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“Listen, Mom,” I sigh, my patience thinning like worn-out fabric. “After Colette, I’m not jumping into anything. I’m good on my own, really.”
Her shoulders droop a smidge, and I feel a tug on my conscience. “It’s been three years, Adrian.”
“When I’m ready, I promise I’ll find someone. On my terms,” I add, softer this time. “Thank Margie for me, but tell them I’m not interested.”
“Okay, honey,” she says, but her eyes are clouded with concern I don’t want or need.
“Bye, Dad!” Caleb calls from the backseat, breaking the tension.
“Bye, buddy.” I lean in, kiss the top of his head, and it’s like pressing pause on all my worries for a split second. “Be good for Grandma.”
“Always am!” He grins, and I chuckle, shaking my head.
“Thankyou again, Mom. For everything.”
“Anything for my boys,” she replies, her smile warming the chill from my bones.
As they drive away, the house swallows me whole. Trust is a currency I can’t afford anymore; every investment has gone bust. Love’s become a luxury item, and I’m not shopping for that kind of heartache again.
Sure, I always wanted two kids, a wife who loves me for who I am—not how much money I have or how handsome I look—and hell, maybe even a cat, but that dream’s collecting dust on the highest shelf, far out of reach.
Maybe someday I’ll take it down, give it a once over, see if it still fits. But for now, I’ve got a son who lights up my world, and a job that consumes every spare thought.
I lock the door on the quiet house, on the quiet life, and let the silence settle around me like a familiar, if not entirely comfortable, blanket.
As I make my way into the kitchen to whip up a whiskey sour, my mind wanders to Isabella. It’s been two months, and our encounter in her office is still lingering in the back of my mind like an itch I can’t scratch. Would she be open for a round two?
Stop it, Cole. Cannot go there. I take a sip of my drink as if it’ll chase down the thought.
This is why single dads should not be left alone for an entire weekend. Lonely, huh? Caleb just might be on to something.
Chapter seven
Isabella
The clock on my office wall ticks louder than a time bomb, mocking me as it hits 8 p.m. My fingers fly over the keyboard, the last of the financial projections blurring into an angry dance of numbers and dollar signs. Adrian’s documents are spread out like a shrine to my wasted Friday night.
“Redone. As requested,” I mutter to myself, hitting save with more force than necessary. He wants precision? I’ll give him perfection wrapped in spite.
I pull out my phone, snapping a quick video to prove my diligence. The clip shows each page, crisp and error-free, ready for his royal inspection. With a few taps, I send it off to Adrian, along with a text that might as well read, “Here’s your precious paperwork, Your Highness.”
A sense of satisfaction bubbles up at the thought of leaving early, too—just like he did. But before I can savor the moment, my phone vibrates with his reply.
“Hand-deliver them. To my home.” His message is accompanied by a digital pin-drop that might as well be a middle finger from the universe.
“For real?” I scoff at the screen, half-tempted to print out the text just so I can shred it.
Instead, I gather the documents, stacking them with a slap against my desk. A bitter taste coats my tongue, the flavor of resentment mixed with the ink of freshly printed pages.
“Fine. If it’s a personal delivery he wants, it’s a piece of my mind he’ll get.” I snatch my workbag, slinging it over my shoulder like a medieval flail, ready for battle.
As I march out of the office, my heels click a rhythm of impending confrontation. I’m not just going to drop off these papers; I’m about to deliver a monologue worthy of a courtroom drama. Adrian Cole, prepare to meet your match.
The moon is casting a golden glow over the manicured lawns of Beverly Hills as I drive through Adrian’s gated community ten minutes later. His neighborhood is as posh as they come, with sprawling estates that scream old money and new Botox. My finger hovers over his contact in my phone before I press it, voice steady, “It’s Isabella. Open up.”
“Coming right up,” his smooth baritone replies through my car’s Bluetooth, and the iron gates swing open like arms welcoming me into the lion’s den.
I pull into the driveway, my modest sedan dwarfed by the grandeur of Adrian’s understated mansion. It’s beautiful in a way that makes me want to roll my eyes—modest for a billionaire, yet still a testament to his success. The lawn is a shade of green that’s probably patented, and I can’t help but grudgingly admit that he keeps his property looking good. Probably has an army of gardeners on speed dial.