Broken Daddy: A Single Dad & Nanny Romance

by Blake North

  I had remembered the folder with the contracts. I passed her one. “Please.” I found my pen in my pocket and handed it to her, slightly disappointed when her fingers were left out of reach. She took the pen and signed the document. She had flowing handwriting that made the letters look pretty.

  She looked up at me. “There.”

  “My turn.”

  I took the pen from her fingers and made sure, this time, that our fingertips met. It was stupid, but that mild, chaste touch raced down my nerves like a thousand volts. I felt a tightening in my groin as she looked at me with those big, wide eyes.

  I signed. It felt like a commitment.

  We looked at each other. She was blank-faced, with a peculiar solemnity about those big brown eyes.

  “Well, all done,” I laughed. “That’s it. Thanks,” I added.

  “Okay,” she said.

  That left us sitting opposite each other in an empty room, one ceiling-light sending filtered brightness down over us. I cleared my throat, feeling uncomfortable.

  “Okay,” I commented. “That’s that.”

  “Yes.”

  We laughed.

  “Whew!” I commented. “Now that’s over, I guess we have to decide what to do next.”

  “Yes.”

  An innocent comment, but in the circumstances, with her opposite me in that figure-hugging skirt—and she had an amazing figure—it had a big effect. I looked at that rosebud mouth, a trail of moisture on it from where she had licked her lips nervously.

  “Um,” I said, clearing my throat as blood rushed to unmentionable places. “Let’s go up to my office. That’s a quieter place. I need to explain the next bit without being overheard.”

  “Okay.”

  She followed me obediently out and I felt the burning need, yet again, to take advantage of her readiness to accede to my whims.

  Stop it, Beckett, I told myself. She isn’t for you.

  I had promised she wasn’t there to be taken advantage of, only to be there for appearance. She had signed the contract and I was not about to renege on that by breaking my word and her trust.

  I liked her and I didn’t want to hurt her.

  I reached my office and let us in, my heart thudding. I closed the door.

  “Right,” I said softly. “Take a seat.”

  She sat down.

  “Now,” I began. “What you have to do is this. You need to leave here, and at about two o’ clock, you need to drive to this address.” I handed her the paper. It was a downtown hotel. “You will be met by a driver, who will bring you to my home. You have your own suite there, I promise,” I added, seeing her expression change somewhat. “I have put about that I’m expecting a guest, so the stage is set for you. All you need to do is arrive.”

  “But…” she swallowed hard, looking worried. “How long will I be staying there?”

  “As long as it takes,” I said. “It could be up to a year.”

  “What?”

  She looked as if she was about to get shot. I felt a mix of sympathy and hurt. Was the prospect of staying near me so horrible?

  “I’m sorry,” I explained quickly. “But these deals could take that long and I need to maintain this image. If you really hate the idea now, we can forget it,” I added. I indicated the contract. “We can tear it up right now and forget all about it.”

  She licked dry lips. I looked at the desk.

  “Mr. Sand,” she said quietly. Beckett, I mentally corrected, but I didn’t say it. She was worried enough as it was and I didn’t want to add to her problems. “I have to tell you. I left the stage because of the pressure. Being in the spotlight was tough for me. The thought of, well, you know, putting myself out there, is scary. I’m not saying I don’t want to try. But please understand? I’m scared of this.”

  I looked into her face. It was tight with nerves, her eyes big and hesitant. I reached across and took her hand. Rested my hands on it, holding it gently. She looked into my eyes.

  It was a strange moment, touching and intimate. I fought the urge to kiss her. Instead, I swallowed hard. “I understand,” I said quietly.

  Because I did. I had been through the courts, losing my wife. Almost losing our child. I had faced the terror of everything I loved being torn apart by the media. I did understand why she was scared. It scared me too, sometimes.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I appreciate it. It’s really hard to face the fear,” she added, sniffing. “It brings it all back. And it’s good that someone understands.”

  I smiled at her. To my surprise, her big eyes swimming with tears. Without thinking, I reached for a tissue; dabbed at her face.

  “Don’t thank me,” I said. “Friends?”

  She smiled. It was splendid, like sun after rain. My heart relaxed and I laughed.

  “Yes,” she said. “We’re friends.”

  “Good.” That felt nice.

  We discussed the rest of the plans after that. I asked her not to bring anything with her. A handbag and a toothbrush and a nightie, fine. But any visible suitcases were a bad idea.

  She laughed. “It’s a bit difficult to imagine the wife of Mr. Sand arriving with her stuff in a suitcase from the thrift shop.”

  I laughed. “It is? Your stuff, in a thrift-shop suitcase, I mean.”

  “Yup,” she said, nodding.

  We both laughed.

  “Yes. Well,” I nodded. “Bring a toothbrush.”

  Her eyes danced. “Is it okay if it’s from Lidl?”

  I burst out laughing. “Yes. I didn’t even know they sold them! Do they?”

  She laughed. “They do. I’ll hide it.”

  “Discreetly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When she left, a moment later, I was left with a smile on my face. Having her in my home with her bright laugh and bare-faced frankness was going to be a pleasure. I just had to keep reminding myself we were just for show.

  The day wore on slowly after that. I had a Skype conference with the guys in Miami, and then had a few moments free before lunch with the board members. I was focusing on the city before me, struggling to relax, when my phone made a sound.

  Very few people had that number. There were two messages. The first was from my daughter, currently at college.

  See you next week, Dad. Can we go to Colorado? Hugs!

  I smiled. Estella could get anything out of me. We owned a farm in the hills near Boulder where she loved to take a rest after term ended. I didn’t recall saying we’d go now. I couldn’t. I had to be here to stage our drama—the wedding. It was scheduled for the day after she arrived home. I thought carefully a moment before sending my reply. Estella was prone to being easily-offended.

  See you soon, sweetheart. Can’t wait. Bigger hugs.

  There. I wouldn’t broach the farm issue. We’d talk about that when we met up. I was sure she’d see my point of view. Estella was a smart girl and very grown-up for her age. I relied a lot on her.

  The other message was from the couturier.

  Dress finished. Will deliver it this evening. Bellamy.

  I messaged back. Thanks.

  The dress was for Hayley to wear to the premiere of a show tonight. The show was at the legendary Pasadena Playhouse, a wildly publicized event and thus the perfect place to make my first appearance with my affianced.

  If Mrs. Douglas can guess sizes as accurately as she thinks, she’s up for a massive bonus this month.

  I could only hope that if the size was wrong, Bellamy could fix it as soon as possible.

  I looked at the time. It was five to ten.

  “I’d better go,” I said to myself. I had been really particular emphasizing that Ms. Morris should be early. So I couldn’t very well be late.

  I smiled. I already felt she was a friend. I needed one.

  I thought back over my life before Sand Corporation. I had never had what I could consider a friend. And in that darkness, that space of wildness and danger, not knowing who you could trust, I had
needed one badly. Now, it seemed, I had one. I felt glad.

  It seemed as if all the darkness that had started all those years ago was over.

  “Mr. Sand?”

  I looked up as Mrs. Douglas came in, a sheaf of notes in one hand.

  “Yes, Mrs. Douglas?”

  She frowned. “Sorry, sir…but these documents have been needing signatures a while and I want to send them off. They need to get there by tomorrow morning?” She looked apologetic and I sighed.

  “Of course, Mrs. Douglas. Bring them here. I’ll do them right now. Then you can send them off by courier and no harm’s done, yes?”

  She brightened and I signed them while she waited uncomfortably by the desk, and then she headed out, seeming relieved.

  I sighed. If only my own life’s problems were as easily relieved as that. A few signatures making them go away.

  I shuddered, thinking of the dark place my life had been in a year ago.

  I don’t want to go there again.

  Losing my wife in that divorce had hit me harder than I had expected it to do. I think the worst part was that she hated me and I could never tell her the truth. She thought my secrecy proved my guilt. I knew otherwise, but it was impossible to tell.

  “I wish you’d trusted me,” I said aloud.

  I still loved Lacey. She was beautiful and famous, yes, but that had not been why I married her. I had married her because of those soft gray eyes and the way she said my name. Her sweet nature and her gentle laughter. And I had adored our daughter. When she took herself, and Estella, from me, my world had fallen apart.

  And now someone new is on the horizon of my world. I don’t know how exactly to deal with it.

  I worked through the rest of my morning’s work in a strange mood. I was part nostalgic, reluctant to move into this new escapade; almost wedded to my grief. Another part of me was excited and wanted to celebrate that excitement. I felt as if spring had come to my heart, bringing new greenness, new hope.

  I rather like Miss. Morris. I’m glad she’s part of this project.

  I liked to think of it as a project. Thinking of it as a great act, a pageantry, didn’t sit well with my more open nature. I was blunt and straightforward and I didn’t dissemble about anything. Having to lie was going to be hard. But, if anyone was going to be a partner in this wild intrigue I was having to perpetrate on the world at large, I was glad it was her. She seemed a forthright, blunt sort of soul herself.

  I drove home earlier than usual, still smiling, my mind full of thoughts of her. Miss Morris, I thought, you are an enigma. I am going to enjoy having to try and make sense of it. And you.

  CHAPTER SEVEN – HAYLEY

  I met the driver outside the meeting-point. The hotel looked scary: ultra-modern and super-stylish and the kind of place that made me uncomfortable. I was glad I was still dressed in my smart clothes from my meeting with Beckett.

  “Miss Morris?”

  “Yes,” I said, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “That’s me.”

  “Very good.”

  I slid through the door he opened for me and sat on the leather seat. I looked around. The car itself was more luxurious than anything I’d experienced before; an E class Mercedes, with all the classic trimmings. I sat on the seat uncomfortably until the driver got in and we headed into the traffic.

  “Lots of traffic, Fridays,” he commented, grumbling.

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  Luckily, he wasn’t the chatting sort, as I felt drained and confused enough as it was. I leaned back on the seat and closed my eyes. In my pocket was a toothbrush. I had a nightie in my big handbag, along with my purse and passports. Nothing else.

  We drove for what seemed a long time, until we climbed a hill and appeared on the skyline. We were heading toward an elegant palisade fence, historic and lovely. We entered the gates.

  I stared. This was it? The place where I was actually, really going to be staying? Wow!

  “Are we…”

  “About three seconds, Miss Morris,” the driver said, grinning. “Be patient.”

  So, this was it. My home for the next month or so. However long I was needed on this job. I stared.

  The house rose up ahead of me. I guessed it had been built in the late nineteenth century, round about the time that Pasadena was becoming famous as a resort town. It was like a confection of sunlight and gracious plaster; all domes and fine windows with lacy molding around the edges. It was like a palace.

  I stared at the driver. “Is this…”

  He grinned at me. “Welcome to the Sand Castle.”

  I laughed. That already seemed typical of Beckett. Making a pun about his own name was just what I’d expect him to do. The driver got out and opened my door. I slid out, looking around me at the rose gardens, the tall conifers, the grass.

  “Thank you,” I said. I wondered if I needed to pay him something, but he fortunately alleviated my embarrassment by waving as he got back in.

  “Have a nice day,” he called out of the window.

  I nodded. “Thanks! You too.”

  I turned and looked up at the house. Walked up the sweeping flight of marble steps to the door. Lifted the knocker.

  “Good afternoon, Miss. Morris.”

  I was looking into Beckett’s face. I was so surprised I stepped back a little. He grinned.

  “Mr. Sand. I…” I licked my lips, then my words dried in my throat.

  “Welcome to my home.”

  “Th…thank you,” I managed.

  “I trust your ride wasn’t unpleasant. Come. Let me show you your suite of rooms.”

  I blinked. “Suite of…”

  He laughed. “I suppose we live on a decadent scale here, Miss. Morris. The Victorians built too many rooms, and now I’m living with their excesses. Not my fault, I’m afraid. Well, come with me. I want you to have all the comforts you need while you are here.”

  I followed him up the gracious staircase that curved down to the entrance hall, and into the upper hallway. We turned right.

  “Here are the guest rooms,” he explained. “I’ve put you in the east wing…nice and warm in the mornings and you can watch the sunrise.”

  I followed his brisk steps down the hallway, taking time to appreciate the tiling underfoot. It was all so beautiful! I stared at it, amazed.

  He showed me into a vast bedroom. It was painted cream, and the bed was a double bed covered with a luxurious quilt. I sat down and discovered it was silky. Satin? No way!

  I looked around. The furniture was modern and plain, but all excellent quality. A row of built-in cupboards, a beautiful dressing table. An elegant chair covered with the same silky fabric. Someone—a maid, I supposed—had put a bowl of roses of the same silky cream color as the coverlet on the dressing-table, arranged with ferns, creamy carnations and gypsophila.

  The door opposite the bed led into an ultra-modern bathroom, all black and white with chrome taps. The windows alone were old-fashioned, and looked out onto a profusion of green lawns, conifers and elegant flowerbeds full of flowers.

  “Is this really for me?” I asked.

  He laughed. “You are a guest here. It’s the least I can provide. There is a dressing-room next door,” he added, opening a door I hadn’t noticed beside the cupboards.

  This was a lovely room. Where the main bedroom was stark and modern, this room was decorated in a more nineteenth-century way, the furniture Victorian style and lovely, with everything flower-patterned, gracious and pretty. I sighed.

  “You might never get me out of here,” I commented, looking around. I noticed something. On a chest in the corner was a dress. I frowned.

  “For you,” he commented. “To wear to the theater this evening.”

  I gulped. “The theater? That dress?” It was gray silk, elegant, revealing and very expensive-looking.

  “We’re going to a play. An opening for a new musical by the Furious theater company,” he explained. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you…I know how
you feel about the public eye. It’s a very high-profile debut. I thought we could make our appearance there together.”

  He wasn’t looking at me as he spoke, but focusing on the window beyond me, eyes darting about. He seemed hesitant and uncertain, and my own reluctance dissolved. I looked into his eyes with a level gaze. Very firmly, I said his name.

  “Beckett. That would be lovely. Thank you. Thank you for thinking of the dress, and making me so welcome and…everything.” I sighed.

  He smiled. He had a lovely smile. Hesitant, reluctant, it crept across his face fleetingly; a real smile that lit those green eyes and made them sparkle like polished emeralds. I swallowed hard. “I’m glad you’re okay with that,” he said.

  At this moment it was very difficult to remember that I couldn’t just take a step forward and hold him in my arms and kiss those perfectly-formed lips.

  I cleared my throat. “Well,” I said, “if we’re going to the theater, do I have time to settle in a while?”

  He laughed. “The play starts at six-thirty. If it’s…say…quarter to three now,” he said, consulting his watch, “then we still have three and a half hours. So please, make yourself at home. I have to meet with my Tokyo executives—over Skype, that is—so I’ll be upstairs in my study. If you need anything, press the button and Mrs. Delange will help you. She’s my housekeeper. Very nice woman, not scary in the slightest.”

  “Thank you,” I said again. Licked my dry lips. This was all so foreign. So scary.

  He laughed. “Don’t look like you’re about to be shot…you’re making me feel nervous!”

  I apologized. “Sorry. It’s just all so new.”

  “You’ll get used to it. It’s a wonderful house. A refuge from the public eye. Please, explore everything. The place is at your disposal. I’m on the third floor…second last room on the right. The Skype-conference should finish at about six pm. It’s about eleven am there, after all.””

  I laughed. “You have this stuff at your fingertips,” I said, impressed by him.

  “It took a while to get used to it,” he admitted. “Now, please, get comfortable. Try on the dress too. If it doesn’t fit, we need to fix it before six this evening.”

  I gulped. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll get dressed in it now. When you’re off Skyping.”