by Sarah Adams
I’m scanning, I’m scanning, I’m scanning, and….bingo!
There’s a tall man with dirty-blond hair, a to-go cup in each hand, walking toward a young girl sitting at a table. This has to be them. Charlie and I approach the two, and the girl notices us first. Her eyes light up when she sees Charlie, and I recognize the look. It’s the same one everyone gives my dog. It’s a look that says she’s seconds from lunging at him, and I’m going to have to tenderly ask her not to pet Charlie while he has his vest on.
Mr. Broaden notices that something has caught his daughter’s eye and he turns.
And then, BAM. The most spectacular pair of blue eyes hits me, and I almost feel like taking a step back. I’m staring into his eyes and dreaming of swimming in the shallow part of the ocean where you can still see your feet but the water is so blue that it looks like God dipped his brush in it after painting the sky. I immediately appreciate the way his eyes perfectly contrast the white cotton t-shirt that’s straining over his chest and shoulders.
I mean, wowza. Is this the kind of dad hospitals are cranking out these days? Where do I sign up?
I’ll take one dad with dirty-blond hair, tan skin, 6 ft tall, glittering blue eyes, and a chiseled body that makes my face turn into molten lava, please. Actually, better yet, I’ll just take this one. Thanks.
It’s impressive how quickly my mind absorbs the information that his ring finger is blissfully empty. Not a tan line in sight.
“Mr. Broaden?” I ask, sounding a little too excited for my taste. Take it down a notch, Evie.
“Yes?” he says tentatively, and I notice him briefly take me in. His eyes scan all the way down me until they land on Charlie and stop. He frowns and looks back up at me.
That’s a little bit odd.
I move my binder under my arm and then extend my hand to him. “I’m Evie Jones. It’s so nice to meet you in person!” My southern accent is friendly and inviting, and if we’re being honest, a little bit adorable, but he’s not taking my hand.
Why isn’t he shaking my hand? He’s staring at it like he’s just escaped from a deserted island that he’s been stranded on for most of his life. Human contact is foreign to this man.
My smile falters, and an odd feeling settles in my stomach. Finally, he seems to remember some sort of manners and shakes my hand. The moment his skin settles against mine I feel my whole body break out in chill bumps. Until this moment, I’ve been completely unaware of how important it is to me to have a man with hands so large they completely engulf mine. My hand looks like a tiny baby hand inside his, and I love it.
Mr. Broaden pulls his hand back, and I’m pretty sure he takes a step away from me. The bad feeling returns.
“I’m sorry, but…do we know each other?” he asks, his voice deep with only the slightest touch of a southern accent.
I’m not exactly sure how to respond to his question since we technically have met, but only over email. But he should know that already. He looks blindsided. Like I’m an insane woman who has just approached his table and he’s concerned I’m going to try to kidnap his daughter and run away.
It’s at this point that I realize the little girl at the table is biting her lip and focusing intently on the paper cup in front of her. She looks just about the right age to spell honey with a U and two Ns.
Chapter Two
JAKE
All of the alarms are sounding in my mind. Who is this woman? Why is she standing in front of me, looking at me as if I should know her? Is she a client of mine? No. I definitely don’t know her. Believe me, I would remember.
She’s exactly the sort of woman I would take one long look at and then mentally transcribe in my little black book of DO NOT EVER CONTACT AGAIN. I’m writing her name inside, shutting it, wrapping a chain around it, bolting it, and dropping it to the bottom of a lake.
This woman is trouble. Gorgeous, tempting trouble.
She’s too beautiful. And that immediately turns me off to her, because I just got off the phone with Too Beautiful. Not even five minutes ago, Too Beautiful was calling from Hawaii to tell me that she wouldn’t be able to visit Sam this weekend like we’d planned because her new boyfriend surprised her with a trip to some tropical resort. She said it as if I should be happy for her. I’m not happy for her. I kind of hope that the shark from Jaws comes and swallows Natalie up while she’s floating on a yellow tube in the ocean.
In case you’re currently worried about my mental health, you should know I haven’t always been this vengeful. Not sure if that makes it better or worse. I didn’t get to my current level of angst overnight. It took months of watching my daughter cry in her bedroom when her mom didn’t show up like she said she would, didn’t call like she said she would, wasn’t there for Sam like she promised she always would be.
Yeah, I don’t have any illusions anymore. Too Beautiful only sticks around until she gets bored.
I watch the woman carefully, not willing to let my guard down around this woman for one second. Her wide smile falters, and she looks at my daughter, Samantha, with a question in her eyes. This concerns me even more. It concerns me more than the fact that I’ve already memorized exactly what shade of green Evie Jones’s eyes are.
Mrs. Jones—the woman I know I’ve never met before this moment—comes to some sort of conclusion, and she looks back up at me. She smiles again, and my stomach tightens. I consider finding the dang key to my black book and fishing it out of the lake.
“I’m guessing you’re not the one who emailed me?” asks Mrs. Jones.
“Emailed you?” I ask, feeling like a patient learning he has amnesia. “No, definitely not.”
She nods and chews her bottom lip briefly while casting her eyes down at her dog. Her service dog. There’s a binder tucked under her arm with the words Southern Service Paws written across it.
Ahh—and now I have it.
Sam has been leaving their pamphlets around our house for weeks. She’s been begging me endlessly to let her get a service dog ever since she saw an interview of a woman and her service dog on an episode of Ellen. But I’ve been firm in my answer of no, and that answer still stands.
I’m not entirely sure how to proceed here. I’m mad that my daughter has evidently gone behind my back and contacted whomever this woman is without my knowing. But I also know that she’s had a hard year with her mom leaving and then being diagnosed with epilepsy, so I don’t want to pile on by reprimanding her in front of this woman. At the same time, it’s not okay for her to be pulling stunts like this. Ever since she was diagnosed, she’s been acting out in strange ways, and I’m not always sure how to handle her.
When I told her that her mom couldn’t (wouldn’t) make it to her birthday party last month, Sam told me to cancel the whole thing. I wasn’t going to, but she completely freaked out, crying and yelling that birthday parties were stupid anyway and she didn’t even want one. She’s quiet these days, too—holing up in her room more than I think is healthy.
I wish more than ever Natalie had stuck around. I’m in over my head here doing this parenting thing alone. Sam needs her mom, but she needs her mom like she used to be. Not this new woman who’s obsessed with the size of her waist and how many likes she got on her Instagram bikini photo.
But this isn’t the time to fume over Natalie.
I turn to Sam and raise an eyebrow. “Did you email Mrs. Jones?”
“Miss,” says the woman quickly and then smiles. “It’s just Miss Jones. Evie, actually.”
I choose not to dissect exactly why she felt the need to clarify that and move on.
“Did you email her?”
Sam dodges my gaze and looks down at her hot chocolate. She bites her lips together and then crinkles her nose. That’s really not fair. She knows that’s her secret weapon to get out of trouble, and she’s using it now.
“If I admit to it, am I going to be in trouble?” Sam was only born ten years ago, but I swear, she’s sixteen.
I refuse to look at Evi
e. There’s no need. I’ll be done with her in five minutes, and she’ll be on her way, and I’ll never think of her and her cute accent again. “How about if you fess up to it now, I’ll only take away your iPad for one week instead of two?”
Most kids pout right about now. Not Sam.
“Five days and you have a deal.” Her brown eyes look up at me, and she’s Natalie in the flesh. This girl is going to be trouble.
I can hear Miss Jones try to hide a chuckle from beside me, but I still refuse to look at her.
“One week. It was wrong of you to go behind my back, and you know it.” I go easy on Sam because, honestly, she’s a good kid, and I know that even though she looks tough, she’ll cry in her pillow tonight if she knows she has disappointed me. And even though I’ll never admit it to her, I’m impressed that she managed to hack into my email, impersonate me to set up this meeting, and then convince me to take her out for hot chocolate at the agreed meeting place.
I hope she channels this cleverness to cure cancer one day and not to rob a bank.
“Okay,” says Sam, tucking a lock of her dark-brown hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry.”
Sam and I smile at each other for a minute, and I think I’ve handled this situation well. I don’t always come out on top of these parenting moments, but this one feels like a win.
Miss Jones clearing her throat beside me reminds me that I’ve still got a loose thread to tie up.
Or cut off.
I turn to the woman beside me and force my eyes to see her without really seeing her. “I’m sorry to have wasted your morning, Miss Jones. But as you can see, there was a little miscommunication between my daughter and me.” I’m just about to turn my back to this woman and join Sam at the table when Miss Jones speaks up.
“The morning doesn’t have to be a waste. I’m already here, and I have all my information with me. If you’re interested, we could still—”
“I’m not interested,” I say, cutting her off.
I can tell I’ve startled her, because her glittering green eyes are wide and her lips are separated. I don’t want to be a jerk to this woman, but I’m also not in the mood to deal with her or her sunny smile. And definitely not her long legs that I’m refusing to notice. Is she wearing tennis shoes with a dress? Did she jog here? Never mind. I don’t care. Miss Jones needs to go.
“It was nice to meet you, and again, I’m sorry for taking up your morning.” There. I said it in a way that was final but still nice enough that people will want to cast me in a children’s television show where I pull on a red sweater and pretend to like everyone.
I glance at Sam, and she looks so disappointed that it physically hurts me somewhere in my chest. I know she thinks having a service dog is going to solve all of her problems, but she’s wrong. A dog can’t keep her safe. But I can, and I will. I’m not about to just step back and let a dog do the responsibility that is mine. If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that I can’t trust anyone else to love and care for my daughter the way I do. Definitely not a dog.
“Are you sure you don’t want to hear just a little bit about the company or our process? I’ll even go so far as to mention that no question is too silly.” This woman is unbelievable. I’ve already sat down, and she’s making me drag my gaze back up to her.
“In the email, it said that your daughter has epilepsy.” Miss Jones’s smile grows as if we are talking about a mutual favorite TV show rather than a life-altering disability. It grates on me. She looks down at her dog, and her smile grows more devastating. “This is Charlie. He’s been trained as a seizure-assist dog, but he also alerts—”
I hold up my hand to stop her. I’m not proud of how condescending that made me look, but honestly, this woman is just not taking the hint, and I want her to go away. “I don’t think you’re understanding. We don’t want to hear about your company or the dog.”
“No, you don’t want to hear about the dog,” Sam says under her breath but at a volume definitely meant for me to hear it.
I look at Sam and prepare to tell her to watch it because she’s already on thin ice when Miss Jones pipes in again. “If Sam is interested, I would really love to get to tell you about Charlie and how he’s—”
Now, before you judge too harshly what I say next, you should know that I’ve had a bad week. Nothing has gone right. I’ve been looking into private schools for Sam to attend in the fall where they can give her more attention than she’d get in her public school, and she’s hated every single one of them that we’ve toured. I’ve had to tell her that she can’t go to Jenna Miller’s eleventh birthday party sleepover three times, and I had to deal with Sam storming up the stairs all three of those times with the words I hate you lingering in the air between us.
On top of all this, she had a longer than usual seizure last week that scared the heck out of me, and I haven’t slept in the past six months since she was diagnosed. I can’t stand the thought of her having a seizure in the night and me not knowing about it, so I get out of bed at least fifteen times a night to check on her before I usually just give up and make a pallet on her floor.
Because of all these things, I stand up so fast that my chair scrapes, and everyone in the coffee shop turns to watch me be a complete jerk to this woman.
“Stop. I told you we don’t want to hear about your company’s dog. I don’t know if you're hard up for the cash or what, but you should know that you’re coming across as an annoying car salesman about to get fired if he doesn’t meet his quota for the week.”
I know… It was bad.
Miss Jones shifts on her white-sneaker-clad feet, and her dog’s ears shoot up. I’m prepared for all sorts of replies from her, including her siccing her dog on me for being so rude. I’m not, however, prepared for her smirk. “So, I’m a man in this analogy?”
I’m honestly not sure how to respond to that, so I settle for a very mature shrug.
She scoffs and shakes her head at me. I see pity in her eyes, and I don’t like it one bit. Mainly because I feel like I need it, and I despise feeling like I need anyone’s help.
“Good luck to you, Mr. Broaden.” She leans in close to me, speaking low in my ear and alerting my senses to the fact that she smells as good as she looks. “You’re going to need it when you try to walk out of here with your head shoved so far up your butt.”
I’m a statue as I watch Evie Jones and Charlie walk out of the coffee shop, her sundress swaying with her hips, and my daughter’s angry gaze burning a hole in the side of my face.
Chapter Three
JAKE
Sam doesn’t speak to me all the way home. Doesn’t even take the bait when I ask if she wants to stop by her favorite ice cream shop and get a double scoop. Shawn Mendes’s falsetto is blaring over the speakers, and I honestly have no idea how else I can redeem myself in her eyes.
I’m practically screaming LOVE ME to my ten-year-old daughter, and she’s plugging her tiny little pierced ears, holding all the power.
How did this happen? How did I get here? Shouldn’t she be the one begging me for mercy after the stunt she just pulled?
Instead, I’m seconds away from offering to clean her room and do her homework for a month. I’m a total schmuck, but I don’t care. Sam and I have always had a close relationship. Even before Natalie left, I was the one who Sam gravitated toward. I’ve always been able to see how brightly I shine in her eyes. But right now, they look dim, and she looks more disappointed in me than ever. I will do anything to see her smile right now.
“I’ve gotta stop off at the office real quick to pick up a few plans,” I tell her as I pull up in front of Broaden Homes.
It’s my residential architectural firm—as in, I built this little company from the ground up. It’s not the biggest firm in town, but it’s not the smallest either. Honestly, I’m doing pretty well for myself, and as I walk through the large, light-oak doors of the historic downtown building I renovated and turned into our offices, I feel a shot of pride. I a
lso feel a little longing.
Ever since Natalie left and Sam was diagnosed with epilepsy, I haven’t been able to devote as much time to the business as I would like. The two other architects I have employed here are working double-time to pick up the extra slack I keep dropping. But being a single parent in the summertime is hard enough. Add in a newly discovered disability and an endless string of sleepless nights, and you get nearly impossible.
“Jake, what are you doing in here today?” asks Hannah, one of my two head architects on staff, as she steps out of her office.
It’s a smallish building with only three smaller offices for the architects and one large common space for meetings and assistants to work. But it's a beautiful space, even if I do say so myself. Floor to ceiling windows line the front of the building; the flooring is made of wide, natural plank wood; and a massive, 15-foot-long farmhouse table is in the center of the common space for meetings.
“I just wanted to stop in and grab those plans of the Halbert’s build.” And feel like myself again for a minute.
Hannah levels me with a look before putting her hands on her hips. “I thought you were giving that project over to Bryan?”
“I was. I did.” I run my hand through my hair, wishing I didn’t have to get through a customs checkpoint before making it into my own office. “Last night I thought of a few ideas for the mudroom problem we were having, and I thought I might take a look at the plans again. I think if I move it—”
“That sounds like something Bryan—the man you handed the project over to because you were so exhausted you were falling asleep on your desk in the middle of the afternoon—should be worrying about.”
