Hot Daddy_A Romantic Comedy

by Lila Monroe

  Shouldn’t he want to spend time with me?

  Danger, Jules Robinson, I tell myself firmly, setting my phone down on the counter. Yeah, he looked good this morning, all broad chest and an ass you could bounce a quarter off, smelling of herby, expensive cologne. But the man couldn’t be more off limits if he had a radioactive belt wrapped around his . . . assets.

  I’m eyeing the espresso machine, wondering if I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of coaxing it into spitting out another cup when Lottie pads into the kitchen. “Where’s Cal?” she asks with a frown.

  “Hey,” I say brightly. “He had a work emergency, but he told me to tell you he’s super sorry and shouldn’t be too long.” I smile at Ezra as he trails in behind her, Howard in tow. “You guys hungry?”

  Not surprisingly there’s hardly anything in the cupboards, but I scrape together what we need to make passable pancakes—I even find an ancient-looking bag of M&Ms—and set them both to work measuring and mixing while I pull up some music on my phone. “You guys like the Beatles?” I ask hopefully. My nine-year-old nephew Charlie just went through a major Ringo phase; we had his last birthday cake decorated to look like the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. “Yellow Submarine?”

  Lottie eyes me as with an expression like I’ve suggested an enriching morning selection of baroque chamber music. “Um,” she says, “not really.”

  Man, I am striking out with this kid all over the place. “That’s okay,” I say gamely, handing my phone over. “You wanna pick something out?”

  She looks at me for another dubious beat before she takes it, scrolling until she finds some Lorde and connecting quickly to the built-in ceiling speakers. I’m kind of impressed—both with her musical taste and her technological aplomb—and I’m just about to tell her so when Ezra calls out from across the kitchen. “Hey Lottie! Look what I can do!”

  I glance over in his direction, jaw dropping in horror: “Oh, dude, please don’t—”

  But it’s too late: Ezra’s already got an M&M shoved good and far up his little nose. He breathes in deeply—intending, I think, to shoot it out in our direction—then abruptly frowns. “Uh-oh,” he says. “I think it’s stuck.”

  Forty-five minutes, some burned pancakes, and a panicked call to my brother the pediatrician later, I’ve just gotten the thing out with a pair of tweezers when Cal strolls into the apartment, looking relaxed as a golden retriever who’s been snoozing in the sun. The guy probably went for a visit to his personal masseuse. He’s wearing a deep-blue button-down and a pair of tailored wool pants, his ass round and muscular and, frankly, bitable-looking under the fabric.

  I’d like to kick him in it.

  Hard.

  “Hey,” he calls, picking Ezra up in one arm and turning him upside down, the kid giggling as delightedly as someone who didn’t just spend the better part of an hour with a candy-covered chocolate morsel jammed up in his nasal cavity. “Everybody in the car; time for a field trip.” He grins at me. “Thanks for keeping an eye on them,” he says.

  “We’re gonna need to stop someplace for breakfast,” I announce tartly, skirting past him into the elevator. At least I’m wearing a bra this time. “Where are we going?”

  Cal smiles, still looking delighted with himself. “You’ll see.”

  We head down to the garage and pile back into his ridiculous sports car; Cal zips toward the Back Bay and then west down the wide, leafy swath of Commonwealth Avenue, weaving expertly through traffic as we pass historic brownstones and elegant old churches. I watch as the city gives way to suburb, the houses getting bigger and further apart until finally Cal pulls the car to a stop in the driveway of a big Victorian house set back on a gigantic green blanket of lawn.

  “Where are we?” Lottie asks suspiciously, peering out the window like she’s worried he’s about to drop her off with the witch from Hansel and Gretel. “Who lives here?”

  “We do,” Cal says grandly. “We can move in tomorrow.”

  I whip my head around to look at him. “What?” I ask, suddenly realizing. “That’s what you were doing?”

  “I told you,” he says, holding up the keys. “Business.”

  I scramble out of the car, the kids piling out behind me and stand in front of the white picket fence for a moment, gaping. “You’re telling me you just . . . went out and bought a house this morning.”

  Cal shrugs. “I mean, I got the paperwork started last night. But I wanted to see it in person before we committed.”

  “Thoughtful,” I mutter, shaking my head. Even after three years of working in the corporate law world, I’m still not used to money like this. Cal probably goes around picking up real estate the same way I’d buy a sweater on clearance at H&M.

  Still, I have to admit I’m a tiny bit impressed he took my words to heart about the apartment. This place looks like a Norman Rockwell painting. I half expect there to be an apple pie cooling on the windowsill.

  “Come on, gang,” he says now, heading up the walk and unlocking the front door, ushering the kids inside. “Go on in and have a look.”

  I do a slow tour through the house, taking in the open kitchen and ornate woodwork on the massive fireplace, the built-in bookshelves and the antique curio cabinet with its stained-glass front. There’s a wide-open staircase and lots of windows, a family room with couches so big and comfortable-looking I want to sink into them immediately. Warm-looking hardwood floors gleam in the early afternoon sun. I spy brightly colored pillows on top of the beds and thickly piled carpets I want to rub my bare feet across, a third-floor turret bedroom with a reading nook that’s distinctly Lottie-sized; there’s even a trampoline in the enormous backyard.

  It’s perfect. Warm, comforting, and ready for kids. Hell, all that’s missing is a puppy with a bow around its neck.

  “You were right,” Cal says coming up behind me as I eye the deep soaking tub in the master bedroom. “They need a place to be kids.”

  I hesitate, not entirely sure how to respond. On one hand, who doesn’t like to be told they were right? Apple should market that as a ringtone. On the other hand, I still can’t get over the guy impulse buying a freaking house!

  “It’s beautiful,” I say truthfully. “And it’s going to be really great for them. But you can’t just buy your way into domestic bliss, Cal.” I sigh, knowing I sound like a broken record but not necessarily caring. “These kids are hurting, even if they aren’t showing it. Their parents are gone. They’ve spent the last four months being shuffled around and dragged into court and argued over. They still don’t know where they’re going to be ten days from now—”

  “With me,” he interrupts, and there’s a steely set to his jaw I haven’t seen before. “They’re going to be with me.”

  “I just don’t know if you really get what that’s going to look like,” I argue. “And if you don’t, then it’s better to admit that now than to put them through any more craziness.”

  I’m expecting a knee-jerk argument, but instead he seems to actually think about what I’m saying, leaning his head back against the doorjamb. “Look,” he says finally, scrubbing a hand over his obnoxiously symmetrical face. “The probation period is over in nine days. If we get to that point and you still think I’m such an idiot—if you really don’t think the best place for these kids is with me, or I’m trying to buy their affection or whatever—you can tell the judge that. In fact, you can tell her the whole truth, Agency and all. No hard feelings. Deal?”

  I consider that for a moment, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth. “Deal,” I agree. He sticks his hand out and we shake—just as an enormous, glass-breaking crash sounds from downstairs.

  “Um, Cal?” Ezra calls sweetly. “Howard broke something!”

  “Home sweet home,” Cal says with a grin.

  7

  Jules

  We take the kids to breakfast the next morning at a diner in a renovated train station, with heaping plates of bacon and eggs and a mug full of crayons p
lunked down on the table between us. Ezra draws a fire-breathing robot on the back of his paper placemat. Lottie beats Cal at tic-tac-toe. “You’re a good sport,” I murmur quietly, forking off a corner of my veggie omelet and chewing thoughtfully.

  “What, ’cause of the game?” Cal looks at me oddly. “What can I say, Jules? Lottie is the superior player.”

  I make a face. “Not the game,” I tell him, gesturing around at the restaurant’s drop ceilings and ripped diner stools. “I just mean, this is kind of slummin’ it for you, no?”

  “Oh, totally,” Cal says. “Normally I like my eggs brought to me in bed on a golden plate, with a side of truffles and caviar.” He makes an exaggerated face at Ezra. “Get on that, will you?” Then he laughs. “Nah, this is our place, right guys?” He turns back to me. “We used to come here with their mom and dad all the time.”

  “Daddy liked extra syrup on his pancakes,” Ezra reports.

  “He sure did,” Cal says, then reaches for the pitcher and pours a little more onto his own for good measure.

  “I’ve got to go into the office for a couple of hours,” he tells me as we’re heading out to the parking lot. He’s traded the clown-sized sports car for a McAdams SUV, which fits all of us comfortably—including Howard.

  I raise my eyebrows. “You have to go into the office like you have to go into the office, or you have to go into the office like you’re actually going out to buy another secret mansion?”

  Cal makes a face. “I have to go into the office like I’m meeting with our Japanese importer,” he says. “He’s heading back to Tokyo tonight, so this was the only time we could make it work.”

  “Fancy,” I tease.

  “Top-notch, princess,” he retorts, reaching over and taking a sip of the leftover coffee in my to-go cup, then handing it back. “Anyway, I can drop you guys at home on my way, if that’s cool. Maybe you can break in that trampoline.”

  “By all means, help yourself,” I tell him, my heart stuttering a little bit at the casualness of the gesture—it just feels an awful lot like the kind of thing an actual fiancé might do. “But I’m not a babysitter, remember? It’s not that I’m not happy to spend time with them, but if that’s what you’re looking for, I know you can afford one.”

  Cal thinks about that one for a moment. “You’re right,” he says. “Hey monsters!” he calls across the parking lot to where the kids are already waiting at the car, impatient. “You wanna go to work?”

  McAdams HQ is in a huge modern building in Kendall Square, a leafy green campus complete with a gourmet cafeteria, modern art installations, even a dog park. Cal’s office is in a top-level suite full of glass-walled offices and sleek mid-century furniture; vintage ads for the very first McAdams cars line the walls. The common space boasts an air hockey table and a fully stocked beer fridge; the vibe is definitely more “fun start-up” than “hundred-year-old luxury car company,” and I wonder how much of that is Cal’s influence.

  It’s a Sunday, and the offices are mostly quiet, just a few assistants clicking busily away at their computers: “Where’s the assembly line?” Ezra asks, looking around curiously.

  “They don’t make the cars here, idiot,” Lottie informs him. “They just design them.”

  “Easy, tiger,” Cal says, nudging her gently. “Nobody’s an idiot. And you’re both right, actually. We put the first prototype for the new Nitro together right here in the technology center on campus, but now that we’re satisfied with how it works they’ll get made at our manufacturing plant in Detroit.”

  “You guys manufacture in Michigan?” I ask, surprised.

  “American as apple pie,” Cal says with a grin.

  He takes us across campus to see the technology center, a gleaming industrial space full of state-of-the-art machinery and glowing computer bays, their screensavers all bearing the McAdams logo. “This is awesome,” Lottie says, her sharp blue eyes lighting up. She looks more engaged than I've ever seen her; I think again of her Wonder Women book and file that piece of information away for later.

  “Cal!” A trim, polished woman in her sixties bustles through the door, all tasteful gold jewelry and sleek gray bob. An assistant in a sport coat hurries along behind her. “I didn’t know you were in today.”

  “Meeting with the Noguchi Corp,” Cal reminds her, ducking his head to kiss her on the cheek. “Jules, this is my mom, Diana McAdams.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. McAdams.” I’m not entirely sure what she knows or doesn’t about our little arrangement, so I smile my widest all-purpose smile as we shake.

  “Oh, please, call me Diana,” she says, holding her arms out for a Dior-scented hug. “We’re going to be family, aren’t we?” She turns to Lottie and Ez. “How you doing, you two? Hanging in?”

  The kids nod dutifully, and Diana smiles. “I bet if we ask Jason he’ll give you a special tour of the place—including the Kit Kats I’ve got in my desk drawer upstairs.”

  “Will do,” the assistant says cheerfully. Then, to Diana: “Just remember that the events people want to chat about some of the final details for the McAdams Cup before you leave this afternoon.”

  Diana nods. “We’re sponsoring a big charity race next week,” she explains to me. “We put one on every year, to benefit the Home for Little Wanderers.”

  “They do a bunch of great work for at-risk kids and families around Boston,” Cal says. “Therapy, mentoring, even just getting their basic needs taken care of—toiletries, bedding, that kind of thing. We’ve been partnering with them for years.”

  “Sounds great,” I say honestly. “Let me know if there's anything I can do to help.”

  “Jules is a hot-shot lawyer,” Cal tells his mom. “She’s a rising star at her big firm in New York, but she’s thinking of bailing out of the rat race to start her own practice.”

  I glance at him, surprised: it’s not exactly true, but I suppose it's better than she got canned for punching a pervert’s face in and now she’s my hired date. What’s more, it seems to impress Diana: “Really,” she says, tilting her head to the side and looking at me with interest. “What’s the name of your firm?”

  Well, shit. “Harper, Wells, and Milstein?” I say, fully aware it sounds like I’m asking a question and praying she won’t go looking for me on the company website.

  “Ah, Harper Wells, yes.” Diana nods. “I’ve heard impressive things about their publishing and entertainment division.”

  “My buddy Max is trying to convince my mom to do a book,” Cal explains. “How To Be an All-American Lady Badass, by Diana McAdams.”

  “It’s more a history of the company,” Diana explains with a smile, “but thank you, Cal. Jules, we should chat when you get a chance. I’m always happy to meet another woman in business.”

  “I’d love that,” I say.

  She heads off to work on the race details and Cal and I catch up with the kids: we find them with Jason in a huge, brightly lit conference room, watching a promotional video about the development of the Nitro, the newest McAdams race car. Ezra is sitting in the corner putting on a quiet drama starring Howard the badger as an F1 driver, but Lottie is rapt, tongue between her teeth while she scribbles something down in the little notebook she keeps in her backpack.

  I turn to Cal. “Is there some kind of program we can sign her up for?” I ask quietly. “Something for young engineers?”

  “The company actually runs a camp for girls in the summer and on winter breaks,” he tells me. “To try and, like, get ’em into STEM early.”

  I raise my eyebrows, remembering what Olivia told me about progressive new initiatives at the company. “Was that your idea?”

  Cal shrugs. “Maybe.” He tilts his head, grinning a little. “Why, are you impressed?”

  I roll my eyes at him, but I’m smiling. “Maybe.”

  We leave them to watch the rest of the video and I follow Cal up to his office, perching on the arm of an uncomfortable settee while he shows me plans for the sports version
of the Nitro, a zippy little outfit that people—albeit extremely, extremely rich people—might actually buy and drive around outside a track. It’s the crown jewel of a new, green line of vehicles they’re rolling out, Cal explains, pulling up a set of plans on a tablet: “It’s electric, but its charge lasts twice as long as, say, a Tesla’s, so you’ll never end up stranded in the middle of nowhere waiting for your car to charge.” He pauses. “Sorry,” he says, a little sheepish. “Is this, like, wicked fucking boring to you?”

  I laugh a little at the expression—It’s the most stereotypically Bostonian he’s ever sounded—and shake my head. “No, actually.” It’s a partial truth—I could give a shit about race cars, to be honest—but I like the way he sounds when he talks about them, dark eyes lighting up and hands flying.

  “Liar.” Cal smiles, tilting his head to look at me; he leaned over earlier to show me the screen of the tablet, and suddenly I’m way too aware of how close he really is.

  “I’m serious,” I insist, clearing my throat a little. “You can tell you really love what you do, and I think that’s great.” There’s something stupidly sexy about it, honestly, although I’m not about to admit that part out loud.

  Cal’s not buying. “Mm-hmm,” he says, in a voice like he’s humoring me—and not, I can’t help but notice, making any move to straighten up. This close I can smell him—that same faint, familiar cologne from three years ago, rosemary maybe, something I’d stored away in the recesses of my brain without knowing I was doing it. It makes me want to press my face against his neck.

  “Uh, Jules?” Cal says, in a voice like possibly it’s not the first time he’s tried to get my attention; suddenly I realize he’s been talking this whole time, and I’ve been too distracted by the scent of him—and the thought of that night in Vegas—to hear a single word. “You sure I’m not losing you?”