by Lily Kate
“I know. It just pisses me off that I let him get under my skin.” I stand and pace back and forth before the floor-to-ceiling window that gives a stunning view of Los Angeles by night. “Can you see if there are more of those yoga-whatever-stupid classes down the street? I can’t seem to keep my temper around him.”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m going to need my temper in check,” I tell her, “because he came to say it’s a war.”
“A war? Over Boxer?”
“Boxer would make for a great client—easy to manage, lots of endorsement potential, a strong player focused on the game. I want him.”
“He’s also a really nice guy,” Lindsay says. “What if you just talked to him? I don’t think he’d like Andy much, but if he got to know you...” She shrugs. “It’d be an easy choice. He’d love you.”
I bark laughter. “Love? No. I’m not sure there’s anybody who could say that about me.”
Lindsay stills, her shoulders rigid. “Miss Jones—”
“I’m not asking for pity,” I say, waving a hand. “I was kidding.”
“Of course you are,” Lindsay says, sensing it’s time to back out of the room. When she reaches the door, she turns back and gives me a look, a bit of sadness in her eyes, though no sign of pity. “You’re a strong woman, Miss Jones, but sometimes it’s not about fighting with your fists.”
“What other way is there? Andy leaves me no choice.”
“Maybe Andy doesn’t,” she says, her voice a soft tinkle of bright cutting through the silent room. “But Boxer does. Get to know him, and I’ll bet you there’ll be opportunities you never knew existed.”
“I’m not sure I’m the world’s most likeable person. Maybe you should have lunch with him and win him over.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” Lindsay offers me a bright smile. “You don’t let many people in, but when you do, they like what they see.”
“Now you’re just asking for a raise.”
“I don’t work for you because I love the hours,” Lindsay says with a wink. “I happen to have a great boss. Don’t be afraid to let Boxer see the real you. He’ll like it, I promise.”
Lindsay leaves then, and the smell of lasagna draws me back to my desk. Even though my stomach growls, I can’t bring myself to eat. I wait, listen as Lindsay lets herself out of the building and does the locking up, and then I rise to my feet once more.
Looking out over the buildings, I wonder what Boxer’s doing right now. Is he with his daughter?
An absolutely crazy notion crosses my mind.
What if I called him?
For no reason at all except... to check in with him.
I dismiss the idea just as quickly because that’s ridiculous. What would we talk about? I don’t have anything in common with the man. He’s sweet, calm, patient. I’m uptight, skittish after my meeting, and staring at a now-cooling plate of lasagna.
No, we are no match for one another in any world except business. I package up the takeout, catching a glimpse of my black suit in the windows on the way out, my blonde hair wound tightly in a bun, skirt neatly pressed and standard. Practical. In Boxer’s eyes, I’m nothing but business; I’m sure of it. I haven’t made it this far by making friends. I’ve made it this far by making deals.
Two hours later, I’m reheating the lasagna in the microwave and loading up my TiVo’d episode of The Bachelor. Ten minutes into it, and I know I’m going crazy because an advertisement for cat food makes me tear up.
There’s an old couple holding hands, and I can’t help but think of Duke and his wife taking time to be together and retire. When I’m that age, will I be alone with the cat, or will I have a hand to hold?
To combat the tears, I find a Spinning class online and sign up for it at once. Probably, I’m low on endorphins. Endorphins help everything. So does lasagna, and so does deep breathing.
I think.
Chapter 5
Boxer
I tiptoe down the hallway toward my daughter’s room, which is more difficult than it sounds. Moving quietly when I weigh as much as a small elephant is a skill I haven’t yet mastered.
I push the door open to Charli’s room. The muted pastel walls glow under the first dregs of morning sunlight, the brightness washing through me like a gentle breeze. This might be my favorite part of the day.
Inching around the corner, I’m careful not to step on the squeaky stuffed dog guarding Charli’s bed from intruders. I rest there, leaning against the doorframe as I watch my daughter’s rose-colored cheeks, cherubic in their plumpness. She’s an angel like this, a perfect sleeping princess.
Curls as tight as a spring wind naturally across her pillow, spreading in all directions. This is a better representation of her personality than her calm, sweet cheeks. Charli’s a wild one, unruly on her best days, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s got spunk, the kid, that’s for sure.
There’s a heart of gold underneath it all, however, and I know that too. My heart constricts as she takes a deep breath and lets out the faintest of sighs as I watch the rise and fall of her chest. She looks more and more grown every day.
When did she lose the baby fat? I wonder, wishing she could’ve stayed small just a bit longer. Already, she’s playing soccer, hockey, and tee-ball, and she’s as fierce as they come. Her room might be yellow, her pillows might be purple, and her favorite color might be glitter, but she’s a tomboy through and through.
The harsh jolt of the radio clock gurgling to life gives me a start, and I stumble backwards out of the room. Charli’s taken on a violently independent streak lately, and prefers to get up to her own alarm.
She also prefers to wake me up, which is why I jog back to bed and climb under the covers. I’ve already been up a full hour—ran a couple miles on the treadmill, watched the news, showered and dressed in fresh pajamas. Just so Charli can wake me up again.
Footsteps pad down the hallway, tiny in size, and a giggle filters through the open door. I pull the covers over my head, just the way she likes, and squint my eyes shut.
“Dad?” she whispers softly. “Daddy... it’s time to wake up.”
I roll over and grunt. Another giggle.
“Daddy!” Her voice grows louder, and she takes a few more steps into the room. “Wake up! It’s time for school.”
“I’m sleeping.”
“But, daddy!”
“Go away,” I mumble, taking a peek at her through the comforter as I roll back around. “I’m hibernating.”
The giggles turn into a full-on waterfall of laughter. Light and innocent, almost piercing in her joy. “You’re not a bear!”
“Are you sure...?” I poke a bit of my head outside of the blanket and watch her through one eye. “Maybe I am.”
“You’re not! You’re a human. A boy!”
Her curls bounce as she inches closer, just a shadow of doubt across her face. That’s when I pounce—both hands extended like claws. I give a growl so loud she gets the hiccups, and I immediately feel horrible.
“Dad!” She’s laughing, hiccupping, and rushing at me all at once.
I catch the screaming bundle with one hand and raise her above me like a football. She kicks, flails, and yelps some more as I find the tickle-zone near her ribcage. When she gives a hiccup so big it turns into a burp, I lose it, too, and I pull her in for a serious round of cuddles.
She tries to tickle my armpits, but she mostly scratches my shoulder. I go with it anyway because I can’t possibly bear to disappoint those huge blue eyes.
“Let me in, it’s cold out here!” She wiggles her body underneath the covers and gives me a squeeze with the tiniest arms this world has ever seen. She’s strong for her age, but put her next to me, and it’s like a fly trying to hug a hippo.
I hold her close, press a kiss to her forehead, and tell her how much I love her.
“How much, daddy?”
“More than you can ever guess. What’s the biggest number you know?”
>
“Ten.”
“No,” I tell her. “You know bigger numbers than that. How old am I?”
“A hundred.”
“Closer,” I say, grinning into her curls. “I love you all the way to the moon and back again.”
“I guess that’s pretty good,” she says. “I love you even more.”
We stay that way for a long minute, until she gets another case of the wiggles and accidentally sends a foot straight into my gut. It’s times like these when I wonder how a five-year-old princess can bring a full-grown man to his knees. A few inches lower, and she would’ve connected with an area I would prefer to keep intact. Just in case.
In case of what? I find myself wondering as I send Charli to pull on some clothes. In case I invite a woman over? At the rate my dating life has been going, I’ll be a born-again virgin by the time Charli can drive.
It’s not that I’m opposed to finding love again—it’s just that I can’t risk Charli’s heart. She’s a special girl, and it’d take a damn special woman for me to bring someone else into our family.
A brief image of Jocelyn Jones flickers through my mind as I strip out of my pajama pants and pull on a pair of jeans. Why her? I have no clue. She’s out to get me—or, my face, rather—when Duke retires. She looks at me and sees dollar signs.
Even so, I have to admit the woman is beautiful. I’m a man, and I have a pulse—it’s natural that my pulse speeds up when a gorgeous woman walks into a room, and even more so when she’s eating ice cream and looking like it’s giving her an orgasm.
Dammit, I think, looking down at my pants which, unfortunately, are too thin for the thoughts I have running through my head.
“Dad, it’s pajama day,” Charli calls from down the hall. “Can I wear my Jasmine pajamas?”
“Sure,” I call back, making sure the door is shut.
“You have to wear yours, too.”
I almost argue, but it’s a pretty simple request. Wear pajamas. There’s only one problem, and it’s this stupid boner. Maybe I do need to get laid, I think, if Jocelyn Jones—the Ice Queen of Hollywood—has this sort of effect on me after one business meeting.
I shift around, glancing down at the pj pants Charli had picked out for me. They’re red and have crossed hockey sticks all over them. I look like a buffoon, but I know it’ll make her happy, so it’s the least I can do.
I am not, and can never be, both a mother and a father, but I do my best. We have fun together, and I hope that makes up for everything I can’t provide. A woman’s touch, a mother’s advice, a date to the mother-daughter events at her school. It kills me that I can’t do it all, but that’s life.
When I’m finally presentable again, I vow to keep Jocelyn as far out of my brain as possible. I’m not signing with her. I’ve already decided. I’m not interested in making the most money I possibly can; I’m interested in having a career and a family life with Charli. That might mean turning down some endorsement deals to stay home with my daughter, and I already know Jocelyn would have none of that.
I know Andy Rumpert is out for me, too, and I might be able to strike some sort of deal with him. He seems reasonable, at least from a distance. And he’s far less sexy than Jocelyn Jones, which would do great things for my mental health.
“Dad, I’m ready!” Charli’s getting the cereal out of the cupboard. “Where’s the milk?”
I grab it from the fridge as per our routine. She’s not quite strong enough to pour the milk, so her job is the cereal. She dumps the cereal into the bowl, flakes of the stuff scattering everywhere. I pour in the milk, and then Charli sets the timer on her Aladdin themed watch.
“Can I go, yet?” I ask, sinking a spoon into the cereal. “Pretty please?”
“No, dad!” she cries. “Forty more seconds.”
Apparently, Charli has determined that fifty-two seconds is the perfect amount of time that cereal needs to sit in order to get soggy. She hops onto her chair, I sweep the spilled cereal into the trash and then pop over to my chair, and Charli starts the ten second countdown.
Once her alarm goes off, she punches a tiny fist to the ceiling and calls for us to dive in. We eat in silence, side by side, and I feel the familiar peace that comes with spending a morning with my daughter.
As much as I need to get stuff done today, I can’t look forward to dropping her off at school. If I had it my way, we’d play some street hockey in the back alley, pop in a movie for the afternoon, and make dinner together. She really is the only girl I need in my life.
Except, of course, for the romantic aspect. But that takes second fiddle now, for at least the next few years of my life. I just have to figure out a way to keep myself distant from Jocelyn Jones because that woman is a temptation the likes of which I haven’t seen in years. Not since I fell in love the first time.
“Time for school, kiddo,” I say, once our spoons clank against the bare edges of the bowls. “I think Marie just arrived, but I’m going to take you today.”
“Are you coming for pancake lunch day?”
“There’s a pancake lunch day?”
Charli’s face goes slack. She runs into the other room, grabs her backpack—the sparkly soccer ball on the outside glittering against the sunlight—and scurries back. “Ooops.”
“Charlie...” I shake my head as she pulls out the paperwork informing me that, yes indeed, there is a pancake lunch today. “When did your teacher give you this?”
She hops back on her chair and gives me a shrug, feet dangling high above the ground. “Dunno.”
“You’ve got to give me these things earlier,” I tell her, resting the paper against the table and tilting her chin upwards. “So I can clear my schedule to come.”
“Does that mean you can’t come today? Because I was too late?”
I shake my head. “I’ll be there. Go get your shoes on.”
The front door opens, perfectly timed, as Marie calls out a hello. She’s been the nanny slash housekeeper slash burst of sanity ever since Charli was born and, even though I try to do it all, I’m grateful to have Marie to pick up the slack.
“Am I taking you to school today, Miss Charli?” she asks. “I’m hoping it’s pajama day, otherwise I have no clue why you’re wearing those clothes.”
“Of course it’s pajama day!” Charli giggles and hugs Marie. “Dad’s taking me.”
“Great,” she says. “Then I’ll get some shopping done. Have a great day at school.”
“I will,” Charli says. “Because dad’s clearing his schedule for lunch.”
“Excellent,” she says. Then she raises her eyes, and catches a glimpse of me standing in the doorway. “Pajama day for you too, Mr. Boxer?”
I’ve tried to correct her and get her to call me just plain old Boxer, but she refuses. And I’ve given up arguing. “According to Charli it is,” I say with a shrug. “We’ll see you later. I’ll get Charli from school today, but I’ll need you to watch her this afternoon while I’m at practice.”
“Absolutely. I’m free all night, Mr. Boxer, no rush.”
“No need,” I tell her. “I’ll be home by eight.”
“Because eight o’clock is book time,” Charli says. “And we can’t have book time if dad’s not home.”
“Exactly.” I ruffle her hair, hoping that book time will never come to an end. Already, five years have gone by too fast. I can’t stand to think there will be a day she won’t notice if I’m not home to read her a bedtime story.
What’ll I do when the only girl in my life is all grown up? I push through the door holding Charli’s hand, wondering if, when Charli goes off to college, I’ll be alone in this big old house.
It’s not ideal, but love is going to have to work hard to find me because I’m not quite ready to share my time with anyone else.
Chapter 6
Jocelyn
“You are Miss Popular today,” Lindsay says, knocking briefly before entering my office first thing this morning. “I’ve gotten five meeting re
quests, and I haven’t even had my latte yet. Also, one date request.”
I look up to find her waggling her eyebrows at the name she’s scribbled on the notepad. With a sigh, I hold out my hand. “Let me see that.”
“You haven’t gone out with this one before, have you?” Lindsay rests the notepad on my desk. “Charles Strom? He’s the head of... what’s it called?”
“Intellect. That new company doing something with computers—they were in the newspaper. The article was so dry I skimmed most of it.”
“More than I read,” Lindsay agrees. “So, can I confirm the date?”
“I don’t know. I’m in the middle of a bunch of stuff—I have to follow up with Boxer because I can’t rest until Andy’s off my case. Then I have the other meetings you scheduled, and I should prepare the papers Brian will need for that upcoming endorsement...let’s say no.”
“You have to eat, Miss Jones,” Lindsay says, pulling the note back from my desk. “Why don’t you go out for a change of scenery, at least?”
“I prefer to be alone rather than bored by my date.”
“Give him a chance. If he’s boring you out of your mind, you can find a way to leave. I’ll even pick you up if you need. It’ll be refreshing. We can always order lasagna and watch dumb reality television shows every other night of the week.”
“I don’t know—”
“Great. I’ll get your date scheduled.”
Lindsay’s out of the room before I can comprehend whether or not I’ve actually agreed to anything. A few minutes later, an appointment with Charles Strom pops up on my calendar, as well as a quick note from him—or more likely his secretary—via email. The note promises a pleasant evening and delicious dining. We’ll meet at seven.
“Well, that solves that,” I say, turning to the next order of business. “Lindsay, you sly fox.”
The hours pass quickly as I set into the monotony that is everyday work. Meetings, phone calls, reviewing documents, administrative crap—it all flows, one thing to the next, until I realize it’s almost lunch.
