Page 38 of Hired Help

I grab my mobile out, scrolling through the contact list and jamming my thumb on Gwyn’s number like I want to jab it into someone’s eyes. She takes eight rings to answer, seven of them probably pulling a face at the screen when she recognises who’s calling.

“If this is about Harrison—”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me he was down here, attending Kingswood?”

There’s a gasp, then a long pause.

“Gwyn. Don’t you dare try to bluff your way out of this. You told me he was at Dilworth. He’s meant to be staying every weekend with you.”

“Kingswood is a better school.”

“I don’t give a fuck about his education! I want to know why my son is living in the same city and why, instead of telling me, you lied.”

“You don’t have to yell.”

The whiny note in her voice makes me want to strangle her. Only my ex could think that being yelled at for actively keeping me out of my son’s life for the past three years was a situation warranting sympathy.

“I swear to god, I’ll do a fuck of a lot worse than yell if you don’t start offering an explanation.”

“He didn’t want to see you,” she blurts, and I close my eyes, breathing through my nose so I don’t hyperventilate. “That’s all. It’s nothing nefarious.”

“Nothing—” My throat chokes to a close and I stab at the off button. I have so many things I want to say to her right now and not a single one of them will do my case with Harrison any good.

A pain strikes my elbow, and I force my hand to relax. The tendonitis that’s plagued me off and on for the past five years needs to take a backseat to everything else.

Instead of calling Gwyn back or tossing the phone away, I scroll more carefully through my contact list, finally summoning the courage to press Harrison’s number.

Voicemail. Of course.

I quickly text,“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,”then toss my phone aside, dragging my fingers down my face.

He won’t care. I just showed him up at a social event in front of his peers. It would be bad enough if my date had just been some random girl from his class, but his ex?

Brooke’s face flashes in my mind and I want to groan.

Fuck me. I knew I should’ve vetted her more carefully. One stupid rush of lust for a beautiful girl and all my best-practices had gone straight out the window.

She made a fool of me but only because I let her.

At my age, in my profession, I should have known better. I’m appalled at what happened tonight but as I pour another inch of vodka into my glass, I know a lot of the blame falls on my shoulders.

I add ice to my drink this time and tilt my head to hear the snap as the alcohol seeps into its cracks, weakening its structure, making it swell, sweating water until it’s diminished.

Then I replace the vodka in the freezer, forcing myself to step away, sinking into the couch in the lounge. I’ve never been a great drunk and the last time I got on a bender, I lost my son.

The shock doesn’t settle. It keeps growing, spreading its numbing tentacles anywhere it can find purchase.

A knock at the door startles me, far louder than my intrusive thoughts. Given my normal timetable, it’s not unusual for friends to drop by at all hours of the day and night, but I’m seriously not in the mood for company.

But the lights are on. Whoever’s standing out there will know I’m home. With a sigh, I move to the door to answer it.

Brooke stands on the front doorstep, a light drizzle settling like diamonds on her midnight black hair.

“Nope.” I try to slam the door, but she wedges her foot in the jamb, shrieking when it bangs against her. “Get your foot out of the way,” I say without sympathy, then reopen the door, about to shove her back when she darts under my arm and inside.

“We’re not doing this now,” I tell her, turning and feeling a wave of sorrow. Not for her but for myself.

Even with her red-rimmed eyes, her dress twisted, and her skin blotchy from crying, she’s desirable. Part of me just wants to shove her onto the sofa and give her something to really cry about.

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