by Kim Karr
“To Fiona’s benefit, she didn’t know until this morning when I walked in the door to take Max to preschool.”
“You dropped him off?” For some reason I just thought Ethan and Fiona had dropped him off before heading to the airport.”
“Promptly at eleven. Like I said, I’m here to help.”
With my arms still crossed, I keep them there, knowing for some reason my nipples are protruding under the cashmere of my sweater. “This situation still sucks,” I mutter.
Nick bends down to kiss Max’s little toes, and my heart does the oddest pitter-patter, and then he averts those very blue eyes my way and that pitter-patter speeds up. “Are you worried?” he asks.
Both of Max’s feet are bare now, and he jolts up like a jack-in-the-box. Nick follows, and the sight of his long, muscled limbs, and smooth sun-burnished skin curls my fingers, even inside the leather of my gloves. “No, I’m not worried,” I say, pulling my gloves off and then turning to head toward the kitchen to prepare Max’s dinner. “It’s not like I think you’ll do anything to me, besides I know self-defense moves.”
Nick’s laugh is loud. Almost obnoxious. It takes everything I have not to whirl around and scream, “You really are a jerk.” And it’s a good thing I didn’t scream those words because when I turn around, I find myself laughing equally as hard.
He wasn’t laughing at me.
Max has pulled his own long sleeve shirt right over his head. And is pointing to Nick’s very bare chest, to the ridges of his ribs, to the muscle that defines his abdomen, and then to his own pudgy little belly.
This is obviously a thing between the two of them.
Copycat.
Admittedly, it’s rather cute.
Once the laughter finally comes to an end, and Max is proudly hiccupping and kicking a little soccer ball that Nick has pulled out of his bag, Nick strides into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, and grabs a beer. “Want one?” he offers with his obviously very strong back to me.
Turning the stove on to warm the small containers of chicken, applesauce, and peas I had already pulled from the freezer, I stare at them. Fiona had pre-made the food, either knowing I’m not that great of a cook, or worried I wouldn’t feed him the organic items she insists on. Looking away from the food, I turn my head in Nick’s direction and answer with a, “No thank you, I prefer wine.”
Surprising me, he doesn’t make a smartass remark, instead he pulls a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the refrigerator and sets it on the counter. After reaching for a glass, he pours the wine and hands it to me. “By the way, I wasn’t asking if you were worried because I thought you were concerned about what I might do to you. I was asking because I thought you might be worried about what you might want to do to me,” he snickers.
I narrow my stare at him and mouth, “Jerk.”
Nick just shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, sets the bottle down, and then walks over and grabs his duffle in one hand, and a still hiccupping Max in the other. As he heads up the stairs, he tosses over his shoulder, “I’ll give him a quick bath while you get his dinner ready . . . if you don’t mind that is.”
“That’s fine,” I concede.
“Oh, and Tess,” he says, “Ethan mentioned you aren’t much of a cook.”
My stare narrows to small slits in my eyes.
“So,” he goes on before I can address the comment, “since you were picking Max up, I stopped and got us Chinese for dinner. It’s in the warming drawer. Hope you like it.”
Just before popping the small containers of Max’s food into the steaming water, I call out, “Nick.”
This time he looks over his shoulder.
“Thank you.”
He gestures with that nod that is really starting to infuriate me, and then says, “After we get Max to bed, I thought we could make a schedule for his care.”
He’s such a contradiction that it is now my turn to nod, because really, I am at a complete loss for words.
“See, having me around might not suck after all. In fact, you might even like it.”
At that, I roll my eyes.
Famous last words.
Nick Carrington
PEOPLE THINK THEY know you by what they observe, read, and hear.
Judgment is easily placed.
A native magazine insists I’m the city’s most eligible bachelor, and suddenly women are dying to date me.
Not necessarily a bad thing.
Word spreads on the street that I’m successful because I got lucky, and because of this false rumor my competition neglects to take my emergence seriously.
Again, not necessarily a bad thing.
Tess is no different. She thinks she knows me. That I only care about myself. That I believe the world revolves around me. That I’m a jerk.
And for the last three and a half years I’ve let her believe that. Never bothered to correct her because honestly . . . I just didn’t give a big enough shit.
Sure, she is smoking hot.
And yes she is funny, smart, and dare I say witty. And if that isn’t almost a perfect match to my bullshit, then I don’t know what is.
But she is also judgmental.
And up until yesterday, I never cared that she saw me as nothing more than an irresponsible playboy. Yet the simple fact that she was appalled she had to co-babysit Max with me, that she was skeptical that I could even take care of him, now that pissed me off.
Who is she to judge me in that way?
And seriously, why am I actually giving a shit now? Because what she sees, what she believes to be true, isn’t who I really am?
I’m not a playboy. Not by the true definition. Or at least I don’t see myself that way.
I don’t have a different woman in my bed every morning and every night. I’m happy with their bed once or twice during the week, but as soon as they start wanting more, it’s time to move on.
I might not be a playboy, but shit, I am a hot-blooded man who likes women.
As in plural.
Not multiples, not together, don’t get me wrong.
Just not any single one for too long.
It isn’t that I don’t care about them . . . it’s just I prefer not to get attached.
Hence the many that have been in my life.
Let’s be real . . . attachments to women only bring heartache. I saw what happened to my old man firsthand when my mother left us to go back to her previous life—left me, my father, and my baby brother. He was a broken man. Sure, he did the best he could to raise his two boys, but he was never the same after she left. He was somehow absent even when he was around. Then again, he was always tired. And I got it. He worked two construction jobs to support us.
When I was younger I helped raise Lucas. When I was old enough, I helped my old man on job sites, and helped raise Lucas. Even after I left for college, I still helped raise Lucas by coming home on weekends.
Things were tough back then.
I was an eleven-year-old raising a one-year-old.
A twelve-year-old raising a two-year-old.
A fifteen-year-old raising a five-year-old.
You get the picture.
I had no childhood so to speak of.
Sing me a song.
Feel sorry for me.
Fuck that.
That’s bullshit.
I did what had to be done.
Besides, the past is just that, the past. Everyone gets over it. My father retired two years ago and now lives in sunny Florida where he scouts property for me. He’s happy, and as far as I know, never gives my mother a second thought.
Lucas, on the other hand, is a sophomore in college at Notre Dame. He’s the quarterback for their football team, and has way too many women on speed dial. Then again, he, like me, has mommy issues. And I guess, he, not unlike me at his age, thinks he’s hot stuff.
But who am I to say anything, especially since he is content, for now, anyway. He lives with me when he’s not attending college, and wants to move far away
from where we grew up after he graduates.
Sometimes bad turns to good.
And sometimes good turns to shit.
You just never know.
The only thing you can count on is that everything changes. Apparently, even my attitude, because I’m trying to justify myself to myself.
What the fuck?
Moving past the bullshit in my head, I open my email and compose a quick message to my buddy Ethan.
* * *
To: Ethan Miller
From: Nick Carrington
Subject: You Suck
Nice one man. Next time how about a heads up before you send me into the lion’s den? By the way, Max is fine, and you suck.
* * *
After hitting send, I read a few incoming work emails.
Unable to concentrate for long, I minimize the window and stare at my computer screen. It’s two in the afternoon, and on any normal day I would have slayed a few dragons and climbed a couple of mountains by now. Instead, I’m sitting here twiddling my thumbs, unable to get my head in the game.
Just then my intercom buzzes. It’s my assistant and she’s probably going to ask me if I’ve signed the contracts Ethan sent over before he left yesterday for the Miami land deal. The ones that are on my desk and I’ve only glanced at. Fuck. “Yes, Carrie?” I answer.
“Mr. Carrington, I hate to bother you, but do you have those contracts signed yet? I’d like to send them out and then, if you don’t mind, I was hoping I could leave early. The school called and my daughter has a fever.”
Swiveling in my chair, I look through the glass at the snow falling down and notice Jackson Boulevard is covered with it. “I’m still reviewing the contracts, but go ahead and leave. I’ll finish reviewing them this afternoon and you can send them back to Mr. Miller’s office first thing in the morning.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
I turn back in my chair. “Yes, I’m sure. It’s really not a problem.”
“Thank you,” she says.
“No need to thank me, Carrie. Now go.”
Carrington Development is a small business located on the tenth floor of a large office complex in Printer’s Row. It consists of me—the CEO, Carrie—my assistant, two field scouts—Hayden and Ash, and their assistants—Natasha and Tammy. It’s small, and I like it that way. Family-like. Hayden has a new baby with his girlfriend, Allie. Ash is single, so he and I often grab a beer after work. Natasha and Tammy are both married. Like I said, the operation is small and I like it that way.
The truth is, I made my first million right out of the gate because I understood Chicago, not because of my size, or because I got lucky. I knew Printer’s Row would be ripe for retail and restaurant expansion as soon as the area south of Magnificent Mile and River North became too oversaturated. So I bought and bought and bought, and waited. And boom . . . the area blew up like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. That was eight years ago, and I haven’t stopped doing what I do—scouting, buying, developing, and waiting.
Sifting through the pages on my desk, I read Ethan’s notes first. He’s worried the price is too steep for me and will put my other business deals at risk due to low cash flow if the deal takes too long to go through. “Risk, buddy,” I write. “It’s the name of the game.”
Then I spend the next couple of hours reviewing the bid, the terms, the contingencies. This is for a very large parcel of vacant land outside the Miami city limits. Right now the area is desolate. I want to develop it. Homes, condos, and restaurants.
Why?
Because that is what developers do.
What I do.
I buy land, finance real estate deals, build or have builders build projects, lease out buildings I own, create, imagine, control, and orchestrate the process of development from the beginning to the end. I take the risk—and receive the reward.
And that is who I am.
Not a playboy, but a businessman who works hard and plays hard.
There my mind goes again—right back to Tess and what she thinks of me.
Without overthinking it, I grab for my cell phone and hit Tess’s number. We’d done the number exchange gig last night. And yes, I made sure she knew it wasn’t for sexting.
Shit, I really am a jerk sometimes.
Today is her day with Max. Mine is tomorrow. Splitting the weekend into shifts seemed like the best way to handle the time. We haven’t planned next week yet. That might have been pushing the amicability between the two of us a little too far. After agreeing on the schedule, we both went to our rooms by nine. Separately, of course. I did suggest we bunk together. She flipped me off.
In the end, Tess took the master bedroom, and I took the upstairs spare, as was agreed upon. Again, there were surprisingly no issues there, although I think she would have preferred I had agreed to take the couch in the basement.
“Hello,” she answers. Her voice is low, almost sultry, and the sound makes my cock pulse.
What the hell?
Ignoring what’s happening below my waist, I hit the speaker button and lean back in my chair. “Hey, it’s me. I just wanted to check on you and Max.”
“Hang on,” she whispers.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Okay, sorry. Max and I were watching television and we both fell asleep,” she laughs.
“You let him fall asleep on the couch?” I ask in mock horror. “At four o’clock in the afternoon?” I add a little louder.
“I know, right? It’s so against the parenting rules. Promise me you won’t tell Fi, but he wouldn’t take a nap, so I didn’t make him, and then about ten minutes ago he conked out.”
“What do I get if I keep quiet?”
Shit, am I flirting with her?
“Depends on how good you are.”
Shit, is she flirting back?
“Oh, I can be very good,” I reassure her.
She laughs. “Then I’ll save the gold stickers for you, big boy.”
Okay, not flirting, but pulling my chain.
“But I really like the silver ones,” I tease like an adolescent, then change topics. “Anyway, I’ll be headed that way in about an hour. What do you feel like eating for dinner? I can pick it up on my way.”
It was time to change gears.
“You mean I get to pick something, and you’ll get what I ask for?”
Picking up my pen, I sign the contract. “Yes, Tess. That is what I said.”
“Oh, it’s just that at Fiona and Ethan’s engagement party when you asked me if I wanted a drink and I said yes, I’d have a glass of champagne, you brought me a bottle of beer.”
I slip the contract in the envelope. “Tess, what do you want for dinner?”
She ignores my question. “Nick, do you remember that?” she taunts, not leaving well enough alone.
“I do, Tess, and just so you know, the beer was for me, the bartender was uncorking a new bottle of champagne just for you. But before I could tell you that, Andy showed up to whisk you onto the dance floor, and well, let’s just say I drank the entire bottle of 2006 Dom Perignon all by myself.”
She’s silent for a few moments and doesn’t even correct me about her Frenchman’s name. “You bought a $200 bottle of champagne for me?”
“Yes, I did.”
“But we’d just met.”
“And you were my best friend’s fiancé’s best friend. What can I say, I wanted to make a good impression.”
“That was really sweet.”
Sweet?
Sweet!
Is that pity I hear?
Fuck that.
I’ll give it to her straight. “No, trust me, sweet wasn’t my intention. The truth is you looked hotter than fuck in that little black dress and I really wanted to get into your panties, before I knew you were attached that is. Obviously, Ethan tends to leave pertinent information off the table.”
She’s quiet for a beat. “You know, Nick, can you ever leave well enough alone? Do you always have to assure that you come out lo
oking like a total asshole?”
I flinch. “That’s what I do best, baby.”
“You’re such a jerk. Thanks for reminding me of that. I’d be happy with any pasta dish, no meat, if you can manage it without having to stop and get your dick wet.”
“Classy Tess, don’t kiss Max with that mouth.”
“Ugggghhhhh,” she sighs and then the line goes dead.
Shit, if that was me trying to show her there’s more to me than what she sees, I think I need to stop trying so hard.
Or maybe all together.
Nick
THERE ARE MANY perks to running your own company. Making your own hours, being your own boss, and not being accountable to anyone. Yet right now the fact that I have my own personal gym beside my office is the only one that matters.
I’m sweating and biting back grunts as I run like hell, trying to escape my own destructive self. She’s not wrong. Why didn’t I just leave well enough alone?
When I first met her, I was trying to impress her, and not only because I wanted in her pants. But also because I was attracted to her personality and for some strange reason wanted to get to know her.
I run faster.
Faster still.
Really, what the hell was wrong with me back then?
What was I thinking?
She’s a little too uptight.
Bitchy even.
Judgmental.
Complicated.
Not at all the type of woman I like to fuck.
Out of breath, I start to slow my pace.
Why am I still thinking about her?
The treadmill beeps three point five miles in twenty-four minutes, my fastest time in years. Lifting my shirt, I pat my face and then gulp my water.
I know why—there’s something about her.
A reason I’ve gone out of my way to get her attention every time we’ve been in the same room.
What that reason is, I don’t even want to spend the time considering. It can’t end well for her, or me. Especially me, because even after hitting the punching bag and then running my ass off, trying to figure this out has only left me rock hard.
