My hand itches to slap him but I hold it tightly to my side. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. King. I was about to get started in the kitchen.”
I don’t wait for him to respond before turning on my heel and storming back into the kitchen. The nerve of that man. I rip open the flour and start prepping to make apple fritters in jerky, fast movements. I spin to grab the Crisco and accidentally knock the entire bag of flour on the ground, which puffs up in a cloud of white that immediately settles on all the appliances, counters, and cabinets. I sink down to my knees and do my best silent rendition of Charlton Heston’s “you maniacs!” line--the part where he sees the statue of liberty on the beach and the truth hits him. It’s my go-to anger release when I do something stupid.
I’m pounding my fist on the flour-caked ground and mouthing, “You blew it all to hell” when a voice startles me.
“Planet of the Apes?” asks Mr. King, who’s leaning against the pantry and watching me in amusement.
I freeze, fist half-raised and eyes wide as I look up at him. I must look like the craziest, most immature woman in the world right now, and I’m just glad there’s so much flour on me that he can’t see me blush. “It was a mistake.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “They never should’ve given the apes so much power.”
A surprised laugh slips out of me.
Mr. King grins. “Want some help?”
“You don’t have to. You’ll get your suit all--”
He pulls a broom and dustpan from the pantry and starts sweeping up the flour, not seeming to care that it’s floating up and settling in his expensive clothes. I lose myself watching him for a moment. In the grocery store I was so startled I hardly had time to register a thought any deeper than “mmm, sexy man. Would bang. Ten out of ten.” Now I have time to take in his features and his build, from the powerful cheek bones, the thick eyelashes, and his perfectly defined jaw-line, not to mention his lean, athletic build.
His attractiveness goes deeper than physicality though. There’s an aura about the man, as if he’s some larger-than-life legend, ripped out of fantasy and thrust in front of me. I don’t know what he did to make his billions, but looking at him now, it’s clear that he commands men and women. He can rule with an iron fist or a charming smile, and he’s equally proficient in both. Fire and ice. He has both. Liam King could be your worst enemy or your best friend. Every last bit of that is written in the expression on his face and the way he carries himself.
I’ve never seen a man more plainly and effortlessly powerful, and--
“You know, when I said I’d help, I kind of thought it’d be fifty-fifty,” says Mr. King.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, scooping flour into small piles with my hands, still on the ground and on my knees.
He laughs. “You want to borrow this?” he asks, handing me the broom.
“Y-yes. Thank you,” I say, wondering if I could even have embarrassed myself this badly and this fast on purpose. Probably not.
He wets a towel and starts clearing the flour from the countertops. “So, my offer still stands, you know.”
“Which one?” I ask.
“Well, I seem to remember you saying your boss was an asshole. I said fuck him,” Mr. King says, pausing and waiting for his full meaning to sink in. I’m just about to sputter out a response that’s equal parts nervous and embarrassed when he continues. “Then I said I’d take you out and show you around town.”
I clear my throat, keeping my eyes on the broom and flour I’m sweeping up. “I don’t know if that would be appropriate,” I say hesitantly.
He moves closer. I don’t see it, but I feel it. I feel him just inches from me and I’m too scared to look. Too scared of what seeing a man like him so close to me might do. I can smell his cologne. He even smells expensive, like what I always imagined those Ralph Lauren models riding horses would smell like. Manly, crisp, sexual.
“Given that I’m your boss. I’d say whether it’s appropriate or not is kind of my call, wouldn’t you?”
I deliberately keep my eyes down, finding it easier to talk sense without looking at him. “I need this job, Mr. King.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he says, suddenly cheery. He raps his knuckles on the counter twice and grins. “I’ll take you out sometime tomorrow. Once I’ve settled in.”
With that, he leaves the kitchen, and me, still in a complete tizzy. He didn’t really do much to help me clean, but I can’t really complain. At least he kind of tried, I guess. I sweep up and wipe down the rest of the mess in a mental haze of confusion. I may lack experience, but I’ve watched enough movies and read enough books to know where this goes. The sexy, billionaire boss has a thing for the woman who works under him. They get involved. There’s a big breakup, and the woman is never welcome in the house again.
The problem is I can’t risk that. It’s not just the money. It’s… I clutch the necklace at my throat and breathe out a long sigh, closing my eyes and whispering a silent prayer for strength. I can’t let myself get involved with Mr. King. No matter how much the thought of it gets my heartbeat pounding. No matter what. I’ll just go along with him for now. Just enough to keep him happy and to avoid being defiant, but I can’t let the small fire growing in my chest for him get out of control. I can’t afford to.
There may be other jobs, but there aren’t other Roxannes or other Sophies. I need them more than they need me, and if I do something selfish that jeopardizes that, I’ll never forgive myself.
Roxanne wheels into the kitchen when I’ve just finished cleaning. “What the hell, Aubrey?” she snaps. “No wonder your fritters always taste funky, you’ve been rolling the dough on the floor.” Her eyes wander around the kitchen. “And on top of the fridge, and inside the microwave…”
“Sorry, Roxanne,” I say, grabbing ingredients from the pantry. “Mr. King just got me a little out of sorts.”
Roxanne narrows her eyes, smiling crookedly. “It’s because he wants to jump your jammies.”
I nearly drop the can of Crisco and make a fresh mess. “Jump my--what?”
“He likes you,” says Roxanne. “I know my boy. He always picked on the girls he liked. It’s his way. Just don’t make it too easy for him. All the other women seem to roll over for Liam, but you’re not like them. You’re smarter,” she says, wheeling close enough to tap the side of my head. She lowers her voice to a barely audible whisper, so Sophie can’t hear as she wanders in the kitchen. “You can roll over for him, but make him work for it, if you catch my meaning.”
Unfortunately, I do catch her meaning, and wonder if I may be on the verge of discovering the cause of spontaneous combustion--when people just apparently explode in a whirlwind of fire and leave behind burn marks and ashes. I think a human being can only handle so much embarrassment in a short span of time, and if one more little thing pushes me over the edge, I might just burst into flames. It’d almost be a relief at this point.
Roxanne seems to think sleeping with a guy is no big deal to me, but the truth is I’m still a virgin. I know it’s pathetic to be twenty-four years old and still a virgin, but it wasn’t exactly a choice. I just always romanticized the idea of saving myself for the guy I knew I’d marry. I thought it’d be so clear. I’d see him and know it. I’d know it with the certainty of a thunderbolt.
But that guy never came along, and I kept holding that part of myself back, leading to a long line of bitter, angry ex-boyfriends in my past, the most recent of which made me swear off men for the foreseeable future.
“Smart?” asks Sophie thoughtfully as she wanders through the kitchen, dragging a finger along the counter tops. “You know, Aubrey. Your shirt is on inside out.”
I look down and nod, because why wouldn’t it be? Of course my shirt is on inside out and of course I spilled flour to make a perfect first impression with Mr. King. Because if I didn’t do things like that, I’d be a normal person, which I’ve unfortunately never been.
“Oh, by the way,” says Roxanne.
“I’d like a tiramisu from that little Italian place. I forget the name. You know what I’m talking about, right?”
“Yeah, Enzino’s, I think,” I say distractedly. “I can do that tomorrow night.”
Roxanne taps her chin. “As long as these fritters are better than the last batch.” She jabs a finger in my direction, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t think I won’t know if you try to skimp on the Crisco again, young lady. I’ll know.”
I smirk. “I know you will. I wouldn’t dare.”
45
Liam
There’s nothing quite like home. Rolling out of my own bed in the morning, using my own bathroom. It feels real fucking good. What feels even better is coming downstairs for breakfast and seeing Sophie sitting at the table. Every time I go away for business and come back, I tell myself it was the last time. I look at my daughter and wonder what kind of monster I must be to leave her for months at a time.
I tug on the back of her ponytail slightly and sit beside her. She looks up at me with way more seriousness than a girl her age should be able to muster.
“Daddy. You know when you pull on my ponytail like that, you’re making my hairline recede. Right?”
“No biggie,” I say, putting my fingers in her hair and pulling her scalp toward me a little. “Damage undone.”
She tries to hide her smile, but I see the corner of her mouth pull up. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Well,” I say, leaning back with a sigh. “I tried. But hey, you’ll be the most beautiful, prematurely balding fifth grader at school.”
“That’s just a myth,” says Aubrey. “Pulling on a ponytail won’t make your hairline recede.” She’s emerging from the kitchen with a plate of pancakes and bacon. She’s wearing clothes that are entirely too concealing for my tastes--another cardigan and an oversized shirt with dark jeans--but her light brown eyes demand all of my attention anyway. They flicker to me and then away, but in that moment she tells me so much. I know she’s interested, but for some reason she’s trying to convince herself she’s not. Well, tackling challenges has been my life’s work, and I’ll gladly tackle her… challenge.
“Fun police,” I mutter under my breath to Sophie, who giggles.
Aubrey sets the plate down a little too hard and turns to leave.
“You’re not going to eat with us?” I ask.
“I can’t yet. I have to bring Roxanne her food because she’s not allowed out of bed until after ten.”
A slow smile spreads across my face. “You believed her?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” asks Aubrey.
“Mom always tells the new caretakers that. She’s just lazy and wants breakfast in bed. Seriously, give it ten minutes and she’ll wheel herself out here.”
Aubrey frowns. “She made it up?”
“You’re surprised?” I ask, grabbing a strip of bacon and biting off a chunk.
Aubrey sinks into a chair. She stares off toward the patio like a soldier who has seen too much. I can practically see her replaying all the mornings she must have waited to eat her breakfast because she had to wheel a cart all the way to mom’s room at the other end of the house.
“I guess I shouldn’t be,” says Aubrey.
“Grandma is tricky,” agrees Sophie as she piles four pancakes onto her plate and empties half the jug of syrup over them. “But predictable,” she adds thoughtfully.
I quirk an eyebrow at Aubrey, who grins back at me. A split second later, she wipes the smile from her face and clears her throat, pushing her chair back and standing.
“Hey,” I say. “I should mention. My doctor says if my feet aren’t massaged by noon, it could cause a fatal problem with my circulation.”
“Bluff,” Sophie states without looking up from her plate.
I glare at her. “C’mon, Soph. You can’t backstab me like that.”
Sophie smiles in satisfaction. “Daddy. I like you, but Miss Aubrey is nice. I don’t want you to scare her off like the others.”
“Well,” I say, reeling back a little at that. “I wouldn’t say I’ve ever scared anyone off.”
Sophie gives me a dry look. “They all leave for some reason though, don’t they?” she asks with mock confusion. “Usually a couple days after you come back.”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” I ask.
“I’m on whoevers side keeps Miss Aubrey here,” she says before shoving half a pancake in her mouth and chewing contentedly.
I look to Aubrey, who looks as surprised as I do. “But two days ago you said you hoped a jellyfish wound up in my bathtub,” she says slowly.
“Yes,” agrees Sophie, not seeming to see any problem as she pours even more syrup over her pancakes.
I check my phone and am reminded of the voicemail. Fuck. I can’t put it off forever, as much as I might want to. I excuse myself and step outside, listening to the message.
I’m not surprised when I hear my ex-wife Julianne’s voice through the phone. “Liam,” she says in a clipped, businesslike tone. “We need to talk. It’s about Sophie. I think… I think I might be ready to be involved in her life again.” She sniffles. “Well, anyway. I’d love to meet you over dinner so we can talk it through. How about Enzino’s? Okay. Please call me back.” The phone clicks and the message ends.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. As much as I want to tell her to fuck off, I know how much it would mean to Sophie if Julianne made any show of affection toward her. It would mean the world to her, and I can’t deny her that just because her mom is a cold-hearted bitch. Every little girl needs a mom. Damn it. I just wish I could stand being in the same room with the woman for more than a minute.
Either way, I guess I’ll just have to grit my teeth and suffer through it for Sophie. I’d walk through fire for that kid, and I’d do it with a fucking smile on my face. Yet you won’t stop going away for business, whispers a small voice in my head. I clutch the phone tighter, glancing inside the house through the patio doors. Sophie is leaning forward, speaking quickly with no expression on her face to Aubrey. Aubrey is wearing an expression of abject horror and disgust, and I chuckle to see it.
Maybe this will really be the time I stay. Maybe...
I jab Julianne’s number into my phone, grimacing as I wait for the ringtone to go through, all the while locking my eyes on that kid of mine who constantly seems to make me do shit I don’t want to. Somehow I can’t begrudge her for it, though. I guess that’s love.
“Hello?”
“We can meet tonight. Enzino’s at seven.”
“Great. How are--”
I hang up the phone, feeling nothing. I’m past feeling anger or frustration with Julianne. All I feel when I talk to her is an absence. It’s like every feeling in my body shuts off and I go numb to her. Nothing she says or does can so much as touch me, which is probably for the best, because she has certainly made an effort in the years since I divorced her.
The patio door slides open and Aubrey steps out, pressing her back to the glass and staring out across the pool, eyes slightly wide. She jumps a little when she notices me standing there. “S-sorry,” she blurts, “I forgot you came out here, I’ll just--”
“Did Sophie get you with one of her stories?” I ask.
Aubrey pauses, hand at the door. She turns to me, nodding. “Yeah. I still haven’t gotten used to those.”
I chuckle. “Sophie has always been advanced for her age. She was reading books before preschool. Even before she could crawl, there was always this… wisdom in her eyes. It’s hard to explain, but--”
“No,” says Aubrey, nodding and relaxing a little. “I’ve seen it. I know what you mean. She was telling me about these female spiders that have sex with the males and then eat them when it’s over. She, um, described the eating part in great detail.”
I laugh. “Yeah. Don’t take it to heart. I think Sophie has just become really selective about who she’ll let in. Maybe all the crazy shit she does helps keep away people who wouldn’t care about h
er for the long run. Hell if I know,” I add, shaking my head.
Aubrey tilts her head slightly, smiling. “I think you’re right. You know your daughter well for someone who--” She opens her mouth and then snaps it closed, pressing her fingertips to her lips. “I don’t know what I was saying, I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
I force a smile and walk past her, heading inside. She was going to say I know my daughter pretty well for someone who’s never home. She’s not wrong, but hearing it from outside my own thoughts makes the truth sting all the more powerfully.
Enzino’s is crowded by the time I arrive. It’s a tablecloth and candles kind of place, complete with servers wearing button-down white shirts and black slacks or skirts. There’s a quiet murmur of conversation and the muted din of silverware against plates and glasses clinking. The hostess leads me to Julianne’s table, which is tucked into a corner of the restaurant.
It has been a few months since I’ve seen her, and though I can’t put my finger on it, I can tell she’s had more plastic surgery done. Her face looks unnaturally tight and her eyes are slanted upwards when they never were before. Her lips look fuller than I remember and her tits are definitely fake, but I had already seen all of that. Maybe her nose is different. Fuck if I know--or care. Most of the plastic surgery is subtle enough that I’m sure men fawn all over her, but I can see right through it.
I take my seat, nodding toward her. Julianne’s blonde hair is meticulously curled and bleached dry. She wears a business-formal kind of women’s suit and does this thing with her lips she took up after we divorced, like she’s pressing them together for a kiss, but trying to look thoughtful. To me it has always made her look like a confused fish, though.
“What did you want to talk about?” I ask.
She smiles, tilting her head and flashing two rows of perfectly white teeth. “Straight to business, Liam? Why don’t we order a drink first.”
“Let’s just cut to why I’m here. You said you wanted to be involved with Sophie again.”
Single Dad's Hostage: A Fake Marriage Romance Page 33
