KEPT: A Second Chance Fairy Tale (10 page)

“Go tell him I’ll be right there.” I lean down and kiss the top of his head quickly before pushing on his shoulder to move him out into the hall.

I smooth my shorts, then check my shirt. Once I’ve given my hair a quick tug to ensure it doesn’t fall, I turn to make my way into the living room.

Dillon obviously opened the door further to Michael because when I round the corner to the front room, I stopped in my tracks.

“Do you like the Cubs?” Michael asks quietly, bending down and making himself eye-level to Dillon.

Dillon’s wide eyes are taking in all things Michael, and I hear him say, “Their pitcher doesn’t do very good.”

Michael smiles, soft and genuine, before agreeing. “They won’t break any records this year using the ones they have, but maybe they’ll surprise us.”

“Maybe,” Dillon agrees.

To be honest, I had no idea Dillon followed any baseball team. It’s possible he doesn’t. Maybe he’s so interested in Michael’s attention. he’s making it up, but he sounds certain.

“I go to a game every year.”

“You do?” Dillon questions. “I’ve never been to one.”

Michael stands and, looking down on Dillon, he smiles again. “You have to go. There’s nothing like eating a ballpark hotdog from your seat in the stands.”

Dillon turns from his place. He looks at me and smiles big, and I feel his enthusiasm from the small distance away. My heart races, wondering what Gabe would think if he were still here. Gabe wasn’t a sports fan. He’d always been too busy to stop and enjoy any pastime, including baseball.

“Mom?” Dillon calls. “Did you hear that?”

Nodding and pulling myself from the hall, I walk toward them. I feel Michael’s eyes on me as I do.

“I heard.”

“He says he goes to a game every year,” he repeats Michael’s statement, still with amazement. “Can we go to one soon?”

Looking at Michael, mentally questioning his experience with kids, I tell Dillon, “We’ll talk about it later, buddy. Go get started with cleaning your room, or no television later. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” he replies. I can tell he’s not happy with my answer, but he does what I ask.

Michael peers further into my apartment. Sandalwood and fresh rain consume my senses.

Standing close, he doesn’t spare me a glance, but watches Dillon and says, “Game’s on at eight tonight. It’s shaping up to be a good series.”

“Thanks,” Dillon answers, moving faster to get his room clean.

All this time, I’ve been making him watch Disney movies with me. I should try more ESPN.

Once Dillon’s out of sight, I turn my gaze to Michael. He’s still standing just inside the door, and his suit is dripping from the evening rain. I thank God for giving me the will not to comment on the comparison his damp suit has to his even damper personality.

“Lucy,” he addresses after taking his time to get a view of what I’m wearing. I ignore the small trace of his barely there smile.

He’s doing it again – judging.

“Mr. Holden,” I return. “What can I do for you?”

“I…,” he starts, then stops. His eyes land on my bare feet.

I roll back on my heels to get his attention. “What’s that?” I test. “I didn’t hear you.”

“She’s going to make this impossible,” he mumbles to himself so quietly, I almost miss it.

I move to the side and open the door wider. “Well, Captain Hook, are you coming in or do you like the rain?”

“Captain Hook?” he asks with confusion.

“Captain Hook,” I state again for his benefit. “It’s a
Peter Pan
reference. The character in the tale who steals all the fun, hurting feelings and ruining lives. Never mind.” I roll my eyes. “You can come in.”

Obviously, he’s not familiar with Disney movies. I love them. Even as an adult, my life times out until said Disney movie is finished playing.

Michael walks inside, but stops when he gets to where I’m standing. His face turns to mine, and because he’s so much taller than I am, I have to crane my neck to see him completely. There’s something, some thought or reason, churning around in his dark blue eyes, which I now notice are captivating.

“That your son who answered the door?” he barely whispers out.

Not understanding his reaction to Dillon, I reply, “Yes.”

“How old is he?”

“Six.”

Staring at me with a curious expression, he asks, “What’s his name?”

“Did you come all the way here in the rain to ask about my son?” I snap with impatience.

Feeling vulnerable with his gaze on me, I shift in place as he stares through a lost expression.

Finally, he answers, “No, actually. I didn’t.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Do you still want the job?” he probes, passing me on his way further into my apartment.

“I do. But…”

Turning around, his eyes fix on mine. It’s then I note what I hadn’t had a chance to earlier. Hours ago, I was too angry for appreciation.

It’s not only his eyes that are captivating. It’s all of him.

He’s beautiful.

Although some men would find the word insulting if used to describe them, in Michael’s case, it can’t be denied because it’s true.

He’s tall, broad, and I can see the ripples of his chest moving underneath his dark suit jacket as he plays nervously with the keys in his hand. He’s been blessed with dark blue eyes, which are laced with thick, dark eyelashes. His nearly black hair falls a little past his ears and touches the cuff of his shirt collar with every move of his head. His hands are well-kept and appear soft. I suspect he doesn’t know how beautiful he is, but he can’t be completely oblivious to it, either.

“Miss Monroe?” he calls my name, regaining my attention.

I clear my throat to distract myself, and his eyes narrow slightly before he starts to relax.

“I want the job, but I–”

“What happened this morning won’t happen again,” he promises.

“What happened this morning sure
as hell
won’t happen again,” I counter, placing my hand on my hip to make my point clear.

“Right.” He looks down and, if I’m not mistaken, I think he just grinned again. I’m unsure how it happened once, let alone twice. So far, I’ve only been privy to the condescending, hateful side of him.

“I’ll be in tomorrow morning.”

“Not to get too personal…,” he starts, making me roll my eyes. My unsaid reaction doesn’t deter him at all. “Do you have your own car, or do you use public transportation?”

“What?” I respond, almost laughing at his ridiculous question.

Oblivious, he asks, “Do you have a car?”

“Yes,” I answer. “It’s outside. You parked beside it.”

“The red Honda?” he queries, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“Yes. Ruby.”

“Ruby?”

Shit
.

I’ve said too much. Now I have no choice but to stand by my declaration. “My Honda. That’s what I call her.”

“She named her fucking car,” he says under his breath. It’s not a statement meant for me to answer, spoken to himself as he looks down at the keys in his hand.

“Is there anything else?” When he doesn’t respond, I quickly prod, “Well?”

Exhaling a sigh of frustration, he tenses and pins me with an incredulous look. “Are you always so difficult to talk to?”

“Are you always so rude to people you’ve never met?”

He looks up at me and quickly offers, “I’m here to apologize.”

“Why?”

His eyebrows furrow with confusion. “Why?”

“You don’t even
like
me,” I remind him. “You may even
hate
me. How’s it possible you’re here to apologize?”

He winces before a pained expression crosses his face. “I don’t know you, Miss Monroe.”

“Don’t you?” I ask suspiciously. “Because the things you said this morning–”

Cutting me off, he steps in closer and drops his voice low. His eyes look over my face, stopping at my lips before he says, “The things I said this morning weren’t necessarily about you.”

I hold his gaze, scanning his expression as he does mine. It’s as if I’ve seen him before, the familiarity so evident, it’s almost striking.

“What you said offended me. I don’t like having my feelings hurt, Mr. Holden.”

“Michael,” he barely chokes out. “You can call me Michael.”

“You’re not a nice person,
Michael
.”

His head moves back, ever so slightly, then drops again and comes closer to mine. Beads of water from the rain frame his face where he hadn’t wiped it away. My senses continue to hone in on the sandalwood soap he must use. He smells like the outdoors…clean and fresh.

Dear God, what am I doing?

“If this is your version of an apology, you’re not very good at it.”

Before he pulls himself together after my latest insult, I hear him whisper, “I haven’t been a nice person for a long time. But I’m here because I’m trying.”

It’s obvious his words carry a deeper meaning. I don’t know if he’s talking to me or himself, so I stay quiet and watch as he blinks once, then again, finally stepping back.

Back to business, he proceeds to inform me, “I don’t like change, Lucy. In fact, I hate it. I’m losing Lillie, so if you could–”

“Did Corbin put you up to this?” I ask with added suspicion. I’d bet all I have he did.

“Yes,” he admits.

“I like Corbin,” I tell him, hoping to hurt his feelings, even a fraction as much as he hurt mine.

“Many do,” he counters. “But I’m not anything like him.”

“No,” I breathe out. “You’re not.”

His lips tighten and he grinds his teeth. I’ve pissed him off
again
.

“Yes, I still want the job. I need to work, so I’ll be in tomorrow morning. That’s if you think you can tolerate me eight hours a day.”

“Yes, Lucy. I can,” he answers softly. “Have a nice evening,” he says before turning around and walking out the door.

After seeing a gentler side to Michael, listening to what I think was an actual apology from a man I’ve only known as unyielding and cruel, one question still remains.

Can
I
?

Michael

S
HE NAMED HER FUCKING CAR
.

Ruby.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the sudden urge to laugh out loud. Years, in fact. Sure, there have been times I’ve let my guard down in front of those who really know me, but to find humor in a woman’s lack of self-awareness? That hasn’t happened in…

Fuck, maybe it never has.

When Dillon opened the door, I was momentarily taken aback. He’s grown so much since the last picture I saw of him. His dark hair, dark eyes, and even the way he smiled as he took in my wet suit was a reminder of how much time has passed since he lost his father. It was also that painful reminder that almost had me turning to leave, but then he attempted to make conversation and, in some ways, Dillon had reminded me of my son. After that, I felt I had no choice but to stay.

After Lucy’s husband died, I hired a private investigator to run a background check on his surviving family. Gabe Monroe had left an insurance policy behind, but he was young and it wasn’t much to speak of. The two of them had only just started out, and I knew how expensive law school could be.

Lucy and Dillon were going to struggle to make ends meet. Their house alone would be her biggest burden. It was a modest home, set far into the suburbs and away from the city. At the time, Dillon was only an infant, and Lucy had been almost twenty. There were no signs that Margret, her mother-in-law, was going to help her in any way. She sure as hell hadn’t been by the time I had my guy take a look, even though she had the money to do it.

The man I had looking into them didn’t come back with much. Lucy was a young mother, trying to stay strong and keep her shit together while struggling to process her grief. She had no education to speak of and no job. She was a law-abiding citizen who’d never gotten so much as a parking ticket.

Adding all this together made me realize what I already knew to be true.

I couldn’t turn my back on them.

I couldn’t let them suffer because of decisions I had made over the course of my marriage. So the next month was when I began ‘keeping’ her. What Corbin said wasn’t wrong, per se. I’ve been paying their bills to a point. I’ve been keeping watch, ensuring they’ve remained as safe as I could, all while staying a fair distance away.

Now she’s going to be working at my firm.

It’s obvious Lucy has made that apartment a home. Dillon wants for nothing, and she keeps herself together. She’s made friends. Corbin mentioned a woman named Shannan, as well as another named Stella Shields.

Although I don’t want to admit it, even to myself, I’ve found myself curious about her. As cliché as it may sound, I feel myself drawn in. She’s obviously attractive, although it’s more in a quirky, fun, and careless sense. She’s definitely as quick-witted as Corbin had described. Fuck, she even makes
me
want to laugh. And that’s not something I find myself doing often.

And it’s true that since the accident, I’ve become somewhat of a recluse. Socially, the only women I’ve allowed into any facet of my life are those who know going into the relationship they’ll get nothing in return. I won’t talk about a future, and I refuse to discuss my past. Whatever happens, happens in the now. No moving forward and no looking back.