Saved by the Single Dad (The Single Dads of Seattle Book 3)

by Whitley Cox

  He held up his hands. “Okay. I do. No dates. No wooing.”

  Her eyes softened slightly, and she gave him one curt nod. “Thank you.”

  “I came here to talk to you about something else though … too.”

  Her head cocked slightly to the side, and her eyes squinted in curiosity. “Which is?”

  He grabbed the big manila envelope out from under his arm and thrust it toward her. He didn’t step forward, though. He didn’t want to invade her space. If she wanted it, she would have to close the gap between them. “I know you said you didn’t want to see any photographs of yourself, but, well … I think you need to see this one.”

  More curiosity flooded her face. Hesitantly, she took a few steps toward him and reached for the envelope, making sure not to let their hands touch. With careful movements, but not retreating back toward her car, she opened the envelope. She pulled out the single photo, which Mitch had color-corrected to black and white, and her hand flew to her mouth, covering her gasp.

  “You might not think you’re talented, but you are. I’ve never photographed anyone like you before, with so much expression and raw emotion on your face. You poured your entire soul into your performance on Saturday, and it showed. I don’t know what you were dancing about, what feelings and memories you were channeling, but I know they were painful ones.”

  Tears brimmed her eyes, and a sudden sob choked behind the hand that still covered her mouth. She still hadn’t looked up at him. The hand holding the photo began to shake.

  Mitch wanted desperately to go to her, not because he was attracted to her and wanted to get to know her, but because he could see she was hurting. He wanted to take away the pain.

  “Please don’t take this as anything more than the compliment it’s meant to be, but you are the model I have been searching for my entire career. I have photographed hundreds, if not thousands of people, and I’ve never met anyone like you. If you’d be willing, I would love to photograph you again.”

  Finally, she lifted her head. Her eyes, although full of tears, were fierce.

  He took a step back and held his hands up again in surrender. “Nothing sexual, I swear. You can wear whatever you want. Overalls, mechanic’s coveralls, a parka.”

  Her glare faded.

  “Just think about it, okay? I can pay you, if you’re wanting to make it more professional and keep it like a business transaction.”

  Her eyes left his and flitted back down to the photo. “How much did you have to Photoshop this?”

  He shook his head. “I blurred the background, lifted the glare from the sun off your cheek and brightened up the hue around your head a bit, but that was it. I didn’t touch you. I didn’t have to. You were perfect.”

  A sigh slipped past Paige’s lips, and her shoulders slumped. “Thank you for this and for the offer. It’s flattering, but I’m going to have to pass. I’m no model.”

  Curiosity got the better of him. “What do you do for work, if I may ask?”

  It was as if she’d stuck a giant pin out and popped the protective bubble that surrounded her. She dropped her shield. It was nothing tangible, but Mitch noticed her change in demeanor instantly. She was no longer afraid of him.

  “I’m the head pastry chef at Narcissus.”

  As if it had ears, his stomach rumbled.

  Mitch had a sweet tooth that was virtually insatiable. He probably had three bags of Jujubes in his car, all of them open so that they got good and stale and practically ripped out his teeth as he gave his jaw a good workout.

  He wasn’t sure how to respond, so all he did was nod and say, “Very cool.”

  “Cakes and confections are where I’m most comfortable. With a piping bag in my hand and flour on my cheeks. I don’t belong in front of the camera.”

  He could just imagine watching her in action. In her element, the images would be amazing with her hair tucked up in a chef’s hat, sweat on her brow and happiness in her eyes. He’d love to photograph her in her natural environment.

  But instead he simply nodded again. “Message received. But if you ever change your mind, please let me know. I could even take some family photos of you and Mira.”

  Something akin to intrigue crossed her face but then vanished just as quickly. “I’ll let you know.”

  Her eyes flicked up and focused on something behind him. Mitch spun around just as Violet stepped off the curb into the parking lot. She was next to him in seconds.

  Ah, reinforcements.

  “I hope my brother isn’t harassing you too much,” Vi said with a snicker.

  Mitch cringed from her choice of words.

  Thanks a lot, sis.

  Thankfully, Paige shook her head and smiled shyly. “Not at all. He just brought me this photo he took of me dancing on Saturday.”

  Violet smiled. “I saw that one. It’s incredible, isn’t it? You should be a model.”

  Paige snorted and averted her eyes. “Uh, not for me, thanks.”

  Violet shrugged and tucked her purse tighter under her arm. “Well, then just enjoy this photo. You should definitely frame it.”

  Paige’s eyes drifted back down to the photo. “Yeah, I might.”

  “I’m going to swing into the liquor store and grab a bottle of wine,” Violet announced, turning to Mitch. “You want me to pick you up some beer?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, San Camanez mixed summer pack, please.”

  His sister gave him a thumbs-up before heading off in the direction of her car, offering a friendly goodbye and wave to Paige.

  Paige slid the photograph back into the envelope, and Mitch took that as his cue to leave. “I should get going,” he said, drawing Paige’s attention away from the envelope. “Jayda went out for ice cream with a friend, but I’m sure she’s home by now, and it’s well past her bedtime.”

  Paige’s head bobbed in an absentminded nod, but she didn’t say anything.

  Fuck, this was awkward.

  Mitch exhaled and turned to go. “See you around.”

  “Thank you,” she called back, though it was more like a strained whisper. A whisper that prompted him to turn back around. “And I’m sorry, I’m just not a fan of being in front of a camera.”

  Mitch’s mouth dipped into a frown. “I’m sorry too.”

  4

  Thursday afternoon, Paige knocked gently on the office door. Her entire body had been one giant ball of nerves since the moment she woke up. A pit the size of a bowling ball rattled around in her stomach, and a tension headache that was slowly morphing into a migraine pulsed in her forehead.

  She waited for the “okay” from the person on the other side of the door.

  She knew Marcelle or Marcy or whatever the hell her name was was in. She’d pranced her Louis Vuitton everything (shoes, bag, scarf, dress, coat) through the kitchen not twenty minutes ago and ordered Paige to join her upstairs for a meeting when Paige was finished rolling out the pastry dough for her pie.

  Paige even heard the fluttering of papers beyond the door. Marcy was in there. She was deliberately keeping Paige waiting.

  The BITCH.

  Paige knocked again, this time harder, longer and louder. “Marcelle?” she called out.

  Still nothing.

  She knocked again. “Marcelle? It’s Paige. I’m here for our meeting.”

  Goddamn it, she hated what this woman was making her do. Tristan had an open-door policy. The staff could come to him with whatever they needed whenever they needed it. He told them that family didn’t knock and family didn’t shut each other out, so he always left his office door open.

  She was going to knock one more time, then if the bitch didn’t respond, she was heading back downstairs. She had a fucking job to do. She had things to bake.

  She lifted her fist and was about to go all Muhammed Ali on the door when it swung open.

  “Paige.” Marcelle’s smile was as fake as her hair color. Nobody was that white-blonde without the help of a colorist and a whole hell of a lot of
bleach. “You’re late.”

  Paige bit back the fury that frothed inside of her and reluctantly brought her fist down to her side. Oh, what she would have given to be able to go all Muhammed Ali on Marcy’s stupid face.

  But instead, she apologized.

  What the actual fuck?

  “Sorry, Marcelle. I had to finish up the pie before the dough warmed up. The dough was all rolled out, and you know what it’s like trying to work with warm dough.”

  Marcelle clickety-clacked her heels back to behind her desk and stared down her hella-plastic-surgeried nose at Paige. “No, actually, I don’t.”

  Paige walked into the office and took a seat in the chair that faced Marcelle. “You need the dough to be cold, to keep the butter from melting. You want the lumps of fat in the dough because that’s what creates the—”

  Marcelle held up a hand that still had on those shiny, pointy black fake nails. “Nor do I care.”

  Paige’s gaze fell to her lap. “Sorry.”

  “Moving on. I’d like to discuss your schedule.”

  Paige lifted her head. “What about it?”

  The other woman lifted a shoulder and looked at Paige as if she’d just asked the dumbest question in the world. “It’s only three days a week and seven hours a day.”

  “Yes, that’s what works.”

  “For whom?”

  “For me. For the kitchen.”

  Marcy’s eyes grew hard, so much so Paige felt herself move back in her seat. “Well it doesn’t work for me. Effective immediately, you will be working forty hours a week. Three mornings, two evenings. Your schedule is set by me and it is non-negotiable or flexible. These are the days and hours we need you here.”

  Paige went to open her mouth, but Marcelle apparently wasn’t finished.

  “I see here you had a significant amount of time off last year. Why?”

  “Personal reasons. Medical.” Tristan and the rest of the kitchen staff knew why, but they were family. They supported her. They understood. Marcelle was not family. She was the enemy and had zero right to know anything about Paige. None.

  She could tell Marcy was itching to demand Paige disclose more, but she also knew better than to pry.

  “I also see here you have requested more time off, though it says the dates are not concrete. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

  Paige’s mouth dropped open. “I, uh … I have an upcoming surgery, but I’m still working with the insurance company, so we don’t have a set date yet.”

  Intrigue glimmered in Marcy’s icy-blue eyes. She leaned over her desk. “Getting some work done, are we?” She tapped her nose. “Probably for the best.”

  Paige’s eyes went wide, and she reared back. “Uh, no.”

  Marcy sat back again. “Well, I can’t just fill your position if you decide to spring your surgery on me. That’s not very professional. Get a concrete date, and then I’ll see what I can do. But I’m not making any promises. If I start making concessions for you, everyone will want special treatment.”

  How was she supposed to do that? How was she supposed to get concrete dates from the hospital? She was pretty sure Seattle Memorial was not at all concerned with how their operating room schedule affected the schedule at Narcissus. Marcy was out of her goddamn mind.

  Paige had been to see the surgeon, after her doctor had sent off the referral, but her doctor wanted to see her one more time before they gave the okay for her to get her tubal ligation. Since it was the summer, everyone was taking vacations, so Paige wasn’t going in to see her doctor for another couple of months. It would be ages before she had a concrete date. She’d just wanted to be nice and let Tristan know she might need to take more time off later in the year. He’d been totally cool with it and must have made a note in his binder so he wouldn’t forget and book her for any big catering gigs while she was in recovery.

  However, it wasn’t like she was having a ton of sex either, so the risk of getting pregnant again was pretty nil. Still, she wanted to get a jump on things. Nip the potential for pregnancy in the bud so it was one less thing she had to worry about.

  Marcy tapped her nails on the schedule book in front of her. “Now, I’ll need you to work Tuesday through Saturday. You can work Tuesday and Wednesday nights.” She lifted her head, waiting for Paige to accept.

  Paige shook her head. “I can’t do Wednesday nights. I’m sorry. I could do Wednesday day, but I have a class on Wednesday nights.”

  “Class?”

  Paige shook her head. “It’s just a thing. I’ve registered for it, paid for it, so I can’t miss it.”

  Marcy made a face that said she wasn’t used to being challenged, wasn’t used to being told no. It was the same face she walked around high school with for four fucking years. “What is it?” she snapped. “I won’t give you the night off unless you tell me what it is. I already told you this schedule wasn’t negotiable.”

  Paige exhaled. “It’s a dance class. My daughter started dancing at the studio, raved about how great the instructor was. I saw that they offered an adult class on Wednesday evenings, so I joined. Just something for me, you know?”

  Marcy’s lip twitched. “Why are you dancing? It’s not like you did it in high school.” A smug look fell across her overly tanned face.

  That’s right. Paige had tried out for not only the dance team but also the cheerleading squad and had been told by Marcy that she wasn’t good enough. And all her lackeys and minions followed in her taunting. Marcy was the boss of everyone, apparently, including the seniors. Marcy was God.

  Paige wasn’t sure how she’d earned her deity status, but the girl ruled the school. Even the teachers seemed to bow to her. Could’ve been because her father was a wealthy politician in the city, carried a lot of clout and was a major contributor to the school. Either way, Marcy Thibodeaux had ruled both Villa Academy and Lakeside with her manicured, spray-tanned fist.

  And God help anyone who challenged her.

  “Hmmm, little Paigey McFatson. Why are you dancing?

  Paigey McFatson.

  Paige’s gut twisted. Her heart clenched, and frustration shot heated tears to her eyes. She blinked them back, determined not to let Marcy see how much her words still affected Paige.

  How was one person able to make her feel so small and so insecure all over again? She was thirty years old. She was a professional chef. She’d been through enough heartache in her life to make anyone go stir-crazy. She was past all the high school drama. Past the insecurities and shyness. Past the feelings of not being good enough. Wasn’t she? Compared with the shit she’d been through in the last few years, the garbage that Marcy put her through in school was small potatoes. Small potatoes she was incapable of forgetting, apparently.

  “I’m dancing because I want to,” she said quietly. “Because it makes me feel good. It’s something just for me.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Hmmm?

  She didn’t owe Marcy an explanation, so why did she give her one? Now it was just more ammo the woman had against her. More slings and arrows in her quiver of complete and utter bitchiness.

  A diabolical smile spread across her mouth. Her teeth, obvious veneers, were too straight, too big and too white to be real. “All right then. You can work Wednesday day. Tuesday and Thursday nights then. Does that work for you?”

  “I … I don’t know if I’m ready to work forty hours again.”

  Marcy huffed impatiently. “Wow, it’s just take, take, take with you, isn’t it? What the fuck’s your problem now?”

  Paige clenched her molars together until a dull but satisfying ache pulsed in her jaw. “Nothing,” she finally said, releasing a long breath. “Thank you for letting me have Wednesday evenings off. I will start working forty hours if that’s what you need.”

  A lazy, triumphant smile coasted across Marcy’s lips. She knew she’d won. She’d browbeaten Paige, belittled her, name-called her until she caved.

  Mean girl Marcy, the bully of L
akeview, was back, and she was apparently out for blood.

  Mitch pulled open the heavy wooden door of the restaurant. It was almost four o’clock, so not quite the dinner hour yet. He hoped things would be quiet and he would get a chance to speak with Paige before all hell broke loose for dinner.

  “Table for one?” the perky little blonde hostess asked, grabbing a menu from the box behind her.

  “Sure. And while you’re at it, might I speak with the head pastry chef, please? Is Paige in today?”

  Her lips twisted in thought. “I believe so. But I’ll double check. Right this way, sir.”

  He followed her deeper into the restaurant, which probably only hosted a dozen or so patrons, most of them well over sixty years old, enjoying the early-bird dinner when it was quiet and peaceful.

  There was certainly something to be said for dining like a senior. Less noise.

  “Here we are.” She placed the menu down on the table built for two. “I’ll run to the back and see if Paige is available.”

  He thanked her, then opened the menu, flipping to the back that listed the desserts. His mouth immediately began to salivate.

  Roughly two minutes later, he heard the thump thump of double kitchen doors swinging open, followed by the soft footsteps of who he hoped was Paige. He was anticipating anger on her face when she saw him, but instead he got something else. Something much worse.

  Mitch was up and out of his seat before he knew what was going on, his arm around her. “What’s wrong?

  She shook her head and murmured, “Not here.”

  “My car is out front,” he offered.

  She nodded, allowing him to usher her out of the restaurant. Both of them ignored the questioning looks from both patrons and staff.

  It wasn’t until they were safely inside his car that he spoke again. “Paige, what happened?”

  Her whole body shook, and more tears fell. She was trying to speak, but every time she opened her mouth, she choked or hiccupped and just ended up crying more. He did the only thing he could think of. He reached across the center console and pulled her into his lap. Then, because it was a tight squeeze, he pushed the seat all the way back to accommodate both their frames. He held her tight against him and absorbed her sobs. Absorbed whatever pain was inside her, whatever was making her cry like he’d never seen anyone cry before.