by Marie Landry
I was hoping you’d consider accompanying me when I meet with them. I could use the emotional support…and also a buffer if I’m perfectly honest. They’re not bad people, truly. They wouldn’t treat you poorly. They reserve that for me.
I’ve looked over your profile and feel you’d be a good fit. I’ve read the terms carefully, and I’ll happily pay your fee, plus expenses. My parents will be arriving next Tuesday, the 9th. Let me know if you’re agreeable and we can make arrangements.
Cheers,
Kieran
I click over to Kieran’s profile and my eyes widen. When he said he was a student, I expected someone in his late teens, maybe early twenties, but according to his profile Kieran is twenty-nine—a year younger than I am. I click on his tiny avatar and my eyes widen further. Holy hotness! He appears to be average height and build, but it’s his light blue eyes, boyish smile, and wavy dark brown hair that make my breath catch and my heart rev into second gear.
I tend to steer clear of guys my own age who are seeking a companion. The logical part of my brain says I’m a professional who prides herself on remaining so, but the other part of my brain—the part that reminds me I haven’t had sex in months and Kieran is just my type—sends up a red flag. This would be a bad idea. A very bad idea.
There’s a little green circle in the corner of Kieran’s profile picture, which means he’s currently online. Rather than replying to his email, I click on the messenger icon and pull up a chat box. My fingers linger over the keyboard as I formulate a response. Time to show my brain I’m perfectly capable of keeping things professional.
Hi Kieran, it’s Meredith. I just got your email and noticed you’re online, so wanted to get back to you as quickly as possible. While I sympathize with your situation, I’m not sure I’m the best fit for your request. I can, however, recommend two other local companions who often work with students at the college.
I reread the message, cringing harder with each sentence. My aim at professionalism sounds more like a formal business rejection. Although, to be fair, I suppose that’s what this is. Lip curled, I hit send.
The little ‘read’ notification appears next to my message a few seconds later, followed by the three bouncing dots that tell me Kieran is responding. They bounce, disappear, then bounce again. My heart starts to imitate those jumping dots, hopping around in anticipation of his response.
Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, Meredith. I appreciate the offer to recommend someone else, but now I’m rethinking the whole thing. It wouldn’t be fair to subject a stranger to my family, even if that stranger was getting paid. Thanks anyway.
Well, crap. Now I feel bad. I really do need to keep things professional, though. I have rules, and I’ve only ever broken them for Kitty, not that she knows that. I’m sure if I examined my feelings a little closer, I’d see it’s not entirely about Kieran being a hottie; I don’t deal well with family issues. It’s become a bit of a sore spot since my mom’s diagnosis and rapid decline. We were the best of friends, and now…now I’m a complete stranger to her. I’d give anything for five lucid minutes with her.
I’m sorry, I type. My fingers stall on the keyboard. This guy is a stranger and I don’t owe him an explanation, yet something compels me to explain. I sit up straighter, inhaling a slow, deep breath. If you change your mind, please let me know and I’ll recommend other companions to you. Regardless, I hope the meeting with your family goes better than expected.
It won’t, he replies almost immediately. But I appreciate the thought. Take care, Meredith.
You too, Kieran. Good night.
I close the messenger window and flop back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. I’m about to get up and go find something to eat other than cookies when I notice the stack of mail near the edge of my desk. Celia must have put it there. I flip through—bill, bill, postcard from my friend Piper’s bookstore reminding me about the next book club meeting…and something from Birch Hill. I rip it open, nearly tearing the letter inside in my haste.
My heart sinks into my stomach as I skim the words. I force myself to read it again, slower this time, hoping I’ve misunderstood what the head of Birch Hill has written. My mom was always good about saving and investing. She said she’d be set in her retirement, but neither of us ever expected she’d end up living in a place like Birch Hill. She did as much research as she could while she was still able, and made sure her savings, plus her insurance, along with a subsidy from a private charitable group would be enough to keep her in Birch Hill.
But according to this letter, it was recently discovered that the director of the charitable group had been embezzling from the company. Almost all the money is gone, and the group has been shut down while legal measures are taken.
My mind spins as I think of Mom’s bank account and investments. As her power of attorney, I know the exact amount she has available, how much the facility costs each month, and what is paid for by insurance and subsidies—the subsidies she’s no longer getting. Being familiar with bureaucratic bullshit, I can imagine the fight ahead of me to secure additional funding. In the meantime, that money has to be supplemented somehow or my mom will have to leave Birch Hill.
I can’t let that happen, which means I’ll have to make up the difference myself. I can’t ask for more rent money from Celia. And I can’t ask for a raise from Hugh and Ivy; they’re already overly generous with my salary, and in normal circumstances it’s more than enough. That means I’ll have to pick up extra clients from Human Touch Companions.
I pull the website back up and click on Kieran’s profile again. Relief surges through me when I see he’s still online. Before I can change my mind, I reopen the messenger window.
Hi Kieran, it’s Meredith again. I’ve been thinking about your request and I was wondering if you’re still interested in having me accompany you to meet your family?
The green check mark appears under my message. I wait for the bouncing dots, but they don’t appear. Crap. I’m about to give up and close the window when a reply pops up.
I was hoping you’d change your mind. You’re a lifesaver.
I don’t know about that, but I sure could use a lifesaver of my own right now.
CHAPTER TWO
“How hot is hot? On a sliding scale of Colin Morgan to Colin Farrell, how hot is he?”
I side-eye my best friend, Ivy, watching her swivel from side to side in her desk chair. She smirks, making me laugh despite myself. I just finished telling her the bare minimum about Kieran, and that’s only because he’s coming here to Bellevue Village where Ivy might see us together. After agreeing to be Kieran’s companion, he wondered if we should meet for a getting-to-know-you session before lunch with his parents next week, so I suggested the Village since it’s where I’m most comfortable.
“He’s…” I think back to Kieran’s profile picture on the HTC site. I may or may not have spent a solid ten minutes studying it last night after we agreed to meet today. I told myself it was only so I’d recognize him when I met him at the café, and not for any other, possibly inappropriate reason. “Since you’re apparently using a scale of Irish hotties, I’ll say he’s Colin O’Donoghue hot. Ooh, or Aidan Turner. He’s Irish, right? Except Kieran’s more…boyish.”
Ivy’s eyebrows bounce around on her forehead. “Yum. Good luck with that.”
“Yeah, thanks. You’re a big help.”
I’m spared from further quizzing when the door to Ivy’s office opens and Hugh strides in. His moss-colored eyes land on me first, and a broad smile lights his features. We share a quick hug before he rounds Ivy’s desk and gathers her in his arms. They probably saw each other less than an hour ago, but they almost always greet each other this way.
Watching them gives me a case of the warm fuzzies. I’ve had a front-row seat through their entire relationship, right from the day they met at this very place. Bellevue Village—formerly Santa’s Village, open only two months of the year—started as Hugh’s project, and I worked
as one of the head elves. It was the perfect situation for me because I was a travel writer at the time and winter adventures weren’t really my thing, so I was able to dedicate those two months of the year to working here full-time. Hugh and I clicked from the beginning, forming a sibling-like bond, and when Ivy started working here she and I became fast friends too.
A few months after they met and fell in love, Hugh and Ivy teamed up and opened the Village as a year-round amusement park. I had already been traveling less because of my mom’s condition, so when they asked me to join the management team full-time I jumped at their offer. Great pay, great benefits, and getting to work with my two closest friends? Hell yeah. A few months later when the opportunity came along to work for Human Touch Companions, my mom had just gone into Birch Hill and I desperately needed to stay busy so the despair wouldn’t take over.
“What brings you by today?” Hugh asks, his Scottish accent wrapping around the words. Even after years of knowing him, there are still moments when it delights me to hear that burr and the way he rolls his Rs. “You’re not picking up another shift, are you?”
“She’s meeting a guy,” Ivy says, reclining in her seat and shooting me a grin.
“It’s not like that,” I say before Hugh can respond. “It’s for HTC.”
“You don’t often work with the lads.” From the way his brow is twitching, I know he’s trying to appear casual when what he really wants is to go into big brother mode.
“Not usually, but these were…special circumstances. Don’t worry, you know I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” A year or so into my solo travels, I met up with a group of girls in London and we took a few self-defense classes together. I may look sweet and innocent, but I could take down a man Hugh’s size if I needed to.
Hugh’s eyes twinkle. “I don’t doubt it for a second.”
I leave Ivy’s office a few minutes later and make my way through the Village to the café. A little seed of guilt niggles at me for not telling Ivy and Hugh about the letter from Birch Hill. Hugh saw my mom regularly over the years before her diagnosis, and he even helped me move her to Birch Hill last year. He was adamant about me not going through it alone.
And because Hugh was there with me and he’d been such a great friend for so long, my mom felt it was a good time to drop a bomb that was almost worse than when she first told me about her Alzheimer’s diagnosis. She wanted me to promise her I would stop visiting her once she no longer remembered who I was. Overtaken by sorrow mixed with helplessness and anger, I argued for all I was worth, but she wouldn’t budge on her decision. She swore Birch Hill offered the best care imaginable, and she would be comfortable and well looked after there. She knew I would grieve for her, but she reasoned once the essence of her was gone I’d be grieving anyway, and I would suffer twice as much because we’d always been so close. She said she was ultimately doing it for me so I could move on and continue living my life without the added pain of regular visits to a stranger who had my mother’s face.
Part of me hated her in that moment, and hated Hugh too for solemnly agreeing with her when she pressed for his opinion. But she made me promise, knowing I’m a woman of my word. She told me she knew I’d find solace and strength in my friends, and I have.
I’m so grateful for their support, and yet I know what would happen if I told them the current situation: Hugh, who inherited money from his parents when they died, and who has made a ton of his own money in business, would offer to give me whatever I need to keep Mom in Birch Hill. He and Ivy would ask how they could help and if I wanted to talk, and basically smother me with love and sympathy.
While that may sound perfect, I can’t handle any of it right now. I want to lean on my friends, and the rational part of me knows I should, but the part of me that’s felt so fragile since Mom moved into Birch Hill is afraid I would shatter and not be able to put the pieces back together. I can’t afford to let that happen. This is my problem, not theirs.
My feet stumble on the smooth asphalt. My problem. The seed of guilt inside me sprouts into a beanstalk that would rival Jack and the giant’s, ripping through me and squeezing my heart with painful force. My mom is not a problem. Making sure she doesn’t have a single thing to worry about is the least I can do for the woman who loved me unconditionally my whole life.
I’m so lost in thought I almost don’t realize someone has stopped in front of me until they lightly touch my shoulder.
“Meredith?”
My gaze locks with a pair of light blue eyes. Kieran. He looks exactly like his profile picture on HTC, except for his hair, which appears a deep, rich auburn in the pale spring sunshine. He clears his throat, making me realize I’ve been staring at his hair, completely lost in the threads of red and gold and brown.
I do a mental facepalm. Way to make a first impression, Meredith.
“H-hi, yes, it’s me,” I say quickly, holding out my hand to shake his. “Sorry, I was just…”
“Off with the faeries, as my gran would say.” His concerned expression is replaced by a bright smile as he grips my hand and shakes it enthusiastically. I should be used to accents by now after knowing Hugh for years, plus Bridget’s husband David is from England, but Kieran’s lyrical lilt is a whole different thing.
“Off with the faeries,” I agree. I remember hearing that saying on my first trip to Ireland many years ago, and the imagery it evokes always makes me smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine.” Our hands remain locked in a handshake that’s gone on much longer than necessary. Finally, he slips his palm from mine and tucks his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Of course. You had a point about us getting to know each other if we want to convince your family we’re good enough friends for you to bring me along to meet them.” I motion toward the café and we take the last few steps to the door, which he opens for me to go first. Darryl, the owner of the café, is behind the counter; I send him a quick wave as I wind around the tables to a two-seater in a quiet corner. “This okay?”
“It’s grand.” Kieran unwinds his scarf and removes his jacket, draping them on the back of one chair. I sit in the other chair and take the opportunity to check him out: lightweight green sweater, dark jeans, black boots. He shoves the sleeves of his shirt up a few inches, exposing leanly muscled forearms and a leather cuff bracelet on one wrist. Plopping into the seat across from me, he grins when he catches me staring.
“Do I pass the test?” he asks.
“Test?”
“Mm, do I look like a serial killer or a charlatan or some other unsavory creature you wouldn’t want to be alone with?”
The question catches me off guard, making me sputter out a laugh. “No, you look perfectly respectable.”
He gives his head a slow shake, mock regret flitting over his features. “Respectable. Damn. And here I was always told I was trouble.” He peers up at me with a playful glint in his eyes.
Oh god. If he keeps smiling at me like that, there will be trouble.
Once Darryl has taken our order—a cup of ‘very strong’ black tea for Kieran and a peppermint hot chocolate for me—Kieran leans on the table, lacing his fingers in front of him.
“I must admit, I’m not quite sure how to go about this,” he says. “I don’t want to seem flirty and have you think I’m making light of the situation. I’m grateful you agreed to meet with me.” He pauses, and before I can respond, he adds, “What changed your mind, if you don’t mind me asking? Was it my sob story? Did I lay it on too thick?”
“No. I changed my mind because I…” Need the money. Nope, can’t tell him that. Wanted to see if you were as cute in person as your profile picture. Definitely can’t tell him that. “I thought it took a lot of guts to go through the screening HTC requires and then contact a stranger. I got thinking about it and decided there was no good reason for me not to help you.”
Darryl arrives with our drinks and I wat
ch as Kieran adds two creamers to the dark brew in front of him. Blech. The tea is so strong I can smell it from here. He takes a sip and nods his approval.
“Well, as I say, I’m grateful. And I promise if we don’t get on today, I’ll let you off the hook for next week.”
His voice is light and he’s smiling, yet there seems to be a real sense of insecurity lurking behind the words. I try to keep my expression neutral; it’s something I learned in my HTC training. My natural empathy can sometimes be mistaken for pity, which tends to put people on the defensive.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” I tell him.
One side of his mouth lifts. “Diplomatic, I like it. You’ll do well with my family.”
I silently thank him for creating the perfect segue. “Tell me about them.”
His smile dims a few notches and he sighs quietly. “I know that’s why we’re here, but I was hoping we might ease into that particular subject…”
“Okay,” I say quickly, hoping to reassure him. “Whatever you want. We’ll talk about something else for now until you’re ready.”
“Cheers, Meredith.” He smiles faintly, taking another sip of his tea. “Can we talk about you? Will you tell me a bit more about Human Touch Companions? I get the general gist of how it works, and I read your profile and your list of…ehm…services?”
I press my lips together to hold back a laugh. I have a feeling he’s curious about one thing in particular: the cuddling. “I’m assuming the friend who referred you told you how things work, and that you read the info on the website before contacting me.” He nods, so I continue. “Okay, so the people who originally created the site with the intention of it being based on the comforts and health benefits of human touch—cuddling, hand-holding, et cetera—quickly realized it could go beyond that. Some people simply want companionship. Someone to sit and talk to or do things with or help them with things. I’ve taken people to appointments, helped them grocery shop, been a study buddy, accompanied people to a movie or a meal, that sort of thing.”
