Penthouse Prince

by Kendall Ryan

  I might explode if I have to sit still. “I’ll stand, thanks.” At his tight-lipped expression, I add, “I’ll stay out of the way, I promise. What happened?”

  As I move closer, she looks even smaller and paler then last time I saw her, and my heart jumps when I spot a bandage on the back of her head.

  He narrows his eyes slightly. “She had a nasty fall. Fainted and hit her head on the way down.”

  Fuck. I should have been there. Should have hired more nurses to watch her round the clock, instead of just having Gail come by three times a week. It’s a mistake I’ll have to rectify immediately.

  Mom moves her arm in a gesture that I think is supposed to be waving off my anxiety, but her hand only lifts about six inches from the hospital blanket. “It was nothing, sugar. I had my alert bracelet on. As soon as I came to and realized I was bleeding, I called the ambulance. They’re going to fix me up right as rain. I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Passing out and cracking your skull open doesn’t sound like nothing to me.” The words come out much harsher than I intend. “And what do you mean, as soon as you realized? If you hadn’t seen blood, would you have just gone on with your business and not called 9-1-1?”

  Her doctor nods. “Fortunately, you don’t seem to have a concussion, Mrs. Dane, but your son has a point. Even for a young, healthy person, one has to take head injuries seriously, and in your condition . . . well.” He sucks his teeth loudly. “Anyway, as I was telling her when you came in, her fainting was probably just a side effect of chemotherapy. But on the off chance this is a warning sign that her cancer is progressing faster than expected, I’ve ordered some tests and a consult with her oncologist. Just to rule things out and to find out what we could be facing.”

  I force myself to nod and act like a reasonable, civil adult, instead of screaming and breaking everything in the room like I want to do. “I understand. How long do you think it’ll take before the results come back? I’ve got someone watching my daughter.”

  The doctor rubs his chin. “Three, maybe four hours would be my guess.”

  Looks like I’ll be using that chair after all.

  After he leaves, I drag the damn thing over to her bedside, sit down, and take her hand, disliking how limp and cool it feels.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap earlier,” I say quietly. “It’s just . . . you worry me sick, Mom. You don’t take your health seriously enough.”

  “It worked itself out in the end,” she says, giving me a weak smile.

  Before I can blow up, she continues.

  “I don’t mean to cause you trouble, sugar. Everything changes so fast, is all.” Her smile falters, and for a second, I can see just how much effort she pours into staying positive. “I can’t keep up. One day I can still do all kinds of things, and the next, poof. I can’t.”

  I don’t know what to say other than, “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

  It’s not enough, of course. But I don’t have the words to fix this situation, and that kills me.

  I lace her thin, knobby fingers with mine. This hand used to be the one that steadied me, not the other way around. Used to belong to a superheroine who handled our lives with ease, and now . . .

  “But enough about all that.” A mischievous twinkle appears in her eye. “You say you found someone, hmm?”

  “What?” Then the abrupt topic change processes. “Oh. For Grier.”

  She’s definitely not for me. I blew that chance ten years ago.

  “Yes, Mom, I found someone to watch her, but you might laugh when you hear who it is. Corrigan.”

  “Dak’s baby sister? She was such a sweet girl—and so pretty. You picked a winner.” Mom beams at me. “I’m glad you’ve gotten back in touch with her.”

  Her tone makes me suspicious. Is she just in matchmaker mode, or is she implying that she knows more than I thought she did about our relationship? But Mom’s words are innocent enough that I can’t interrogate her without tipping her off that I’m hiding something myself.

  Finally, I decide to keep it vague. “Yeah. She’s a teacher now, so Dak thought she’d be a good fit for nannying Grier.” Not that she’s actually agreed to it yet. I sort of ran out of my house like a madman . . .

  Speaking of which, I should check in with her. Maybe she can bring Grier here and leave her with me or something. It won’t be fun to keep a toddler entertained in a hospital room for over three hours, but that’s my problem, not Corrigan’s.

  With my free hand, I reach into my pocket . . . and my stomach plummets.

  It’s not there. My pocket is empty. Where the hell is my phone?

  As soon as I ask myself that question, I know the answer. There’s a crystal-clear picture in my head of my phone lying on the kitchen counter. I forgot it at home in my rush to leave the house.

  I massage my forehead with bruising force while silently repeating every curse word I can think of.

  • • •

  It’s already dinnertime when I screech into my driveway, slam the brakes, and rush out of the car in a near panic.

  “An hour,” I mutter to myself. “Hour and a half, tops.”

  It’s been six fucking hours. God, I’m the actual worst.

  How could I trap Corrigan for the entire day into a job she didn’t even want to do? I’ll have to pay her overtime—no, double. And do something extra nice for Grier too, to make up for leaving her with Corrigan without giving them a chance to get to know each other first. I might trust Corrigan to the ends of the earth, but to Grier, she’s a total stranger.

  I barge through the front door and race inside, expecting to hear the mother of all wailing meltdowns . . .

  Only to be greeted with laughter. And not just Grier’s giggles, but Corrigan’s too.

  I follow the sound into the dining room, where Grier is in her high chair with Flapflap squeezed in by her side. Corrigan sits next to her, singing the Jaws theme while guiding a small forkful of spaghetti toward her.

  “Daa dun . . . daa dun . . . dun dun dundundundun . . .”

  Grier’s eyes are huge, rapt with anticipation, her little mouth open.

  Corrigan raises her voice for the grand finale. “Doodle-oo!”

  Grier squeals in delight, banging her little fists on the tray, and Corrigan pops the fork right into her open mouth with a grin.

  I’m transfixed. Until now, I’ve only seen Corrigan frowning, or angry, or guarded, or wearing a carefully neutral expression at best. The sight of her happy, affectionate smile is like a blow to my chest.

  But it’s not just her beauty. The scene I’m witnessing is so domestic, so tender. It should seem weird, but everything about it feels . . . right, in a way I’ve never experienced. Coming home to her and my daughter, sitting at the table, bathed in the warm glow of the fading sunlight feels so fucking right and I don’t deserve to feel this swell in my chest.

  Emotion gets stuck in my throat.

  I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t imagined what it would be like to introduce my daughter to the only woman I’ve loved. However, it’s harder than I imagined.

  Finally noticing me, Grier shouts, “Daddy!”

  Corrigan startles, jerking around like she’s been caught, and her smile vanishes, shattering my reverie. “L-Lex. You’re back.”

  Interesting. Lex. Not Lexington. Just like she used to call me Lex back when we were together.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long.” I drag one hand through my hair.

  Corrigan stands and wipes her hands on a dish towel. “We were just finishing up dinner. How’s your mom?”

  “She’s fine now. After running some tests, the doc sent her home.” I stare at them for another second, aware that my brain seems to be working only in slow motion. I think I’m in shock. “You fed Grier.”

  Corrigan looks at me like I’m an idiot, which maybe I am. “Yeah. It was getting late, so I decided to make dinner. I whipped up a little spaghetti. No big deal.”

  “Thank you.” The obvious f
inally occurs to me. “I didn’t think we had the ingredients for spaghetti.”

  “You didn’t. I asked Dak to go to the grocery store and grab what I needed. I would’ve gone myself, but you didn’t leave a car seat, so I couldn’t take Grier with me.”

  “Oh. Right.” There are a hell of a lot of things I didn’t do. My guilt resurfaces. “I’m really sorry for taking so long. I left my phone here so I couldn’t call and then time just got away from me. What can I do to help? Is there anything left to do that I can take care of?”

  “Well, between the ice cream, the finger-painting, and the spaghetti sauce . . . I would say she needs a bath.” She looks at Grier and pokes her chubby cheek. “Don’t you think so, sweetie? You decorated yourself, didn’t you?”

  Grier grabs her finger. “Yeah. I make me pretty.”

  “You’re always pretty, baby girl.” Then I process what Corrigan actually said. “I have a finger-painting set?”

  Corrigan shrugs. “You do now. We stopped at the children’s toy store on the pier when we went for our walk.” She points to the doorway leading into the kitchen. “She’s quite the artist.”

  I step back to look, and sure enough, a colorful portrait of pink and blue smears is now hanging on the fridge. “Are these flowers?” I ask Grier.

  Grier frowns at me as if it’s obvious. “T-Rex princess.”

  I bend down to kiss the top of her head. “Oh, of course. How silly of me. She’s the most beautiful, ferocious dinosaur royalty I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Not technically a lie—I’ve only ever seen this one.

  “Oh, right, I almost forgot,” Corrigan says. “I figured you might be hungry, so I made enough spaghetti for the three of us. Your portion’s on the stove. It should still be warm.”

  My stomach growls on cue. I was so wound up with anxiety about Mom and Grier and Corrigan, I haven’t paused long enough to even register my body’s needs before now.

  And that soft feeling is back. Probably just because I haven’t had someone around to take care of me in a long time. “Thanks. Let me just get Grier cleaned up, and I’ll walk you out.”

  Corrigan shocks me again by saying, “There’s no rush. Why don’t you give her a bath, and I’ll finish cleaning up here?” She stands up as if it’s already decided.

  Still somewhat dazed, I follow orders and take Grier upstairs.

  This is all so much newness to navigate. I’ve been a single dad since day one, so it goes without saying that I never had a partner. Never shared household responsibilities with anyone at all before, let alone someone I’m insanely attracted to and have an intense history with. It’s surreal . . . but feels natural at the same time. Once again, it’s like a snapshot from an alternate reality. An enviably cozy, contented life.

  Fucking snap out of it, Lex. She’s not here to play house with you.

  Maybe I’d have a life like this if nineteen-year-old me hadn’t been such a cowardly dipshit. But that’s not how it went down, and that’s not what’s happening now.

  Corrigan is just doing what needs to be done for Grier’s sake. I shouldn’t get used to this illusion of a shared home, and I definitely shouldn’t let myself be seduced by its warmth and get wrapped up in what could have been.

  “So, what did you and Corrigan do today?” I ask Grier while soaping her up. “Tell me everything.”

  “Yummy ice cweam. Seagulls said aaah!” She cracks up at her own noisy bird impression.

  “Sounds like a great day by the beach,” I say. “And you painted too. Was that fun?”

  “Yeah. Messy paint. I made big picture.” She flings her arms out to illustrate, pelting me with drops of soapy water.

  “I saw. A masterful portrait of Her Highness, the great Princess T-Rex.”

  “No, Daddy, it Flapflap playing in da sky.”

  This time I’m the one who laughs. “Oh, you’re right. Sorry.”

  I keep encouraging her with commentary as I scrub, rinse, and towel her dry. Her merry jabbering puts a smile on my face and melts away my stress about Mom’s health.

  And if I strain my ears, I can just barely hear Corrigan working away downstairs.

  God, she’s already done enough, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her to go when she was willing to stay a little longer. Plus, I’d like to talk to her out of earshot of Grier before she leaves.

  I spray detangler and comb out Grier’s curls. I learned the hard way that her hair must be brushed after her bath, otherwise it’ll tangle into a snarled mess.

  As I dress her in pajamas, Grier says with big, solemn eyes, “My like Cor-gan lots.”

  “Me too, baby girl,” I reply. Way too much.

  “Say night-night?” Grier asks.

  “Yeah, Corrigan has to go home. But we’ll . . .” There’s no guarantee we’ll see her soon, or ever again.

  “No,” Grier says shrilly. “We give bye-bye!”

  “Okay, sweetheart. Come on,” I say as I hoist her into my arms.

  By the time I’ve reached the last stair, she’s already half asleep, her head heavy on my shoulder. I round the corner . . . and I’m astounded again. Everything is spotless and back in its proper place, except for the foil-covered plate she set out for me at the table, complete with silverware and a napkin.

  Corrigan herself is waiting for me by the door with her purse. She looks beautiful.

  I bring Grier close, and she reaches out to touch Corrigan’s arm.

  “G’night,” Grier manages to mumble before her head drops back onto my shoulder, where she nestles in close, pressing her face to my neck.

  “I’ll write you a check as soon as you decide your rate,” I whisper. And whatever figure she names, I’ll top it with a generous bonus. “I really can’t thank you enough for today. You seriously saved my skin.”

  Corrigan runs her fingers through Grier’s hair. “It was no problem. I mean, when you first left, I kind of wanted to castrate you,” she whispers back, smiling. “But it was your mom. You couldn’t exactly ignore her. Besides . . . Grier is a really sweet little girl and we had a lot of fun today.”

  “She is. She’s my whole world.” I hesitate, then think, Fuck it—nothing ventured, nothing gained, and take the leap. “And I need you, Corrigan. There’s no one else I’d trust.”

  She looks away, swallows, and I’m so prepared to hear absolutely not that I almost don’t catch her murmuring, “I’ll do it. Text me the details.” And with that, she’s gone without another word.

  I take Grier back upstairs, lay her gently in bed, and return to eat my dinner.

  It’s the best spaghetti I’ve ever tasted.

  9

  * * *

  CORRIGAN

  Let me state the obvious—two-year-olds are a lot of work.

  Don’t get me wrong, Grier is absolutely precious. Sure, it took a while for the shock of the whole situation to fade, but once I had her wandering along the beach with her tiny hand in mine and the other with a death grip on a strawberry ice cream cone, something in my brain just switched. Yes, I wanted to chop Lexington’s balls off the second he walked out the door, but by the end of the day, I was actually a little bummed to be leaving my new bite-sized bestie behind.

  Of course, that went away the second I slid into the driver’s seat of my car, when exhaustion hit me like a freaking tidal wave. I’m talking about a level of tiredness that no amount of coffee from Lexington’s fancy new espresso machine could fix. The kind of exhaustion that makes you wonder if caffeine pills are such a bad idea and, more importantly, if Lexington is superhuman for doing this whole parenting thing all by himself.

  How in the world is he managing to raise his daughter by himself while running such an enormous real estate business? And why is Grier’s mom not taking some of that responsibility off his hands?

  My mind churns with questions the entire drive home. But by the time I step through my front door, there are only two things on my mind—my comfy pants and my bed.

  Yes, it’s only eight p.m.
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  Yes, the sun is still out.

  No, I do not care. Judge me if you must.

  Between navigating awkward small talk with my ex and putting in a good six hours of emergency babysitting, I need a full eight hours of sleep more than I need oxygen right now. As I lug myself up the stairs, I picture a sleepy little Grier, nuzzled up in her daddy’s bulky arms, too tired to even say good-bye to me tonight. That’s how I feel right now. Only I don’t have a big strong man to carry me to bed. Just my two very exhausted legs.

  Upstairs, I hurry through my bedtime routine, which includes a few additional steps tonight. It’s not every day I wash pasta sauce out of my hair and have to scrub finger paint from beneath my nails. I guess I should start getting used to this, though. I accepted this nannying job, after all.

  Once I’m feeling fresh and clean again, I slip into a pair of comfy pajama pants and a tank top. Two seconds later, I’m beneath my fluffy white duvet, letting out an audible sigh of relief as soon as my head hits the pillow.

  Time for some much-deserved me time. Maybe I should zone out and fall asleep watching some dumb reality show. Or I could finally start that book that’s been gathering dust on my nightstand.

  But before I can make up my mind, my phone buzzes on my nightstand with a text from Lexington.

  Are you sure you’re a teacher and not a chef?

  My brows push together as I text back a string of question marks, but he replies right away with a spaghetti emoji, an equals sign, and a flame emoji.

  A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. So this is how we’re communicating now? Emojis?

  I guess I’ll play along. Scrolling through my emoji keyboard, I hunt down the chef, the shrugging guy, and the girl tossing her hair. No use acting humble. My pasta game is killer.

  He shoots back the laughing so hard you’re crying emoji before switching back to real words.

  Seriously, though. The food, the finger-painting, everything. You’re magical. You’re like freaking Mary Poppins or something. I don’t know what I would have done without you today. I owe you big-time.