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11

JESS

As I plod down the hallway of the renovated Old Mill building, the words, You are such a failure , echo in my head.

So far, in life, I’ve managed to survive, but I have numerous Almost but not quites on my personal scoreboard.

I almost had a family, but never knew my father and my mother cared more about the men in her life than about me.

I almost finished college but was rejected for the non-renewal of my loans.

I almost got acting jobs, but they always hired someone else.

I almost got married, but my fiancé walked out on me.

A long sigh escapes as a sad little cry comes from behind the door. I’m certain Mr. Meanie took the little boy’s cookie away. The monster—for giving it to him at seven a.m. in the first place and then probably tossing it in the trash.

The guy himself could really, really use a cookie.

There’s a children’s picture book called If You Give a Mouse a Cookie , but I wonder what would happen if you gave a grump one … or a cake.

I could bake one and find out.

Now there’s the cringe of having to tell Grandma Dolly and Cara that things didn’t work out with Mr. Ellis. The former will wonder why I at least didn’t get his autograph and the latter will hook me up with the locker room custodian position. However, that’ll mean I’ll still have to see that neanderthal on the daily.

When I reach the elevator, I give a wry smile because his socks didn’t match. I shouldn’t have pointed it out. He seems like the kind of person who cares about that kind of thing, doesn’t have a single fingerprint on his vehicle’s windows, and never wears wrinkled clothing.

He’s an uptight monkey butt—yeah, juvenile, but true.

Who’s calling my name? My full name.

I turn around.

He stands in the doorway, and says, “Jessica.”

The little boy tears toward me, arms wide open. I scoop him up and he clings to me like a little marsupial baby.

I wonder where his mother is, but a twinge in my chest makes me worry she is like mine or perhaps she’s a gorgeous and highly successful lady boss who usually takes care of the household, is a powerful CEO, and manages to make a healthy dinner every night, but she’s away on business and her troglodyte husband is playing Mr. Mom.

Yep. This guy would only date, no less marry, a woman with unfairly long legs. Hairless too. I bet she never gets spider stubble.

Liam Ellis grips the doorframe overhead. I’m not sure whether he’s holding up the building with those massive biceps or needs someone to lean on.

“Yes?” I ask, not sure if the child just wanted to say goodbye or if I’m keeping this job I so desperately need. On second thought, cleaning locker room toilets wouldn’t be the worst.

The little love muffin nestles into my neck like he never plans to let go. I don’t sense abuse here—those are red flags I’d see a mile away. My guess is Mr. Meanie does not have the dad thing figured out.

His expression is stony. “I didn’t think it would be that easy to get rid of you.”

“Yeah, well, I know when I’m not wanted.” Which is all the time.

His eyes darken. “You said the team sent you?”

A little burst of hope flares. “I’m good with social media. I’m sure you have an account. I could show it some TLC.”

He tips his head to the side and turns back into the house, leaving the door hanging open.

I take this to mean I got the job. I pump my arm in the air and mouth, Yes !

Liam stalks like a big cat through the grand foyer of the loft. Of course, a guy like him would live on the top floor. I’d expect nothing less even though I don’t know much about his type—the growly, grouchy kind.

The little boy doesn’t let go of my hand.

“I could take him to the children’s museum in Omaha, out for a wholesome lunch, and teach him how to put on his shoes. He’s still a bit young to learn how to tie them.”

Or I could run. My instincts urge me to make a hasty retreat.

The child signs that he wants to show me one of his toys and I reply that I’ll be right there. First, I have to talk to his dad.

But he takes my hand and toddles down the hall into what I presume is his bedroom—or the guest room. With a glance over my shoulder, I catch Liam watching me carefully.

The queen-sized bed is unmade and the décor is decidedly not child-friendly with slippery refinished floors, a brick wall, and a stack of teetering moving boxes.

By the door is a heap of blankets and a pillow like he lets a hobo sleep in here with the little boy.

I don’t want to pry because none of this is my business. I’m here to help with professional tasks, but I cannot figure out what’s going on. Okay, and as a child prodigy at adapting to new situations, I’m unduly curious.

This place is huge, so they could be having renovations and the father and son are staying in here while workers are remodeling their rooms. Or the kid is only here temporarily, or—I don’t know what, but it’s echoey and chilly. Kind of lonesome too.

The little boy and I sign while he shows me his few toys. His vocabulary is fairly limited, but he tells me that he’s three, so it’s not unusual. He has a little army man, a truck, Legos—which may or may not be age-appropriate considering they’re a choking hazard—and a pet crab.

We decide to build the crab a house with Legos. Inspired, he decides to make a whole town for the crab. I tell him I’m going to talk to his dad for a few minutes and make him promise no monkeying around.

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. I glimpse a picture of myself in him—unsure what was happening in my life, but not counting on anything good.

I find Liam in the living room tidying up his books. For someone who was on his way out the door, he seems to be dawdling, like he’s avoiding something.

When he glances over his shoulder at me, fire blazes through my veins, whether because the man is incorrigible or for another reason—if that’s the case, I’d like to mark myself as not available. I’m definitely not interested in long, lingering looks or catching the eye of anyone, least of all a tall, fit, and handsome guy like Mr. Meanie. No way do I have a sudden and keen interest in strong, defined shoulders.

“You haven’t run away yet.” His voice is a low rumble.

“Why would I do that?”

He grunts and pours himself a cup of coffee. To his credit, it smells good and not like burned hair mixed with vinegar—Sorsha had a knack for scalding it even when using an instant plastic K-cup.

I watch Liam carefully, disturbingly intrigued by the contrast between how obnoxious he is and the gracefully powerful way he moves. It sends a swizzly feeling through me. One I will ignore now and forevermore.

He doesn’t offer me a coffee and I could use a large right now.

“Jessica, let me make one thing clear?—”

“Jess,” I correct.

“I didn’t ask for help, Jessica.”

My smile wavers. “Of course not.”

“I don’t want help.”

“But Cara?—”

“Arsenault is not the boss of me,” he counters like a fifth-grader.

“But your coach?—”

“Just named me captain and with that comes new responsibilities.” He seems to relent slightly.

“It does seem like you have your hands full.”

“My hands are fine and that’s none of your concern.” He sets the mug down on the counter with unnecessary force.

I jump, startled. However, I’ve dealt with people like him and worse, so I rally, lengthening my spine and pressing my shoulders back. After all, I can’t very well take him that seriously when his socks don’t match.

Or did he change them? His feet are hidden behind the kitchen island. “As you said, you don’t want help. I understand, but as I see it, I can provide you with something you need.”

He chortles, er, chokes?

I take the opportunity to take a few steps in his direction with the express purpose of getting a clear view of his feet.

He asks, “Or do you need the job?”

I open and close my mouth. “You’ve got me there. Yes, I need the job.”

Liam huffs. “And you’ve never been a personal assistant before, so what exactly qualifies you?—?”

If I were a gazelle, there’d be no outrunning him across the wild savannah now. I swallow thickly. The truth is, I’ve mismanaged my life from start to finish. Even though I try to be well organized and present myself as having it all together, somehow, before I get to the ribbon marking the end of the race, I always fall short and fail.

If I were a team of one and the opposition were life, they’d be up by ten points at least.

I’m not surprised he didn’t offer me any coffee, but the fact that he gave his son a cookie from the homemade assortment on the counter, provides me with a response.

I ask, “You’re new at this, aren’t you?”

My vague, yet pointed, question makes him pause for a fraction of a second. He takes a truculent sip of coffee.

“How old is he?”

“Three.”

“When is his birthday?” I ask, hoping he got to blow out three candles.

A full second passes, then another. I glimpse a crack in The Beast’s veneer.

“Jessica, that’s none of your concern.”

My chest clenches. I should retreat, but having had countless birthdays of mine missed or forgotten, I press in. “What’s his full name?”

Hesitating, he clears his throat. “King Liam Ellis.”

A smile plays on my lips because I was not expecting that response in my game of How Well Do You Know Your Son ?

“So, he wasn’t kidding when he told me his name is King.”

Liam rubs the back of his neck and turns away briefly before having second thoughts. The swizzle returns and not because he’s pleasant to look at in his commanding, confident way. I’m certain there are soft eyes and a smile hidden behind his tough exterior.

Leave it to me to always try to find the diamond in the rough, make treasure out of trash, or repurpose leftovers. Grandma Dolly says it’s because I’m more used to people turning away from me than not. That I need to see my value and accept my self-worth.

Liam is the kind of guy who faces things head-on and whose sole focus is the biggest and best of everything, especially when it comes to hockey, not that I’m paying attention. Much.

So far, the only area in which it seems he falls short is fatherhood. He could stand to attend a how-to class or a convention. Do those exist for new parents? All I know is that I’ve always wanted to be a mom and he seems like he’d rather be on the ice.

“There are going to be a few rules.”

“So I got the job.” Not waiting for his response, I wiggle my fingers, wave my hands in the air, and spin in a circle. “Yay. Thank you. You won’t regret this.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“So what are the rules?” I ask, leaning in.

“No personal questions.” He holds up his thumb, starting to count them off.

I tilt my head. “Come again? But I’m your personal assistant. It’s literally in the title.”

“I didn’t ask for a PA.”

I stop short of rolling my eyes. “What are the rest of your rules, Mr. Ellis?”

A normal person would insist I call him by his first name. Liam does not. He’d also call me by my preferred name, Jess. Also, Liam does not. Perhaps I should’ve withheld my excitement until we’re on sure footing. Taking a deep breath, I give it a five-minute break.

He says, “You may not go in my personal space.”

“Gladly.”

His lip lifts slightly, spotlighting the scar. “You may not go on my phone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You won’t discuss my private matters with friends, family, or anyone.”

“My lips are sealed.” I half expect a non-disclosure agreement to appear out of thin air.

He’s holding up all five of his very large fingers, covered in callouses. “Under no circumstances will you wear my jersey.”

I frown. “What on earth would possess me to do that?”

“You’re the witch bride, you tell me. Maybe some kind of voodoo.” His eyebrow arches.

I wrinkle my nose, not wanting to think about my ill-conceived early morning arrival in town still wearing my wedding gown. “I am nothing of the sort. My garment was a result of a poor decision.”

“Do you make many of those?” His smile is tighter than a violin string, which plays sadly in the background of my mind because, just like everything else in my life, this isn’t going to last.

“We shall see, won’t we?”

“Also, don’t smile so often. It’s too much. You’re aggressively positive and optimistic.” He squints as if fighting the glare.

Like a reflex, a grin rises onto my lips as I eye the cookies because I could go for one. Thankfully, Grandma Dolly will have some waiting with milk when I get home. She’d flash the sign for a flower—her way of reminding me to keep my chin up like a buttercup. Resolve rushes at me like a lioness roaring back at the king of the jungle.

My wedding was my last failure. I’m going to be the best personal assistant in the state and show this meanie what I’m made of—determination, enthusiasm, and Bundt cake.

While Grandma Dolly makes great cookies, on my first birthday we spent together, she made a Bundt cake just for me. It was the first time I’d gotten one on my birthday. She topped it with sixteen candles, which managed to stand up long enough for me to make a wish for my own family someday and then blow them out. We were dying with laughter. It’s one of my best memories. And I’ve been obsessed with Bundts ever since. They’re just so adorable and versatile.

Liam drags his gaze over me. I’m not sure whether my cheeks flush because of the intensity in his eyes or because I’m afraid I have poppy seeds in my teeth. Plagued by insomnia in the wee hours, I tested out a lemon poppyseed Bundt cake recipe and had a bite for breakfast.

After draining his coffee cup, Liam says, “We will communicate by text only.”

“That sounds like rule number six.”

“It’s part of our operating agreement. I’ll have my lawyer draft it, but I want to set the foundation now so you know what to expect.”

“And what’s that?”

“A purely professional relationship for a limited amount of time. I suggest you start looking for another job, so you can have it lined up, Jessica.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Because for once, I’m going to succeed.

Watch out world and the beasts that inhabit it, Jess Fuller isn’t going anywhere! Well, except eventually for brighter pastures because the winter in Nebraska is no joke. I don’t really want to stick around Cobbiton for longer than a few months. Six at most. But Liam doesn’t need to know that. I’ll make him think he’s stuck with me forever.

Maybe I am a witch bride because the notion of tormenting him with my too much smile makes me cackle inside.

He grunts.

I flash a pageant-worthy grin his way because I can’t resist fighting grump with a blast of sunshine. Call me crazy, but I’m determined to wake a glimmer of joy inside the sleeping giant.