserves to be happy.”
And this is what therapy does for a child.
Not that I’m against therapy. Hell, it could have possibly saved my son’s life. Those weekly visits with Dr. Shapiro have made a positive impact on him, but now, he’s so damn deep it’s disturbing. Especially to a British man who was raised to hide emotions. Nathani
el being more in touch with his inner self and being extremely mature for his age is still often jarring.
I’m quite certain losing his mum took away the naïveté that most kids are lucky enough to carry with them, well past his age. The bottom line is, Nathaniel sure knows just what to say to kick me in the heart, making me less the stereotypical emotionless British gentleman by the year. I’m not less of a man because of it. In fact, I think he makes me more of a man.
Yet, he causes me to worry.
I shiver, imagining the second-worst day of my life when Nathaniel told me he wanted to go to heaven with his mum because he didn’t feel like he even knew her anymore.
That comment changed everything, and it brought us here, to the US, to be close to her family so that the memories he was losing might be brought back. Vacations during Christmastime in Holiday Springs with Hope’s family were some of the best times of our lives. No place made Hope or Nathaniel happier, which in turn, made me … happy.
I didn’t expect to plant deeper roots in this quaint town than we had in London. But seeing the bright smile on Nathaniel’s face when I casually mentioned moving here or witnessing his utter joy when he played in the snow and watching him laugh with Hope’s sister, Faith changed all that. They baked cookies and sang along to holiday tunes, the same ones he used to sing with his mum. I guess I hadn’t even realized how long it had been since he truly smiled and seeing that made leaving London the easy choice. In fact, Nathaniel isn’t the only one who finally began smiling once we made Holiday Springs our home. Coming here felt an awful lot like breathing again. Until then, I hadn’t realized I was suffocating until I finally took a large breath and inhaled this fresh air and a giant step back away from the business Hope and I had built together. In London, life was work. But here, work is a part of life.
Having to honor Nathaniel’s request that I would not be rude to this person who gave him hell today, I still need to make my presence known. Be seen as a proper father to a decent young man. Pulling up in front of the Sweet Spot, I pulled off my helmet, slid on my glasses, and stepped off my bike before hurrying across the street before they close at six p.m.
Stopping for a passing truck, I look at my wristwatch and curse the fact that I am so late and that I have to stop to teach this woman a lesson.
By the door of the Sweet Spot, a woman yells, “Well, halle-fuckin-lujah!”
Even knowing damn well this stranger, this auburn-haired foul-mouthed woman who had been harsh with Nathaniel, I couldn’t help but get a kick out of her obvious don’t-give-a-shit attitude.
Clearly, she doesn’t know that if Maybell, across the street at the diner, heard her cursing, specifically in the context in which she did, she would drag her arse to church seven days a week to pray over her. I’d pay a pretty penny to bear witness to that.
From two steps behind her, as she digs in her purse, I ask, “Do you need a hand?”
Her purse goes flying, as do her keys, and I have to literally bite my damn lip to stop from laughing at the mess she’s made.
She completely ignores me, which of course, I’m not the least bit used to when it comes to women. As nice of a break from the barracudas as it is, I can’t help but mess with her a little bit, use my charm to rile her up—in the most gentlemanly like fashion—for dealing with Nathaniel the way she did. The truth is, had I been in her situation—I’d have called his parents.
She squats down, picking up a Halloween haul worthy amount of sweets, so I decide to ‘help her out.’ When I walk around in front of her and begin to bend down to do just that, she looks up. As her mouth falls open, I clamp mine shut.
She is quite stunning, beautiful in fact, and I am glad to be wearing my sunglasses, or she’d probably be looking into a mirrored image of the wonder I see in her eyes as she looks at me.
Christ, she is... something else.
I begin to clean up the sweets spilled onto the pavement as she continues to look at me, shamelessly checking me out. The confidence it takes to be so obvious is alluring. As is the fact that she is not playing coy to be cute, which coincidentally makes her even more alluring.
Her pale green eyes are absolutely stunning, her nearly perfect heart-shaped face, the color of smooth ivory; absolutely gorgeous.
As much as I love a redhead, hers is dark red, nearly mahogany brown, and although pulled up in a careless bun, it looks as if it feels like silk and begs to be tugged.
She finally looks away and begins frantically throwing the sweets in her bag, her face turning a beautiful shade of blush. Quickly, I bent down and gathered handfuls of sweets to assist her.
A frown forms on her lips as we stand, and I know I must still say my piece.
“My son was here. He took a sweet from you?” Her eyes widen as I reach into her purse to grab a sweet. I unwrap it ceremoniously and pop it in my mouth, chewing slowly as I wait for her to say something, anything. Instead, she stares at my lips as I chew, so I make sure to take my damn time.
I reach in my pocket and feel for two nickel-size coins, pulling them out and opening my palm to her. “For his and mine.”
When she doesn’t take them, I drop them in her purse. She opens and shuts her perfect shaped lips in an attempt to respond. I can’t help but smile.
Finally, she responds and does so looking above my head. “You should teach him not to take things without paying for them.” Her voice quivers, and I wonder what else I can do to make her sound like that.
“Well, I must say you’re obviously a pro at making boys quake. He told me about the verbal tongue lashing you gave him. Let me assure you,” I look her over as unabashedly as she had me, and when my eyes settle on hers, “he wasn’t trying to starve you.”
I nod as I turn and walk away, feeling her eyes right where I want them, on my arse. From what I’ve been told, it’s my second-best feature.
Walking into the bookstore, everyone is gathered around the counter, waiting for me.
I hold my hand over my chest. “I’m truly sorry I’m late.”
“It’s okay, Dad, right, guys?” he asks the family standing around to celebrate Hope’s birthday, at his request.
“Of course.” Faith smiles as she and Nathaniel begin putting thirty-six candles into the red velvet cake covered with cream cheese frosting.
I kiss Hopes mother, Annie’s, cheek and shake her father Abe’s, hand before Faith hands Nathaniel the matches.
“Can I, Dad?”
I nod. “Of course. But be bloody careful.”
He’s having a bit of trouble lighting the candles, but he’s determined.
“Mom’s gifts first,” Nathaniel smiles.
I shove my hands in my pants pockets to stop myself from helping him, knowing he’s at an age where independence is important to him. Not because I read a parenting book or a therapist told me so. It’s because Nathaniel himself showed me it was.
Our circumstance, our second chapter, caused me to slow down and take notice of what was truly important, and it wasn’t the rat race, the money, the ‘fame’ or the ‘status’ when we or someone in their social circle became successful, it is moments like this right here.
“I think gifts first is a great idea.” Annie smiles.
The idea came from a recording of Hope on her birthday. Before she blew out the candles, she would tell all of us what she would wish for us for her birthday before making her own. She did it every year. Her wishes ranged from sweet to snarky, eliciting an aww, or laughter, depending on the company. Her wish for me was always, ‘More love than the year before.’
Since he saw that, he decided he would keep her tradition going, and as he became more and more mature, his wishes became more thoughtful, whether a joke or something from the heart.
Did I find it odd?
Absolutely.
Did the therapist suggest I encourage him to stop doing so?
Of course.
Will I?
Never.
It obviously makes him happy.
“I normally get my wish last. I can wait.”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
Seeing the candles burning further and further down, I decide not to banter with my boy and simply nod. “Okay, fine.”
In a room full of all those who loved Hope, still love Hope, will always love Hope, he looks up at me and simply states, “Mum’s wish for you is to find someone to love like you loved each other, and for her to love you like Mum did. Maybe not the same way, but perfectly in your own ways.”
Rule Number Three
Nothing Good Ever Happens On A Monday
Nikki
Two weeks later
As soon as my ass hits the black leather of my car, my phone rings.
I hit answer call on my steering wheel. “Do you have a tracking device implanted in me, or are you psychic?”
Jenny laughs. “It’s not like you’re hard to figure out. It’s Monday. You visit your grams and pops at Shady Oaks retirement home between ten and noon. It’s five minutes after.”
I roll my eyes at her, even though she can’t see me as she continues.
“When you get home, you’ll spend the entire day applying for jobs near the city that you’re overqualified for, then you’ll drink a bottle of cheap wine on your own while scrolling through social media to see if you can catch a glimpse of that despicable excuse for a human—”
“Jenny,” I sigh heavily.
“I agree, we should skip Monday. The memes are right. It’s a horrible day unless your kids have gotten on your last nerve all weekend and you all but push them out of the vehicle at drop-off, only to look at the clock when you’re pulling in, and you see you’re the first one there… again, and you’re half an hour early like I was today. I redeemed myself by taking a picture as they walked in and posted it on Facebook using the hashtag #blessed.”
I can’t help but laugh as I open Facebook—which I never paid attention to because IG is more my speed—and see the picture of her boys walking in while looking over their shoulders and scowling at her.
