Single Dad Seeks Juliet Read online

  The disparity is almost too much to handle. How is it possible this man eats anything and everything he wants and still looks like that?

  For shame, Holley! Stop ogling him like he’s the human version of that cookie!

  Jake clears his throat, and I do a slow blink.

  “That’s…interesting,” I say, unable to come up with anything else. Chloe turns away, almost definitely in an attempt to conceal her smile.

  Dangerously close to letting this meeting get completely out of control, I reach into my bag at my side and pull out the folder full of paperwork.

  Business, Holley. Get back to the safety of business.

  Jake looks over at the folder in front of me and turns to Chloe. “Why don’t you—”

  “Going to my room now,” she finishes for him with a smile. “You got it, Daddio.”

  I really have to admire his parenting skills. I’ve never even been a good dog mom. Though, to be fair, Raleigh’s dog Helga always favored him. I swear she had some kind of party the day I left.

  What I don’t do, is mention any of that aloud.

  I don’t think it’s my place to make any sort of commentary on him as a father—even if it’s positive. In my experience, people would much rather you just minded your own business.

  “Well,” Jake says. “What have you got there?”

  I flip through the folder and pull out the simplest of the forms first. It’s a standard NDA, and I’m fairly certain he’s pretty eager to sign it.

  “This is an NDA or a—”

  “Nondisclosure agreement.” He nods and reaches a hand out for me to pass over the paper. I don’t waste any more breath before sailing it across the island in his direction. He catches it, and then reaches out a hand for a pen. Quickly, I dig through my bag and toss one his way.

  He signs it the way most men sign things—with a squiggle I’m absolutely certain looks nothing like his actual name—and sends it back across the marble to me. I catch it and put it in my folder.

  “Next,” he prompts.

  “Next is a form stating that you’re agreeing to participate with the following terms and conditions…” I start to read them off when he wiggles his fingers again. I send the paper across to him, and he catches it with a flat palm to the counter, reading silently to himself.

  “So, not only will you be writing articles about each date, but you’ll be the journalist there after the dates for a debriefing of some sorts?” he asks, lifting his eyes to meet mine.

  “Yes,” I answer. “I’ll actually be at each of the dates the whole time, but not, like, right there with you guys. Just discreetly in the background. Won’t be in your way at all. Promise.”

  “And what’s this thing about a reveal party?” he asks, and I school my face into a relaxed expression, trying to convey that it’s no big thing.

  “Oh, that’s just a small party at the end of the contest,” I say, my voice hopefully as easy breezy as I’m trying to make it. “Once you go on all five of the dates, you’ll choose the one contestant that you think is the best match—the one you want to pursue because you see a possible future with—at the reveal party.”

  Truthfully, the party is going to be kind of big. I mean, there will be caterers and photographers and a guest list, but something tells me those details will officially scare him off…

  He narrows his now-scrutinizing eyes. “Tell me there isn’t an engagement ring and me getting down on one knee involved in this reveal party.”

  “Oh my God, no!” A laugh bursts from my lungs. “There’s no marriage proposal involved. I swear. You’ll just announce which contestant you want to take on a second date. That’s it.”

  “Okay, good. I don’t need some seventeenth-century bequeathal of the dowry or some shit raising my tax liability next year,” he says before going back to reading. I blink three times, trying to make sense of everything he’s just said.

  “The bequeathal…” I repeat softly, making the corner of his pink mouth curl into a smirk. “Oh.” I laugh as it becomes clear that he’s joking. He lets his smirk grow into a smile but largely keeps his concentration aimed at the paper as he reads more.

  He rolls his eyes at some of the bullet-pointed rules farther down the page, but eventually, puts his pen to the dotted line and scribbles.

  “Okay, what else?”

  I look down into the folder and wince. Man, I was really hoping I’d figure out how to make myself a holograph before having to bring up this part.

  “You’re really not going to like this.”

  He quirks a curious brow. “Not going to like what?”

  “The next detail, as it were. But it’s a part of the official rules, and the legal team says it has to be done, and…” I pause, trying to find the right way to deliver this doozy.

  “Holley. What is it?”

  I wince. “Well, you’re required to go get an STI test. And a drug test. And a physical.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. Well, yes. But it doesn’t require peeing or needles or anything. I just need you to fill out a questionnaire to help us plan the dates. What you’re comfortable with doing, some of your hobbies, and if you’re allergic to anything specifically.”

  “Shouldn’t that be in my physical?”

  “Yes,” I agree, one hundred percent. “But the Tribune has a strict policy on anaphylaxis. Mainly, that we are not to cause it under any circumstances. So, we double down just in case it’s not in your medical records.”

  “And the women…?”

  “They have to do all the physicals too. We can’t assure everything—there’s some risk, obviously, as there always is with dating—but we’re trying to lower the percentage as much as possible.”

  He considers me for a minute. My hands shake a little, but I hold eye contact. I will not back down.

  I mean, given enough time and pressure, I probably, almost definitely, will. But the goal right now is for him not to know that.

  I am a steel fortress. These are the terms. Take them or leave them.

  Ha. Ha-ha-ha. I’m sweating.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?” I ask, my voice far too hopeful for someone who should be a balls-of-steel negotiator.

  He nods. “All of it is fine.”

  Instantly, relief washes over me, and I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. My God, the stress, the anxiety…finally, I can start to let it go. This is going to be good. I’m not going to get fired, and maybe, eventually, if it goes well, I can put in for a request to move my office location. Get out from in between—

  “Except…there’s one thing.”

  His words are a pin to my balloon of joy.

  “One thing?”

  “One thing I want done differently.”

  I’m shaking my head before he even gets started. There’s no way they will budge on the doctor’s appointments and the testing and the—

  “I don’t want to fill out some questionnaire about dates with women I know nothing about.”

  The questionnaire? That’s what he has a problem with?

  “It’s just to make—”

  He holds up a hand, and I stop talking immediately.

  “I want to plan each date before it happens, with you,” he further explains. “We’ll go over some information about the woman so I can take each of them into consideration. It’s the only way I’ll do it. And as far as I’m concerned, there’s no way in hell you’re going to learn all you need to know from a stupid piece of paper. You’ll spend a whole day with me, and then you can draw your own conclusions for your articles from that.”

  “This is a deal-breaker?”

  He nods. “I’m not doing this to waste my time, Holley. If I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it. I’m not the type of man who likes to half-ass things or, worse, fail at them. I’d like to have some chance at success, and if you ask me, no piece of paper with a questionnaire is going to give me a shot in hell of doing that.”

  �
��Okay,” I agree. I mean, what else can I do? “You and I…we’ll plan each date together, one by one. And I’ll learn what I need to know about you from spending the day with you—not from a piece of paper.”

  “Great. You free tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” I question more to myself than him. What’s tomorrow? Thursday? “I think—” I almost say yes, but then realize I have a dreaded yearly with my gynecologist. “Wait…I—” And then I almost freaking tell him that I have an appointment with my gyno. Thankfully, I settle on, “Actually, I’m busy tomorrow.”

  “Then Friday?” he offers, and I agree with a nod.

  “Friday works great.”

  “Well, Holley, it looks like you’ll be heading back to the ocean on Friday morning, then.” He winks and turns around to stir the pasta sauce that’s now starting to bubble on the stove.

  Back to the ocean? Oh boy.

  Jake

  I’m just finishing up checking in at the front desk when the door to the office opens behind me. Curiosity is a human reflex, so I turn instinctively to see who’s coming in.

  The results of my reflex, however, are anything but expected.

  With brown hair tucked behind her ears and a makeup-free face, Holley Fields steps inside the door and shuts it behind herself without looking up. She’s wearing a simple white T-shirt, jean shorts, and strappy sandals, and despite a huge height deficit, her legs seem to go on for days.

  I watch her without guilt or subtlety, but it still takes her almost a full minute and actual physical contact to realize I’m there.

  “Oh,” she mumbles quickly as her hands, texting something on her phone, bump into the soft cotton fabric of my baby blue T-shirt. Our toes are nearly touching, which makes the action of her head moving from its downward tilt all the way up to meet my eyes even more dramatic.

  Once recognition sets in, her eyes turn wide and surprised.

  “Jake.”

  “Let me guess, Holley, my homemade pasta sauce last night was so good, you decided to track me down today?” I smile so hard I feel it in the skin behind my ears. “Or wait…don’t tell me, you have to sit in on my doctor’s appointment too? I don’t remember that being in all the fine print.”

  “What?” Her face is downright comical as her brain backpedals. “No, no. Wait. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here for my appointment,” I say with a laugh. When she still looks confused, I take my explanation a step further. “This is a doctor’s office.”

  She stumbles over basic human functions, looking over her shoulder and around the room and back at me with little-to-no traceable rationality. When she lands back at me, I raise my eyebrows.

  “I…I know this is a doctor’s office,” she stutters. “This is your doctor’s office?”

  I laugh again and scratch a hand through my hair. My brain is starting to hurt a little. “Are we speaking the same language at all?”

  “No, yes. I mean…sorry. It’s just… This is my doctor’s office. My…” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Gynecologist. I… Do they do something for men now?”

  I turn to look back up at the front desk window again, and a big typed-up sign is in the center of it.

  Piper Gynecology and SoCal Family Medicine are temporarily sharing office space.

  Please excuse the confusion and the mess, and sign in on the correct sheet.

  Holley follows my line of sight and, apparently, reads to herself.

  “Oh my Jesus.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “I guess we’re doctor buddies today, huh?”

  She looks ready to crawl out of her skin, leave the shell here, and slither out the door.

  And hell, if it isn’t making me want to tease her even more.

  “Doctor buddies,” she mutters with a fake giggle instead. “Great.”

  “I doubt they’ll put us in the same room,” I joke. “Though, I bet we could request it.”

  She shakes her head violently and grabs my arm as I pretend to turn to the receptionist. “No!”

  “Relax,” I comfort with a laugh. “I’m just kidding. I’ll go get the broomstick of the witch in my room, and you’ll go do whatever it is you do in yours.”

  “The broomstick of the witch?”

  I nod. “Extremely powerful, but nearly impossible to procure. Isn’t that a requirement for Bachelor Anonymous? Everything else is.”

  She bites her lip, and finally, as the panic recedes slightly, breaks into a small smile and shrugs. “I guess if it’s in there, you might as well grab it. Can’t hurt.”

  “That’s what I figured. I also assumed I needed to get all this testing and such done as soon as possible, right?”

  She nods. “We are working on a bit of a deadline with the first date next week.”

  “Right. So, I called the doctor first thing this morning, and they fit me in for today.”

  “The doctor’s office squeezed you in same day?” she asks disbelievingly.

  My answering smile is conspiratorial. “I told them it was really important.”

  “Still…a physical doesn’t usually get them jumping to it—”

  She stops midsentence when I rock my head back and forth on my shoulders. Her eyebrows pull together, and I curl a finger in her face, suggesting she come in closer. She does, but not nearly close enough. I widen my eyes, and finally, she gets close enough that I can lean right into her ear to whisper.

  “I may have…possibly…told them that I was experiencing some pain I’m not.” She gasps. “Maybe, kind of, sort of chest pain.”

  She snaps back to standing, her back ramrod straight.

  “You told them you were dying?” she whisper-yells.

  I laugh. “No, no. I just suggested that maybe they should fit me in is all.”

  “You gave them the sense that you might be in cardiac distress, Jake.”

  “No. They may have surmised that on their own—”

  “Oh man. You’re bad.”

  I waggle my brows. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “What do you think they’re going to say when you get in there and you aren’t experiencing chest pain?”

  “Nothing.” I shrug and slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “I’ll play dumb. They’ll think it was a mix-up, and I’ll get my physical.”

  She shakes her head, her eyes wide with panic, and I have to laugh.

  “What? That’s not something you would do?”

  “Never,” she says vehemently.

  “You’re a good girl, huh?”

  “I’m not psychotic, if that’s what you mean.”

  I chuckle.

  “Ms. Fields?” the receptionist calls, making Holley jump almost ten feet in the air. She glances back at me with unrepressed angst and then heads for the reception desk like I’ve somehow included her in high-level Russian espionage.

  I watch avidly as she bends into the window, discussing something with the receptionist I can’t make out, before standing up and making her way back across the room to me. We sit down in chairs next to each other, but it’s more than obvious she thinks even looking at me will make her guilty by association. I lean over and whisper in her ear again.

  “I’m not with the KGB, you know. You don’t have to worry about Homeland Security or anything. This is just a doctor’s office.”

  “You probably just got us both flagged and put on the terrorist watchlist, I hope you know,” she whispers back angrily. “They listen to everything through our phones.”

  “Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “But I said not KGB.”

  “Stop saying KGB!”

  “Are you secretly a Russian operative? Is that why you’re so nervous?”

  “Jake!”

  “All right, all right,” I soothe. “I’ll stop.”

  “Great,” she says with a roll of her eyes. Clearly, she thinks it’s too late now anyway.

  “What can I talk about, Holley? Is there anything that’s safe?”

  “You can talk ab
out bananas?”

  “Bananas?” I ask with a laugh. “Why bananas?”

  “Because they’re a nice, innocent fruit, okay?”

  Also, phallic-shaped, but I choose not to mention that for fear her head might explode.

  “And full of potassium,” I add mockingly, and she glares. “What’d I say wrong now?”

  She sticks out her tongue at me. “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “Oh, come on,” I say, and a chuckle escapes my throat. “Bananas? You knew you had it coming with that one. What am I supposed to talk about with bananas?”

  “I don’t know,” she snipes. “Gwen Stefani managed a whole song on the topic.”

  Man, she’s cute and almost dangerously entertaining. I’ve never met a woman like her in my life. I’ve never seen the appeal of bickering with someone before, but this is unbelievably fun.

  “Ah, yes. I know the song well. Chloe went through a god-awful phase with that one.”

  “It’s not her fault,” she says defensively. “It’s catchy.”

  “Oh no, you too?”

  “It’s a Gwen Stefani classic. It’s not like Chloe and I are alone. Maybe you’re the weird one.”

  “Maybe I am,” I agree.

  “Jake Brent?” the nurse calls from the door beside the reception desk. It feels like no time at all has passed, sitting here teasing Holley Fields, and it almost feels like a shame to leave her. Still, I get up from my chair and bid her adieu.

  She looks at me nervously, obviously thinking I really told them I was suffering symptoms of cardiac arrest to get this appointment—a little fib I thought she’d catch on to immediately since they would have sent me to the ER instead of coming in here like it was no big deal—and I have to work hard not to laugh as I smile.

  Another nurse shoves in next to mine and calls out into the room loudly, “Holley Fields?”

  I bite my lip as Holley jumps to her feet next to me.