Page 53 of The Single Dad

There was something off about her today. She wasn’t as cheerful as she usually is, and she wouldn’t tell me where she was going.

It’s none of my business, of course, but still, I can’t stop thinking about it. What if she’s going on a date?

I click away from the spreadsheet I was supposed to be double-checking, tabbing over to Instagram on my laptop.

I feel like a fucking stalker, but it’s the only way to satisfy my curiosity. I look up Riley’s profile. She doesn’t have a lot of photos posted, but there is one from today, around half an hour ago.

It’s hard to tell where she is from the photo; it looks as though there’s some sort of art installation on the wall behind her. My gaze isn’t drawn to her surroundings, anyway. The picture is of her and another man, both smiling at the camera for the selfie.

I don’t know who the hell this guy is, but his arm is around her shoulder.

A flash of jealousy fills me.

Without even stopping to think about what I’m doing, I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial my assistant’s number.

She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Could you come to my house?” I ask, my voice deadly calm. “I need someone to watch Archer.”

“Um… sure,” she replies, clearly taken aback. “Why? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. I just need to go take care of something. How soon can you be here?”

Kerry hesitates, then says, “No more than ten minutes.”

“Good.”

I hang up, then open another app: the GPS service I installed on Riley’s phone when she first took the nanny job. I need to see her. I need to stop whatever’s going on between her and that guy.

I feel like a complete and total stalker, but I can’t help it. I stand in the kitchen, tapping my foot in impatience and staring at the map on my screen, the pulsing blue dot that represents Riley’s location. Kerry can’t get here soon enough.

When Kerry does arrive, I give her a curt nod as I brush past her in the foyer. “He’s in the living room. Thank you.” I know I sound clipped, but I’m in a hurry. What if something happens between them, some connection that should have been mine?

I slip into the driver’s side of my black sedan, sinking into the plush brown leather of the seat. For a moment, I sit motionless in the garage, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles are white.

Do I really want to do this?

Yes, is the obvious answer. I really, really do.

I peel out onto the street in a screech of tires. Some small part of my brain, way in the back, desperately hopes that Archie isn’t looking out of the window. I don’t know how I’d explain that kind of driving when I’m usually so adamant that our chauffeur stays below the speed limit.

With my cell phone mounted on the dashboard, I make my way through the city. Riley is somewhere in Midtown, and the unpredictable New York traffic stalls my progress as I work my way through the grid streets.

When I arrive at her location, my phone emits a soft chime. I snatch it from the dashboard and leave the car double-parked in front of the building, a modern-looking, relatively low-roofed glass structure situated between two skyscrapers.

I burst through the entrance, immediately spotting the massive mural that was the backdrop of that photograph on Riley’s Instagram. It’s a deep blue, the brush strokes clearly meant to emulate ocean waves.

What I didn’t notice from the selfie was that there are people in the mural, a series of diverse, detailed faces painted in shades of blue throughout the water.

The mural overlooks an area that almost looks like a cafeteria. Lit by natural light from the tall, glass walls are several long tables. A few people, most of them young, are sitting along the benches, playing board games or card games.

Including Riley. She’s at the near end of one of the tables, sitting opposite a teenage girl in rumpled clothes. She has a handful of UNO cards fanned out before her, and as she glances up, her gaze locks on mine. A look of shock crosses her face.

Immediately, my heart sinks. I’m starting to get the sense that I read this wrong.

I turn my gaze on the rest of the room, and—yeah, there he is. The fucker who was in Riley’s picture. He’s at the other end of the table, completely absorbed in the game of chess he’s playing with a different kid.

This doesn’t seem like a date activity. He’s sitting sixty feet away from her, not even looking at her. I’m starting to get the sense that this isn’t her boyfriend.

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