by K. Bromberg
“I know who you are.”
For the briefest of seconds, I get a glimpse of the little boy as he tries to step out from behind his father. He’s the perfect mini-me of Grayson—olive complexion, brown eyes, lopsided smile.
And I hate how Grayson pushes his son behind him, almost as if he’s protecting him from me.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” I infuse cheer to bolster my waning bravado.
“Did something happen?” Confusion fleets across his expression. “Is there a reason you’ve come down from your castle on the hill, Princess?”
“What do you mean?”
Memories flash and fade. High school idiosyncrasies every teenager endures. The popular crowd and the wannabes. The cool kids who ran together and the kids on the outside who never were allowed in. Grayson working at Lulu’s diner, kind and courteous but left to pick up after the mess I’m sure we made. Overhearing us planning our next party or get-together but never being invited. The friends who I thought were my world but who I never spoke to after leaving.
Is that what he’s referring to?
“Look, that was a long time ago. We should—”
“What do you want?” He holds his hands up as if to tell me he doesn’t want to talk about it, and it takes me a second to switch mental gears.
“I came to congratulate you on making the top twenty.”
“Top twenty of what?”
“In Modern Family magazine’s contest.”
The laughter he emits is long and rich. The shake of his head is one of disbelief. The little boy peers at me between the crack of Grayson’s body and the doorframe. “I have no clue what you’re talking about. I’m not the type to enter a contest.”
“It was a hot dad contest.” Why is it when I say it this time—to him—I blush considerably when it hasn’t bothered me at all with the others? Probably because I didn’t know any of the others before the contest.
“Hot dad?” He shakes his head as if I’m out of my mind. “Nice try but, uh, pageantry isn’t my thing.”
“It isn’t a pageant—you’re the one who entered—there’s a prize.”
“I don’t need anything from you. Not a prize. Not a hand up in life. Nothing.” He turns away from me and then turns back around, his brow furrowed. He seems just as confused as I am but for completely different reasons. “Is this about Mercy-Life?”
“Mercy-Life? As in the air ambulance? Huh?”
“You’re with a magazine, right? Are you trying to ply me with some fake contest so you can try to dig up some dirt that isn’t there and create some bullshit story about my grounding? Slow news day, huh?” He stares at me, head to the side, eyes boring into mine, and the muscle in his jaw ticking.
What the hell is he talking about? “I work for Modern Family. It’s a magazine on family. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re a finalist and—”
“Nice try to get your foot in the door, but whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
“I’m being serious.” Why is he playing coy when he entered the contest?
“And so am I when I say that I’m not interested.”
He goes to shut the front door, and for some reason, I have my hand out in a flash to stop it. “I just need a minute of your time.”
“And I don’t have any time to give you.” His eyes meet mine. The intensity in them mixes with his disdain. “Have a nice trip back up to your tower on the hill.”
The door shuts with a resounding thud.
From behind it, there’s a whoop from the little boy right before he yells for Grayson to put him down. Those are the sounds of normalcy. Sounds of affection. Sounds I have no interest in, and yet, here I stand, staring at the front door, uncertain of why I’m not heading back to my car.
Thortons don’t get intimidated. Or flustered. Or walk away without getting what they want.
Then why did he make me feel both, and why am I doing the last without the result I came here for?
It’s the goddamn thigh clench. That’s why. Zoey jinxed me. My thighs clenched at the sight of him, and then my head turned to mush.
But he’s the one. The total package. Grayson Malone is the missing piece.
Problem is how do I get him to cooperate when he’s clearly changed his mind about participating in the contest?
Because I need him.
This much I know for sure.
“Go pick up your mess and then you can go play out back,” I say absently to Luke as I set the colander on the kitchen counter and stare out the window. My eyes are drawn to a very nice ass highlighted by a black pencil skirt and high heels walking down my path.
Sidney goddamn Thorton.
I must be going out of my mind.
I grit my teeth as she climbs into a white Range Rover that has windows tinted so dark I can barely make out her golden brown hair.
Untouchable now, just like she was back then.
I run a hand through my hair. Did I really just accuse her of trying to write an article on a nonexistent story? Paranoid much, Gray?
Sure, her dad owns the goddamn magazine world, but I doubt she’s had to lift one of her perfectly manicured fingers a day in her life.
Contest, my ass.
Logically, I know that she was here for a reason, so if the contest is a sham, what does she really want?
I stare at her car a little longer, waiting for her to pull away.
Modern Family? As in the offices off Main Street Modern Family? I hadn’t known she was even back in town let alone working there.
Not expecting much, I grab my phone and type in the two words and am surprised when the magazine’s glossy website pops up on my screen.
Jesus Christ. That’s my first and only thought when I see the headline at the top of the page: “Coming Soon: Hot Dad Contest—Next Round of Voting.”
I never entered any contest. If I had, why would self-absorbed, can’t-break-a-nail, my-daddy-owns-the-world Sidney Thorton be knocking on my door when she made it more than clear so many damn years ago that I wasn’t worth her time.
People change.
I snort. Not her kind of people.
So, what was she doing here?
“All done,” Luke yells right before the back door slams. There’s the clatter of him rifling through the bin on the patio for his helmet, his aimless chatter to himself. The noises come in from outside, but I’m too busy staring at everything I despise—privilege, silver spoons, and conceit—to wonder what exactly he’s doing.
Sidney Thorton is just like Claire.
Too good for anyone but herself.
Should I expect any less, considering they were inseparable back then, before Sidney left town?
Anger fires anew when I look outside and spot the little boy I made with Claire. The little boy who is my whole fucking world. That anger only gets hotter when I think of how selfish she was to walk away. How heartless she is to hurt him each and every day with her absence.
Stop thinking about Claire. She isn’t worth the wasted time.
Stop thinking about Sidney sitting there at the curb. She isn’t worth the energy, either.
Two privileged peas in a pod I’d rather not think about.
Who likes peas, anyway?
But when I pass the front window again, she’s still sitting in her car at the curb, head down, hands texting.
A contest. Really? What the hell?
She still has you staring, Gray. Still wondering. Just fucking ignore her.
She starts her car, and I force myself to look away. To turn toward the hundred things I have to do before I head out.
The distraction even works for a few minutes. I get lost in the chores. In thoughts about whether I should hunker down and pay bills or wait another day. In the next load of laundry. In wondering if I have enough to put Luke’s lunch together or if I have to go to the store later.
Normalcy.
“Dad! Dad!” Luke’s excited, and when I hear the front door sl
am shut, I’m immediately irritated.
“Luke? We’ve been through this a hundred times. You don’t go out in the front yard without telling me!”
“But, Dad, listen. I had to get my bike. I had to—the woman . . . Sidney? She said you were going to win a contest. And it has a huge prize!”
If I weren’t already agitated, I would be. Use my kid to get to me? Tempt him with prizes? I grit my teeth and try to remain stern. I grab Luke’s shoulders and turn him to face me. “Did you hear what I said?”
His brown eyes look up to meet mine, and I immediately regret letting my irritation with Sidney get the better of me. “I’m sorry, Dad. I just wanted to get my bike so I could ride in the back, and she said you are going to win, and one of the prizes is a trip. A trip! We’ve never been on a trip . . . and I shouldn’t have talked to strangers.”
Guilt. The one constant of parenthood weighs heavily on me as I pull Luke into my arms and hold tight to him. “You’re my everything, bud. I just want you to be safe.” I nuzzle my nose in that spot beneath his neck where he smells like little boy and sweat and makes every regrettable decision I’ve ever made seem just perfect because they all led to having him.
He indulges me with the bear hug a little longer than normal because he knows he’s in trouble, but even then, eight-year-old boys only let hugs last so long before they wiggle out of them. When he does, his eyes look up to mine and widen.
“You’re a finalist in a contest, Dad!” His excitement lights up his face. “How cool is that?”
“I didn’t enter any contest, though.”
“But Miss Sidney said that you did, and out of hundreds of people, you are one of the top twenty. How cool is that?”
I attempt to ignore the twinge of annoyance over Luke knowing her name. I try to pretend that I’m not mad she just used my son to get to me. But the best I can do is keep it out of my expression.
“And she said she knew you in high school. Is it true? She’s awfully pretty. Like, wife pretty. Maybe you should ask her out on a date—”
“Whoa, tiger!” I put my hands up in surrender and laugh despite his desire for a mother breaking my heart in two.
Again . . . guilt.
“Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“Did you know her in high school?”
I think back to our brief interaction back then. To how I was definitely not a part of her crowd, nor did I want to be after how I watched them treat people.
“Vaguely.”
“What does vaguely mean?”
“It means I barely knew her.”
“Oh.”
“Is the other part true?”
“Which part is that?” I ask as I turn back to his Star Wars lunch box and reevaluate what I’ve put in there so far for the trashcan ratio—what he will actually eat and what he will throw away so I will think he ate it.
“The pretty part.”
I clear my throat. I can’t deny those high-school angles she had have developed into grown-woman curves. “She’s pretty.” Gorgeous.
“So, should we ask her out on a date?”
“We?” I laugh and turn around, grab him, and flip him upside down. Anything to clear the thoughts I can already see him forming in his head. No way, no how will Sidney Thorton and I become an item.
She’s too much like his mother.
The thought stumbles into my mind and sticks there knowing I’d never take the risk of him being hurt again. “No. I’m not asking her out. I don’t even know why she was here since she doesn’t live in Sunnyville anymore.”
“I told you why she was here, and she is living here,” he says as I set him on his feet, only for him to flop onto his back in the middle of the kitchen floor so he can look up at me. “You are going to win a contest. You were—”
“Son of a bitch.” I smack the counter as realization dawns on me. Within seconds, I have my cell to my ear and am calling my brother.
“Some of us work for a living. Maybe you should try it,” he answers.
“Grady,” I sneer. It makes both perfect sense and no sense all at the same time.
“That’s my name, pushing your buttons is my game.”
“You didn’t happen to enter me in any contests, did you?” I think back to a few months ago, to him and my older brother Grant snickering. Their comments about how they were going to get me pussy for miles.
He snorts as he fights back a laugh. “Now, why would we do that?”
We. Not I.
Goddammit.
“He’s a finalist!” Luke yells and then shrieks as I swat playfully at him.
“A finalist, huh?” Grady sounds so damn proud of himself, and I’m not amused in the least.
“What did you do, Grady?”
More laughter. Then he clears his throat. “There was this hot dad contest.”
“Christ.”
“We thought you fit the bill—”
“This isn’t funny, Grady—”
“Hot dads are in demand to service hot moms, and we figured, what better way to find you a hot mom?”
“I get plenty of service, thank you,” I say as Luke eyes me from his spot on the floor, ears tuned in to try to make sense of this contest that Sidney got him all fired up about.
“No, you don’t. You get to cherry pick your pies when you’re hungry. Quiet pieces of pie so as not to upset Luke and let him hope your just-for-the-time-being is going to be his mom . . . but you never really have someone to share shit with. So . . . fucking sue us if you want, but Grant and I entered you into the contest.”
“I don’t need a contest to get—er, serviced.” I glance at Luke and then turn my back to him as if he won’t be able to hear me.
“No one said you did. But it sure as hell isn’t going to hurt.” He chuckles, and there’s chatter from the scanner he leaves on in the background. “Plus, there are prizes.”
“I don’t need any prizes.”
“Money. A trip. Other shit.”
“I don’t need any money. Or a trip. Or other shit.” Luke groans behind me.
“Ha. We all need money; it makes the world go ’round, brother.” I can hear his smile through the line. “Besides, you could use the distraction while you’re grounded.”
“I’m going to hang up now.”
“No, you aren’t because you’re a finalist and you know your ego secretly loves that you’ve still got it in the looks department.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. “You’re an ass.”
“And you’re a hot dad, or so the voters think.”
“I’m really hanging up now.”
He says something else, but I’m already ending the call before I can hear it all.
Well . . . shit.
Bracing my hands against the kitchen counter, I look out the window to the hills beyond. To the greens and the browns nestled around this city I was born and raised in and really have no desire to leave.
There’s no way I’m doing this.
Not a chance in hell.
“Dad, what does ‘getting serviced’ mean?”
Christ. And the beat goes on.
“It means when you go to the car place and you get your oil changed.”
“You mean that dipstick thing?”
“Yes, and right now, that dipstick is Uncle Grady.”
“The wall isn’t going anywhere, you know, in case you’re trying to move it telekinetically.”
I look over to Rissa through our communal office space near the back of the building and level her with a glare. Her dark hair is pulled back in a perfect chignon, her flawless skin is the prettiest shade of caramel, and those eyes of hers are sharp and unforgiving.
“You never know until you try, right?”
She lifts her brows and shrugs absently as she tries hard not to let her resentment surface.
She thinks I want her job.
No worries there, Rissa. Modern is one thing I like. Family is not.
“So, d
o we need to go over your task list again?” she asks with that motherly tone that insinuates if she doesn’t remind me, I’m too careless to remember.
“You mean the one I completed last night? That list?” She stares at me for a beat, trying to gauge whether I’m telling the truth while my eyes silently warn her to back off. “I appreciate your concern, as always, but I’ve been here, . . . what, five weeks? And almost nine in total working on this project? In that time, I haven’t dropped the ball once. I’ve completed every task you’ve put in front of me—no matter how big or how small or even if it is something completely different from what I’ve been sent here to do. If you’ve been testing me to prove my worth, I think I have. If you think I’m here to take your job, I’m not. And if my father has charged you with reporting back to him whether I’m being hands-on or not, then I can’t see how you could tell him otherwise. Maybe we should have cleared the air earlier. Maybe not. But can we just drop this petty bullshit and just focus on what we’re supposed to be doing, so both our lives are easier?”
Our eyes hold, her expression a mixture of stoicism, not wanting to give a reaction, and irritation at being called out. “Nine weeks is a blip on the radar in the scheme of things, Sidney. While you may have succeeded thus far, you still have a lot to learn. And I don’t care what your last name is, I care what you can produce, and right now, you’re sitting on a job only a quarter of the way finished. You’ve yet to hit any snafus, so in my eyes, you still have to prove your worth to me and everyone in this office. Understood?”
I nod out of reflex, the scolding sounding like practiced motherly perfection, while inside I want to scream that I’ve already proven myself.
If there’s a reason she runs this place, she just demonstrated it.
“I can handle anything that comes my way.”
She gives a measured dip of her chin. “Good to hear.”
I take a deep breath. “Any luck with your finalists?” I ask, trying to calm the waters as my mind falls back to my one thought all afternoon: Grayson Malone. I can already see the pictures I’ll have taken of him. The staging. The exploitation. Flight suit unzipped, aviator sunglasses over his eyes. Then some with the glasses off so readers can see how crystal clear those eyes of his are.
