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12

JESS

Still in Liam’s kitchen and pleased he relented, giving me the job on a trial basis, I stand poised with my bullet journal and gel pen at the ready.

I ask, “Mr. Ellis, please tell me a bit about yourself, your lifestyle, preferences, allergies, or anything that would be helpful in my assisting you.”

He stares at his empty mug.

Tough nut to crack. “For example, how do you take your coffee?”

His nostrils flare. “Black.”

Like the coal in his chest. I wrinkle my nose because I shouldn’t be thinking about his chest and how the fabric of his shirt strains against the well-defined muscles hidden underneath. He’s a dad but does not have a dad bod like Rexlan does.

“Let’s keep things to a need-to-know basis.”

I jot this down. “How about some vital statistics?”

“Why would you need those?”

“Um, you’re fit, so you must have a workout routine. Do you use protein powder? Track your macros? Micros? I can go grocery shopping for you.”

“I’m missing training as we speak.”

I gesture toward the door. “Well, by all means, go ahead.”

“I know my way to the door.” But he doesn’t move.

“I’m not keeping you here.”

His eyebrows lift. “And leave the kid with you? Not a chance.”

“He wouldn’t topple boxes on my watch.” Not that I’m volunteering to be the nanny.

“I don’t know you. Don’t trust you. Don’t particularly like you.”

Ouch. The little clouds I keep underfoot disperse and threaten to block the sun installed overhead. I peel a holographic star sticker from the sheet in the little pocket of my journal, write the word patience, and then apply the sticker to today’s box on my calendar.

However, he doesn’t seem to like anyone, except maybe his son. However, deep down under Liam’s grizzly bear exterior, I sense a teddy bear, begging for freedom.

Liam busies himself with washing the coffee mug. I’m accustomed to the deep chasm of disconnection, of being unwanted, but being told outright is something that’s only occurred a few times. I look through my collection of stickers for a heart. Fresh out.

I close my eyes for a beat, blinking back liquid. When I open them, Liam stares at me. I’ve backed down, shrunk, and made myself invisible so many times I’ve lost count. It’s gotten me nowhere.

Mr. Meanie will not win my day.

I press my shoulders back, and say, “I see. You don’t have to like me for my role as your personal assistant to be beneficial to you and your household.”

Before I can say more, his son rushes from his room, struggling to keep his Lego creations intact.

I flash some quick signs of excitement, relaying how much I want to see what he made with his toys.

Liam remains at a distance, watching us with dark, glassy eyes. My money is on him making sure I don’t pocket a Lego. In reality, he’s the bandit, making off with the smiles, laughter, and happiness of the innocent. Or it could be that he’s not the master of his domain. Just someone who found himself at an unexpected destination.

Relatable.

The next thirty minutes pass in a rush before the little boy yawns, possibly having a sugar crash from the cookie and in need of a nap. I ask him to show me his favorite picture book and we look at the images of people playing different sports. I sign each one and he fixates on the one with a guy in hockey gear. I sign Dad and he remains quiet as if he’s not entirely sure about Liam’s role.

He must get a second wind because he starts climbing around, a real wriggle worm. He alternately pats my cheeks and sucks his thumb. I can tell he’s tired and isn’t used to a routine.

As I carry him over to his bed, he chomps down on my shoulder hard with his little teeth. I yelp. He launches out of my grasp and onto the mattress. Eyes wide with fear, he stares up at me. I want to be upset as I rub my shoulder. His eyes fill with tears.

“That hurt me.”

He repeatedly signs that he wants a hug.

I think about what Grandma Dolly would do and explain that we don’t bite. I sign that it hurt and we don’t hurt each other. We can hold hands and hug. But we don’t bite.

He stares at me as if starved for attention like he feels some unnamable pain inside. I do my best to relay what an apology is and show him the sign for sorry.

I accept his apology and make sure he knows that he’s forgiven.

His lip wobbles as he figures out the motion for sorry .

After a few more minutes, his eyes dip and he dozes off. I slip out of the room and follow a grunting sound where I find Liam doing pushups. He’s already broken a sweat as his muscles flex and strain.

“Your son is really sweet, uh, except he bit me.”

Grunt.

“What do you know about DHH?”

Double grunt.

“Does he have extreme hearing loss or moderate?”

I expect Liam to continue to ignore me, but he pops onto his feet with cat-like reflexes and says, “Your position is restricted to personal assistant duties.”

I press my lips together to keep from saying, In that case, your position is restricted to dad duties . “What’s first?”

“I’ll text you a list along with expectations later today.”

Rules, an operating agreement, expectations, and a purely professional relationship for a limited amount of time. Got it.

He narrows his eyes as if expecting me to say something sassy.

So I do. “And making sure your socks match.”

They do now.

He squints at me.

“Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner. Liam Ellis is capable of dressing himself. Two black athletic socks for the win.”

I don’t even get the hint of humor in response.

“Since this is your rodeo, I’ll let you take the lead. Should I be self-directed and find some things to do? Will you bark orders? Do you want me to stand at attention in the corner until my services are needed?”

“I didn’t sign up for this, Jessica.”

“Clearly.”

But I’m not sure whether he’s talking about having an assistant or something else … parenthood?

Flipping over to do situps, he grinds out, “You can show yourself out the door.”

I watch for a moment, mesmerized by his ability to push through a full sit-up, not a crunch or the assisted kind with someone holding down his feet. He presses on. And I will too, no matter how disagreeable he is. My sunshine was hard won and no one, least of all Liam Ellis, is going to take it away.

“I’ll be going then.”

“Good,” he says, straining now, having moved on to pull-ups, using a bar mounted in the doorway.

“Great,” I say, once more captivated by this man doing his workout.

It’s not the show of brute strength—okay, a little bit because not even the most skilled Renaissance sculptor could create such muscular perfection from marble. He’s burly but not beefy. I’m transfixed by that and how he’s so cold when he has a cute and healthy son, a beautiful home, and a successful career.

Somewhere over the rainbow and down the yellow brick road, my version of that exists. I have to hope. I have to believe.

But it’s not here.

When I reach the door, the patter of little feet stops me in my tracks and two pudgy little arms wrap around my legs.

I sign that it’s time for me to go. The little boy’s chin quivers. I want to assure him we’ll see each other again, but know all too well the pain of broken promises, so I remind him not to climb the walls, to keep making such cool things with his Legos, and to practice signing to his crab.

Liam appears, sweaty and broody … and unfairly attractive.

Giving my head a shake, I sign, Goodbye, King Liam Ellis .

His father asks, “What did you say?”

I sign and speak, repeating my farewell then dropping my hands, I add, “Isn’t it a bit audacious to name your kid King?”

“It wasn’t my choice,” he says with disdain.

“I figured you’d want to wear the crown and be called Hockey King or something.”

He takes a few steps, edging me toward the door. “Around here, I do. Don’t forget it.”

“I’m at your service, your royal hiney-ness.” I know it’s childish, but I can’t help it. I’ll do anything to get this guy to crack a smile.

His lips don’t even twitch.

“The name King Liam Ellis, almost, but not quite, makes your son a junior.”

He blinks slowly as if bored by my observation.

“I’m wondering if I can call him KJ, short for King Junior. It’s more kid-friendly.”

“Call the kid whatever you want, Jessica.”

“It’s Jess.”

He slides his hand down his face as if exhausted. “Okay, Jessica.”

“Jess,” I repeat.

He holds the door open for me.

“Wait, um, also, maybe don’t call him the kid. You could call him KJ too. It’s kind of adorable.”

“I’ll call him whatever I want.”

“Right, but KJ is fun and sweet, right? And while you’re at it, you can call me Jess,” I say with a friendly little bop of my head.

“See you tomorrow, Jessica.” He closes the door some more.

I wedge my body between it and the frame. It’s a risky move since I’m dealing with this rascal. “Sounds great, but please call me Jess and your son KJ.”

“I don’t know why this matters.”

“Because,” I say, intending for it to be a complete sentence.

He crosses his arms in front of his chest and slowly asks, “Because why?”

“Because you’re not the king, lord, president, or prime minister of me.”

“But I am your boss.”

“True, but behind every boss is a great assistant.” I beam a smile.

“Goodbye, Jessica.”

“It’s Jess.” I bunch up my lips. “You’re arguing with me just to argue, huh?” It’s like a sport with the guy.

“I could say the same about you.”

“No, I’m just looking at the sparkly, rainbow-filled bright side.”

“No glitter is allowed in this house.”

“Is that another rule?”

“You’re the witch bride. You probably cut off locks of guys’ hair and use them in anti-love potions.”

“That’s disturbing and not at all true. Yes, I was a bride-to-be. No, I’m not a witch.”

“A real ray of sunshine,” he says glibly.

Keeping chipper is what gets me through. “Do you prefer cloudy days?” I lived in those for nearly my whole life and don’t want to go back. Can’t.

I tell myself to see the good in Liam beyond the lonely man who built up walls to protect himself from something. But what? From the outside, this guy has it all—a great career, a family, and a nice home—after he decorates. Well, almost. Where is his wife, his queen?

His gaze floats over mine, sending a chill that quickly warms over when I glimpse a teeny tiny tease of a twinkle in his eyes. It’s there, hiding.

I say, “I just know we’re going to be friends.”

He scoffs. “Don’t need those either.”

My heart pinches. That’s rainy-day thinking. “Sure you do. Everyone does.”

He leans in, close enough that I can see the fine freckles across his nose and the depth in his blue-gray eyes. My breath catches in my throat.

Liam’s voice is a low rumble when he says, “I don’t want this.”

“Then what do you want?” I risk asking because what else is there to say to that?

“I want my old life back.”

“Seems too late for that and sometimes our old lives are overrated.”

“Mine wasn’t. It was perfect.”

“Alone, up here in your tower?”

His throat bobs on a swallow.

“I get it. You were free to do what you wanted whenever you wanted.” I’m well out of line, leapfrogged right over it, but his smug, stoic expression draws the bold truth out of me.

He snorts. “No, I was free to focus on hockey and not have all this other stuff to deal with.”

“What? Family life? Seems like a pretty good deal to me.” That familiar ache in my chest returns. He has no idea what he’s taking for granted.