Page 7 of Who’s Your Daddy (Dadcoms #1)

Slowly, Murphy slips his backpack off his shoulders. It lands on the floor with a thunk, and then he’s cautiously shuffling to the tiny bed.Carefully he sits next to Cal, making sure to leave a couple of inches of space between them.

Cal bounces again, launching Murphy into the air. He catches the little boy with ease, and while he chuckles, Murphy doesn’t even crack a smile.

“Isn’t it great?” Cal’s tone is full of glee .

A jungle in the living room and a bedroom set up for a preschooler. I fight the urge to shake my head.

The boy doesn’t look upset. If anything, he’s resigned.

“Sure.” His eyes drift over the space, expression flat. “I like blue.”

Cal stands up, pride pouring off him. “I knew you’d love it.”

“Love” is definitely too strong a word to describe Murphy’s reaction. I’d label this situation as more of an epic disaster. I cannot believe I’m leaving this man in charge of a small human.

There’s no other choice, so I step back toward the door.

“Since you two are settled.” I wave a hand at the too-bright room. “I’ll get out of your way.”

Cal spins toward me, his smile gone, his usually tan complexion almost white. “What?”

I throw a thumb over my shoulder. “I gotta get back to the office.”

Unlike Cal, I have to work today. I’m the one packing up the stuff we’ll need here starting Monday.

Files, supplies, electronics, and about a thousand other items. Not that Cal or his brother or even Brian have a clue what they need.

If it were left to them, they’d show up with their laptops and then be shocked it wasn’t enough.

“Okay.” Cal side-eyes Murphy, his demeanor going rigid with nerves, but he quickly shakes it off and breaks into a smile.

“Okay.” He claps. “You can help me with the midday misting,” he says to the little guy.

“It’ll be a jolly good time.” With that, he strides out of the room, practically spitting sunshine.

Murphy’s focus is fixed on the floor, his hands clasped in his lap where he’s still sitting on the too-small mattress. It stays like that for a solid ten seconds before he looks up at me, those blue eyes full of dread. “Is he always like this?”

Fighting the urge to wince, I nod. “I’ll stop by and check on you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Great.” Murphy pushes off the bed and shuffles out the door.

A bone-deep urge to follow them, to help, thrums through me.

I shake my head. It’s always like this. It’s hard to let a kid go after I’ve spent a few days with them. But my job is done. Cal has to take it from here.

Instead of following the boys into the kitchen like I’d like to, I let myself out, easing down the narrow staircase while Cal explains his spritzing technique.

When we pulled up and I saw the state of the building from the outside, I thought I was prepared for the office. But the second I step in the front door of the office, I’m hit with the realization that I was nowhere close.

On instinct, I cover my mouth and nose with one hand.

What is that smell? Ugh. The scent registers somewhere between moldy cheese and poopy diaper.

I hold my breath and will myself not to gag as I survey the space.

File boxes litter the room, like after the firm's move employees came back and went through them to find what they needed, then left them scattered around the floor and on every flat surface when they were done.

The surfaces not hidden beneath boxes are coated in a layer of dead bugs.

Shuddering, I rush back out the door letting it slam behind me.

Was the apartment that horrific when the guys arrived? I peer up at the second-floor windows. Maybe I should have given the place a more thorough inspection before leaving Murphy there.

“You’ve finally arrived,” a high-pitched voice calls.

I spin around, finding an elderly woman standing several feet from me on the crumbling sidewalk. She watches me with a childlike wonder, though her bright smile is outshone by the sun as it catches off her gold earrings and what has to be close to a dozen bangle bracelets.

“So vibrant.” She walks toward me with more pep in her step than a woman her age seems capable of possessing. “I’ve been waiting years. Years .”

I peer over my shoulder, expecting to find that another person has approached. She can’t be talking to me. I have no idea who she is. So there is no way in hell she’s waited years for me. I don’t even live here .

But I find no one. It’s just the two of us.

“Uh—”

“If you loosen your braid the words will flow better dear.” She taps her head sending the many bracelets around her wrist jingling as they slide down her arm. The sound is muffled as they get lost in the layers of bright, gauzy clothing she wears.

“I’m sorry.” I frown. “You’ve got the wrong person, but maybe I can help you find whoever it is you’re looking for.”

She must be confused. At her age, it wouldn’t be abnormal for dementia to begin setting in.

“You’re exactly the right person, dear. And no, we haven’t met, if that’s what you’re wondering.

” Her expression is perfectly serene. “You can call me Madame Esmeralda.” She claps once.

“But you can’t find Sebastian. Oh no, that man finds me when he wants.

” Leaning in close, she arches a brow. “If you do see him, though, tell him enough with the sock-stealing shenanigans. No one in this place will have a single matching pair if he keeps up this joke of his.”

I blink. “Wait…” I glance at the building, then back at her. “You live here?”

“Oh yes. Third floor. Terry couldn’t get rid of me.” With a little bounce, she adds. “Not that he wanted too.” She brushes past me, heading for the back. “Do come by soon. We’ll free your hair from that braid and loosen you up. Get the words and pheromones flowing.”

Confusion swirls inside me. Every word from this woman is utter nonsense. “Pheromones?”

“Sex dear, you could use some.” She chuckles, the sound loud and hearty, and scurries away.

I frown again, my stomach sinking. How could she possibly know that?

“Oh,” she spins back to face me, a hand splayed over her chest. “Be careful when you lift the lid.”

“ What ? ”

The word has barely slipped from my lips when she disappears around the building.

I huff in a breath of the not-so-fresh Jersey air, desperate for relief and a little rejuvenation.

Instead, all I muster is a mix of annoyance and defeat.

Shoulders slumping, I take in my surroundings again.

Awful building, putrid smell, weird neighbors.

What was Terry thinking when he insisted the guys work here?

And how the hell am I going to manage showing up every day even if it’s only for ninety days?

The cleaning crew better perform a miracle.

Just getting rid of the smell will be a feat.

“Ready to go, Ms. Caruso?”

I glance up to find Joe, the firm’s driver, has stepped out of the car. With a nod, I start for the black sedan. Halfway there, my phone buzzes, pulling me up short.

I slip it from my bag and check the screen, assuming it’s a contact from the cleaning company or maybe Brian.

Instead, I find Sloane’s name flashing on the display.

I’d been avoiding her calls for the last few days. I can only imagine what she’ll have to say about Murphy, the apartment, and the new office, and I haven’t been ready for it. Her head probably exploded when she found out.

It was probably similar to what’ll happen to Sully’s when she informs him that she’s accepted a position working for the man who spent two years trying to steal her from him. God, when he finds out, he’s going to lose it.

I hate knowing things. Being the one with everyone’s secrets is getting old.

Nose scrunched, I fight the urge to hit decline. Instead, I force myself to slide my finger over the screen and answer the call.

“Hey, Sloane.”

“Finally,” she huffs. “I know you’ve been busy with the guardian thing, but jeez, you could have answered a call.”

I could have. I just didn’t .

“Yeah.” I nod at Joe who holds the back door of the town car open for me, and slip inside.

“Did you get him settled?” Sloane asks.

I look up at the grimy building, ignoring thoughts of what the next three hundred and sixty-five days will look like for me if they somehow convince me to stay past the ninety days I’ve agreed to.

Three hundred and sixty-five. Counting by days makes it seem so much more daunting. I cannot think past ninety days at this point.

I sigh. “I think Cal has it covered.”

“Cal?”

A huff of a laugh escapes me. “The boy is his son, so it’s up to him to figure it out. And since they’re living with Sully and Brian now, I think they will rally.” I hope they will rally.

“Cal has a son ?” she sputters. “And what do you mean they’re living with Sully and Brian?” Her voice hits an octave that makes me pull the phone away.

A pit forms in my stomach. “Have you talked to Sully?”

It’s been three days. How the hell has he not spoken with his wife yet?

“Lo?” That single syllable is more of a growl.

I cringe. “Talk to your husband tonight when T.J. calls. Please. Because Murphy is an adorable six-year-old boy who is most definitely Cal’s son, which makes him your family.”

“Not my family. I’m getting a divorce.”

That might be true, but the slight crack in her voice every time she says the D word leaves me doubting that it’s actually what she wants. The last thing she wants is to speak to Sully. I get that. However, I do not want to be the one to break the news about the trust and its requirements.

“Call your husband.”