Single Dad Seeks Juliet Page 3

  Calmly as I can, I take the stack and pass it around to each of the ladies. Honestly, these NDAs cannot get signed soon enough if they’re going to be the official contestants. Thankfully, though, at this stage in the competition, there isn’t that much meaningful information they could have leaked. I haven’t revealed the Bachelor to them—or myself, frankly. All I have is a weird phone conversation with Jake Brent’s daughter. Until he signs all the documentation, it could all go down the drain.

  Ha. Ha-ha-ha.

  Man, nothing makes you laugh in absolute terror like the threat of sheer and utter devastation to your livelihood, right?

  “Hi, ladies,” I greet, trying my damnedest to make a smile reach my eyes. I’m a skeptic at my best, and a cynic at my worst. Honestly, since my breakup with Raleigh, I’m barely functioning on a human level.

  I’m more like Skeletor, the almost human woman.

  Though, considering everything I’ve been through with my bastard ex, I think that’s pretty damn understandable.

  Ugh. Do not go there, Holley.

  On a discreet breath, I shove all thoughts of Raleigh Reynolds and his cheating dick aside and focus on the job at hand—this dumb, wait, I mean, awesome contest.

  “Thanks for your patience as I finished up a call…” I smile conspiratorially. “With your bachelor!”

  They all clap and giggle, and I have to fight the urge to cover my ears. It’s good that they’re excited. It wouldn’t make for an interesting read if they were feeling super lackluster about the whole thing, but that doesn’t make me enjoy it any more. Frankly, the shrill sound of their joy kind of makes me want to ralph.

  “Let me tell you…he is great,” I lie. I know absolutely nothing about him—don’t even know for sure who he is. “You’re all going to be so thrilled with the man who’s been chosen.”

  They all squeal. I wince and look around to make sure I haven’t somehow stumbled into the middle of a pig farm, but all I find are relentlessly attractive, svelte women.

  “Great,” I mutter to break up the noise. “I’m so glad you’re all excited. But in order to get started, we need to get some paperwork out of the way. First, you’ll find a document in front of you. It’s a nondisclosure agreement. Essentially, it means that you agree to keep the details of the contest to yourself. That means your dates, the bachelor, your involvement in the contest…anything pertaining to Bachelor Anonymous, you’re strictly—legally—forbidden to talk about.”

  “But what about, like, Twitter?” one of them asks, her blond bob swinging side to side.

  “No Twitter.”

  Her eyebrows knit.

  “Instagram?”

  “No. No social media platforms, no texts, no phone calls, no letters…” I laugh to myself. Suddenly, I have a handle on every method of communication, and yet ten minutes ago, all I could come up with was carrier pigeon. “It’s all legally forbidden. You are not to discuss the details of this with anyone.”

  Another woman with wavy auburn hair opens her mouth, and I cut her off. “Not your mom. Not your sister. No one.”

  They all kind of frown, but I charge ahead. “It’s like being on a jury. You are sworn to secrecy over the details until the contest is completely over. And even then, you’ll have to be released from your nondisclosure agreement in order to share anything.”

  “What’s the point if we can’t share anything?” the blonde asks again.

  “To find love,” I offer. “To meet someone you can spend the rest of your life with.”

  “But, like, how would that work? My mom is going to want to meet the guy I marry,” the blonde asserts.

  I nod, though I kind of want to smash my head into the table. Really, though, it’s my fault. I should have seen this coming. When there’s this much hair spray in a room, the fumes are at least partially noxious. I should have told Dolly to put them in a room with a window.

  “The nondisclosure will almost definitely end after the contest is over,” I begin to explain. “And then, you’ll be free to share your relationship wherever you and your partner like. But it’s an integral part of the contest now. It’s to protect both your and the bachelor’s privacy as you get to know each other.”

  Four of five women put their pens to the paper and sign. One, though, she’s a holdout for some reason. To be honest, I can’t tell if she has a genuine problem with those terms or if she’s still trying to make sense of it all in her head.

  I take a deep breath, reminding myself that these women have done nothing to wrong me, no matter their striking likeness to Raleigh’s assistant, and smile.

  “Is there something I need to explain more?”

  She shakes her head but doesn’t offer up any explanation for her hesitance.

  “Are you uncomfortable with the terms? You’re free to back out at any time if this makes you uncomfortable, and we’ll fill your slot with another contestant.”

  That apparently strikes a chord. She picks up the pen and signs her name at the bottom of the paper.

  “Great,” I approve with a smile, collecting the NDAs and filing them in my folder immediately. “Now we can move on to the fun stuff.”

  More squeals fill the air, and I reach into the folder, pull out the next round of forms, and mentally brace myself to be stuck in this room of giggly squealers for the next hour and a half.

  Lord, please give me strength.

  Jake

  Music thumps through the ceiling of the kitchen like there’s almost no buffer of drywall and wood at all between one floor and the next, but I’m the one who built this house—I know better. The construction is sound.

  That can only mean one thing—my daughter Chloe is trying to communicate with otherworldly lifeforms via her stereo system.

  Just another normal Tuesday night.

  I smile to myself as I jog down the hall and take the steps two at a time up the stairs to the second floor. I pass a guest room and bath and knock on the closed door on the right with four hard raps. There’s no point in wasting my time with a gentle tap. She’s raving in there—there’s no way she would hear me.

  “Chloe!” I yell through the closed door when the volume doesn’t descend to non-rock-concert levels immediately. “Open up!”

  The heart-shaking music finally drops in intensity, and a few seconds later, the door swings open to my beautiful daughter’s repentant face. “Uh, hey, Dad. Music too loud?”

  I shake my head with a smile and a laugh. “I’ve only just started to bleed from my ears.”

  “Sorry,” she apologizes with a giggle.

  “It’s fine. I mean, when I go deaf in about five years, you’ll only have your music to blame. But it’s perfectly fine.” I grin, and she just rolls her eyes on another giggle.

  I reach forward and tug on the end of her long ponytail. “And it’s time to come down for dinner anyway.”

  Something rings on the screen of her iPad, which is propped up on its stand on the desk, and we both look behind her to the source of it.

  “Okay, Dad,” she agrees, walking swiftly toward the tablet. “Let me just answer this call from Hailie and tell her I’ll call her back, and then I’ll be down.”

  I look at the screen harder, trying to make out the image there. It doesn’t look like Hailie at all, and I’m instantly confused.

  “Uh, Chlo?” I prompt.

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “Is Hailie dressed like a chicken or something?”

  “What?” she asks, turning her head to face me, the screen still ringing.

  “I know you said it’s Hailie, but it looks like a guy dressed like a chicken to me.”

  She looks back to the screen and bursts out laughing, grabbing her stomach so hard she almost falls to the floor when she glances back at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Oh my God, Dad. That’s not Hailie. That’s my screensaver of Conan O’Brien dressed as The Crazy Rooster!”

  Her laughter rings out in peals as she finally does somethi
ng to answer the call, and a camera screen pops over the man-chicken, putting Hailie’s face in the window.

  Ohh.

  “Oh my God,” Chloe squeals again, immediately inciting a whirlwind of excitement from her best friend. “My dad just confused you and Conan O’Brien!” she yells toward the screen, and I take that opportunity to make my exit with a roll of my eyes.

  “Two minutes, Chlo,” I remind her, and she turns around to nod as I’m shutting the door, still laughing so hard she can hardly breathe.

  Jesus, I think to myself. Some days I convince myself that forty is still young. And then, moments like this make it painfully obvious just how old I’m actually getting.

  I’m halfway down the stairs on my way back to the kitchen when my phone vibrates in my back pocket.

  I pull it out and look at the screen.

  One new message: Heather

  Ah, the lovely Heather. A flight attendant with an irregular route, she’s been one of the easiest women to meet up with without complication as of late.

  She comes into town, we get together if it works out, and then she goes back on her way without any hurt feelings on either side.

  I click the box to open the message and see what she has to say—and to remind myself that I’m not exactly dead and buried yet.

  Heather: Hey, handsome. In town tonight only. Want to get together?

  Ah, tonight only. I hum to myself before typing out a message in response. Shame.

  Me: Can’t tonight, busy. Maybe next time.

  I have a strict rule when it comes to easy sex, and it’s that I never put it ahead of my daughter on my list of priorities. I fit it in where I can, when I can. But I never cancel even the smallest of moments with my daughter to do it.

  If she’s busy with friends or otherwise occupied, okay. But spending time with her is more important than any random fuck will ever be.

  I make my way back to the kitchen and take off the lid to the pot of rice to combine it with the chicken when Heather responds.

  I scan the message quickly, but I don’t feel any guilt or disappointment.

  Heather: ☹ Okay. Next time!

  I close the message and toss my phone onto the counter to free up my hand for an oven mitt.

  A few clicks turn the oven off, and I’m just pulling open the door when Chloe bounces into the room, still feeling the high of my dad-moment-of-confusion. Her amber eyes are so alight they almost look gold, but after one look at my face, she decides to keep any more commentary to herself. Instead, we both turn our attention to the food.

  “Oh yeah,” she celebrates as I pull the chicken out of the oven. It’s my special recipe, developed over many, many years with the help of no cookbooks at all, and one of her favorites. “Heck yes!”

  “Excited?”

  “More than K-Poppers when BTS drops a new album! Your chicken and rice is fire, periodt.”

  “Chlo, you know I don’t know what you just said at all. Please, help your dad out by using English.”

  She laughs. “Come on, Dad. It’s the English of my generation. You’re better off just learning it. Everyone my age is going to be in charge one day. Wouldn’t you rather be in the know?”

  “No,” I refute. “I’m just fine like I am.”

  She rolls her eyes but smiles as I hand her a dish of food before turning back to make my own. She rolls up on her toes and plants a kiss on my cheek as I’m scooping.

  “All right, you can stay uninformed,” she teases. “I’ll be, like, your professional translator.”

  I chuckle. “Works for me, babe.”

  I grab a fork from the drawer, scoop my phone up off the counter, and head for the table behind Chloe. We both take our seats across from each other and dig in.

  It tastes delicious, I’m not afraid to admit, but it’s really not about the food when it comes to dinner with Chloe. I just like to spend the time with her.

  “Did you get your class schedule yet?” I ask, knowing she’s been watching the school website almost religiously, waiting to find out if she and Hailie have anything together for their senior year.

  School doesn’t start for almost another month, but it’s a small private school with an abundance of resources, and they’re normally pretty on the ball about getting things ironed out well in advance.

  She shakes her head, chewing. “Not yet. I think maybe next week.”

  I nod, and my phone buzzes on the table.

  I hate interrupting our family time, but I have to at least read it. I own a construction company in the area, and sometimes important decisions and issues come up even after regular work hours.

  Garrett: Drinks tonight?

  Thankfully, it’s not anything pressing. My buddy Garrett is a San Diego firefighter and, without a doubt, the best guy friend I’ve got. But he’s also a grown man with a life of his own. He gets my priorities, and I don’t have to explain anything to him.

  Me: Sorry, man. Dinner with Chloe.

  Garrett: That’s all right. Some other time.

  I kind of feel bad that I’m not making the effort to meet him after dinner, seeing as his marriage is a fucking dumpster fire, but I rarely get uninterrupted dinners with Chloe anymore. Soon, she’ll be busy with school and friends, and sooner than I’d like to think about, she’ll be moving out of the house and starting college.

  After seventeen years of raising her myself—of dedicating my life to her—I’m honestly not sure how I’m going to handle it. For the time being, I’m determined not to rush any of the time I have. I set my phone back down on the table and turn my attention to her.

  “So,” I say. “How’s your—”

  The back door in the kitchen bursts open, and Garrett walks inside. My head drops forward as I sigh.

  I really should have seen this coming. Because he’s a grown man who gets it—but he’s also a pain in the ass.

  Chloe jumps up from her seat and runs over to him, her feelings about one hundred times more welcoming than my own. “Uncle Garrett,” she squeals, wrapping him up in a tight hug. “Did you bring Hayden and Sarah?”

  “Nope. Sorry. Unlike you, they think it’s totally uncool to hang out with their dad,” he mocks good-naturedly, bobbing his head back and forth like a teenage girl might. “They’re at the movies with friends.”

  “Bummer,” Chloe whispers, and I smile. Not many teenage girls would be genuinely upset by the absence of eleven-year-old twins. Chloe, though, has a natural sense of nurture. In fact, I’d say she has that quality in spite of me.

  When they put her in my arms all those years ago, and I looked down into her amber eyes, I was just a walking, talking grunt factory. I’d spent the last five years in the Navy SEALs—the last month and a half in the thick of a jungle without access to anyone other than my team—and I didn’t know how to do anything with emotion. I’d been taught to be devoid of it, frankly. The only things that got me through those first few days with a newborn girl were patience and finesse—skills I’d trained for—and a whole hell of a lot of luck.

  Somehow, she made it out okay, though. And as a bonus, she taught me to smile and laugh and cry along the way. My biggest hurdle now is convincing her that it’s not her job to take care of me. All she needs to worry about is herself.

  “No tacos?” Garrett accuses as he pulls out the chair across from me and sits down with his plate of chicken and rice. “It’s Tuesday. Everyone knows what you’re supposed to eat on Tuesday.”

  I roll my eyes and lean back into the wooden back of my chair. “You can have tacos. You just have to make them yourself. Since you weren’t invited to this dinner anyway.”

  “What? You said, and I quote, ‘Dinner with Chloe.’ I’m here for dinner with Chloe.”

  I shake my head, but I also have to laugh. Garrett has a way of making things fit his narrative. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Not to mention, I texted you about a nanosecond before you burst in. You were obviously already here.”

  He pretends to ac
t shocked as he shovels a forkful of chicken and rice into his mouth and smiles. “You know what? You and I need to work on our communication skills. That’s all this is.”

  “I think you’re spending too much time with the marriage counselor,” I say as Chloe takes her seat at the table again, this time with an ice cream sandwich from the freezer. She giggles.

  Garrett laughs too, but I can tell his heart’s not really in it as he comments, “Or not enough.”

  Shit. I probably shouldn’t have said anything.

  Thankfully, Chloe is there to bring some sunshine to the mood. “Did Hayden and Sarah get their back-to-school clothes yet? Middle school is such a big deal!”

  “They’re going this Friday and…” He points his finger in the air as he tries to calculate the time. “Not this Sunday, but the next. Apparently, there are different sales on different days or something. Hayden is excited,” Garrett answers. “But Sarah drafted a two-page essay of protest.”

  Chloe snorts. “Oh my God, she’s the best. She’s, like, the coolest little person. She’s into fashion, though, isn’t she? I thought she’d want to go shopping.”

  Garrett shrugs. “She does. She just… Bethanny won’t let them go without her, and she has really strong opinions about what Sarah should get. It usually doesn’t line up with what Sarah actually wants.”

  Man, I make it a point not to judge people or relationships that don’t involve me, but Garrett’s wife Bethanny has proven to be a heartless shrew on more than one occasion. He’s worked so hard to make it work, but at a certain point, I’m just not sure it should work anymore.

  “I could go with,” Chloe offers. “Play buffer and stuff. Maybe Sarah will end up with more of what she wants that way.”

  Garrett leans over and kisses Chloe on the top of the head, and I smile at my girl.

  “That would be amazing, Chlo. Sarah would love that so much.”

  “No problem! I don’t need an excuse to shop.”