“That will be your first test in management. How to handle people with kindness and tact and earn their respect.”
“Oh.” Excitement flutters in my belly. The kind that flushes across your skin and puts thoughts in your head that you want to hope are real but fear aren’t.
“Sid?”
I snap my eyes up to meet my father’s and realize he’s looking for a response.
“Deal.”
“No hesitation? No, ‘no, I don’t want to move from the city’? No, ‘oh my God, there are no malls in Sunnyville’?”
Don’t, he’s just being a jerk.
“No hesitation.”
“Don’t let me down.”
“I won’t.”
“Has it really been a whole month since I’ve seen you?”
Memories of martinis by the poolside and dancing till closing time in Santa Barbara flicker and fade into a subtle homesickness. “Five weeks actually.”
“Ugh. It feels like forever.”
“That’s only because you’ve been off playing in Seattle with your newest flavor of the month for the past few weeks.”
“I like this flavor.” She laughs that coquettish sound of hers that tells me she’s having way too much fun while I’ve been here busting my ass to no end. “So, how’s the new place?”
The new place is a tiny cottage I rented on the outskirts of Sunnyville. It’s cozy and homey and nothing like the sleek lines and rich colors of my condo in San Francisco.
“It’s . . .”
“It isn’t you,” Zoey says through her laugh, most likely from where she’s overlooking the view of the city I’ve temporarily left behind.
“No, it definitely is not me.” Not the uneven floorboards that creek when I walk on them. Not the hot water that lasts maybe a whole five minutes before turning bone-chillingly cold. Not the nosy neighbors who I’ve found peering over the top of the backyard fence to see what I’m up to. And definitely not the dog that barks incessantly at all hours of the night.
“Wine country and the headquarters for a magazine on motherhood seem serendipitous to me.”
“Either that or a perfect complement. Maybe all those mommies need wine after a long day with the kid.” I laugh at her logic that rings true. “Regardless, you left me to go back to your old stomping grounds.”
“I was too young to stomp on these grounds. It’s more like sleepy suburbia where teenagers go crazy and can’t wait to leave.”
She grunts. Her displeasure for anything that isn’t the hustle and bustle of the city mimics mine. And, yet, the town’s different from what I remember while still somehow the exact same. Hot air balloons float high in the sky, the view from their baskets affording the influx of tourists here for the harvest a visual of the mesmerizing rows of grapevines that pattern the hills around us. They look majestic but, years ago I thought they were annoying. Main Street is longer now, with boutique upon boutique of kitschy items ripe to attract tourists’ wallets. I used to look at the street and see prison walls confining me, but this time around there is a quaintness to it all. An attractiveness that pulls out-of-towners here for weekend getaways or for wine tasting tours.
“Yeah, well, you left and now you’re back.”
“Not by choice . . . but what my dad wants, my dad gets.”
“And what he wants is for you to prove you can save this magazine.”
“Exactly,” I say because she makes it seem as if that’s an easy feat when I know it’s far from it.
“Well, I think you’re onto something with this contest idea.”
“Who knew dads were such a hot topic?”
“If a man is hot, he’s hot. And sometimes being a dad makes him even sexier.”
“Uh—yeah, right.” I roll my eyes. “It was your comment about how hot you think a bare-chested man holding a newborn baby looks that gave me the idea.”
“Mm-mmm. Muscles and sweetness. You can’t beat that.”
“You need help.” I laugh.
“Maybe I do, but you have to admit that there’s definitely something sexy about a man who knows how to take care of a child.”
“Whatever you say.” Not on my radar. Too much baggage. Too much foreign territory.
“I swear to God there’s something wrong with you. Either that or you haven’t found a dad hot enough to make you see the error of your ways.”
“I’ll own that there’s something wrong with me,” I murmur as I approach an intersection and follow instructions as my GPS tells me to take a right, “so long as this contest is a success.”
“From what you said, so far it is. Question is whether your editor is still being a hard-ass or not?”
Rissa Patel. I shake my head at the very thought of her. “She’s a tough one to figure out.”
“Just charm her like you do everyone else.”
“She has a serious bullshit meter. Charm isn’t something I can use to slide by her.”
“Well, your dad did say they thought you were there to spy on them and report back about how everything is running there.”
“The funny thing is I feel like it’s the opposite. That Rissa is the one doing the reporting to my father.”
“I doubt it.”
“With my father? You do know who we are talking about, don’t you? The control freak.”
“Then put your foot down and assert that you’re a Thorton. That you run the place.” Her laugh is laden with sarcasm. “That’ll get everyone gunning for you.”
“Ha. Funny. That’s exactly the problem. They all think I don’t know a thing and am there to shut them down.”
“That sucks.” And there’s something about the way she says it that eats at me. The privileged air of not having to care about where your next paycheck comes from, perhaps. But I fit in the same category, so I push the thought away just like I have tried to with the sneaking looks of annoyance the employees at Modern Family give me when they think I’m not paying attention.
“Tell me about it.” I know the turns of this town by heart, but I listen to the GPS anyway, noticing new buildings here and there. The elementary school I went to has a fresh coat of paint and new playground equipment. Daisy’s flower stand has expanded to take up the whole corner. Little bits of my past viewed through the eyes of someone who couldn’t wait to escape and has now come back.
“So, the best way to show them you know your shit is to make this contest successful. And by the looks of what you’ve pulled together in two months’ time, it seems that you do.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“So, what’s next with it? You just finished your second round of voting?”
“Yep.” A right at Lulu’s Diner. A left at the cinema that only has one screen. “We started with five hundred applicants, and I had interns narrow down that field to one hundred. With the second round of voting just ending, we have now narrowed the contestant field down to the top twenty.” And lucky for me, calling in a few favors allowed me to get the word out about the contest and the ball rolling faster than I expected.
Nothing is more motivating than getting to return to the city, my life, and the carrot my father dangled in front of my face.
“Oh, twenty delectable daddies to swoon over.”
“Let’s just hope everyone feels that way, because those hot dads just might be my saving grace.”
“More like your Haute ticket.”
“Very clever.”
She makes a noncommittal sound, which is punctuated by the clicking of keys on her keyboard in the background. “Who is it you’re headed to see right now?”
“My last one, Grayson Malone.”
“Last one. You say that so casually, like you haven’t been drooling over nineteen fine-looking men for the past week.”
“I haven’t. I’ve only gotten to Skype with nine of them. Rissa took the other half.”
“Wait. Hard-ass Rissa is helping you? I thought she was resentful of you being there. Why would she help you?”
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“Because my being here and succeeding also means she gets to keep her job, so . . . she wants to help.”
“What you mean is that she wants to keep you under her thumb and micromanage everything you do so you don’t mess up.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“At least she’s helping some, resentment or no resentment. Just tell me that you’re the one who’s responsible for all the men and for rubbing down all the beefcakes. Oiling them up. Vetting their, uh, sexiness credentials?” Leave it to Zoey to think about that.
“Technically, we’ve split everything. The men and the workload. She’s responsible for the copy and the website, and I’m in charge of garnering more advertising and press releases to get more attention.” I pass the fire station and give more than a passing glance to the men washing the engine. “Once we finish informing them they are officially finalists, get a new photo, have them write a more personal blurb for the site, what have you, then we can move on to the next round of voting.
“You’re talking to me here, Sid. That’s way too much technicality. Can we just get straight to the more pictures part? Do you need a fluffer to come on set and keep them, er, occupied?”
“You aren’t fluffing anything, and most of them are married.”
“Damn. All jokes aside, have any had serious potential?”
I shrug. “Are they handsome? Of course. But there hasn’t been one that has that holy shit appeal I’m looking for. The Mr. All American that will reel women in, with a little bit of rough edge to him that will keep them intrigued, and some kind of heart-wrenching story that will make women want to help fix him and make him all better.”
“You mean what every woman is looking for? Good luck with that.”
“I mean . . .” I struggle to put words to my explanation. “You know when you see a man who makes you stop in your tracks and just stare?”
“You’re a picky bitch, so that rarely happens.”
I ignore her comment and continue. “Exactly. If I can find a man who can stop me and make me stare and who has a good story—widowed, champion for kids’ rights, something that will tug on heartstrings—then I know I’ll be able to use him as the face of the contest.”
“You want a man who women can’t help but want to fix and then fuck.”
“Eloquent as always,” I say through a laugh.
“Just have them take their shirts off. That will get some attention. A hot body that makes women clench their thighs—or imagine his face between them—will win out over a sappy story any day,” she adds.
“Yeah, yeah.” I laugh. “But remember, this is mostly a magazine for moms.”
“Moms like sex, too. How else did they become moms?”
“Okay, so I’m looking for a hot man who will make your thighs clench and who breaks your heart. What else?”
“The total package.”
“The total package,” I repeat in a heavily sarcastic tone. “You say it as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to find.”
“There’s always this Grayson you’re off to meet.”
I want to tack the word “again” on to her statement because I know Grayson Malone from Sunnyville High School. Or, should I say that I used to kind of know him? Quiet. Resigned. Into academics. A lot on the scrawny side. Or maybe that was one of his two brothers? I try to put a face with his name but fall short.
“True.” It’s the best I can come up with.
More clicking of her keyboard. “What’s with his picture?” She must have gone to the contest site. “How has he been voted into the top twenty? The picture is taken from such a distance you can barely see him. He’s in a flight suit while all the other guys are shirtless. He has a helmet and goggles covering his face and everyone else is smiling big. Where’s the skin? Where are the abs?”
“Yeah. Well. Flight suit? Nothing says sexy like a rescue pilot. I guess the lack of a visual leaves it all up to the imagination, and that’s what some women like.”
“Rescue pilot may say sexy to some. I’m sure the dad part says hell-to-the-no to you.”
“I’m not that bad,” I muse as I turn down a tree-lined street, the perfect picture of suburbia with manicured lawns and bikes on driveways. I don’t think this neighborhood was built when I left, but then again, I was very limited in the places I ventured back then.
“Ha!” She exaggerates the sound. “A man tells you he has a kid and you leave smoke tracks trying to get away from him.”
“Whatever. You’re lucky I love you, or else I wouldn’t put up with this crap from you.”
“You do love me.” The line falls silent, and I wait for her to say whatever she has to say. “Look, I know you’re there because of me. I know you missed the interview because you were taking care of me instead of taking care of yourself. Thank you.”
“No need to say it, Zo. As long as you promise me to never see that bastard again, then I’m okay.”
“Done. Lesson learned. Moved on.”
“You good, though?” I ask, knowing full well how bruises fade on the skin but not on the mind.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Love you,” I say.
“Love you more.”
“Look, I’m almost there.”
“Let’s hope he has the je ne sais quoi you’re looking for.”
“Doubt it. I’m a hard woman to please.”
“Like I said . . . you’re a picky bitch.”
I pull up to the curb and park, a sigh falling from my lips. “You’re right. I am being a bitch. I feel like I’ve been going a hundred miles an hour since my dad gave me this assignment. I miss you. I miss home. I miss my bed—”
“Your bed is amazing.”
“I have no roadmap here. I work in an office with a bunch of people who aren’t sure if they should help me or hate me, and the only thing I know is that I can’t let my dad down. We’ve gained some publicity for the magazine with this contest, but it’s nowhere near where I need it to be . . . so yeah, I’m just exhausted and bitchy.” I laugh because I really do sound like a prima donna.
“Well, fingers crossed this Grayson guy will be the one.”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck, and may your thighs be sore from clenching them together by the time you leave.”
I end the call and stare at the address on my GPS and then back to the same numbers on the front of the house. The structure sits back from the road. Its stone veneer is various colors of brown, and the veranda spans its length with a big porch swing to the left. The grass is green, the beds are full of blooming flowers, and a bike ramp of some sort sits along the side of the house. A pickup truck is in the driveway, and a basketball hoop is off to the left of it.
I take one more long look at suburbia run amuck and wonder what will be on the other side of the door when it opens. What will Grayson be like? His wife? His son? Will he remember me?
As I make my way up the front path, laughter floats through the air, and the distinct sound of pots and pans comes through the open windows. I hesitate for some reason, and then I knock.
A voice inside yells, “Dad!” More dishes clink. Then there is the vibration of footsteps across the floor.
The door swings open.
My first thought: what the hell? I’m met with an oversize silver colander sitting on the head of whoever is opening the front door. No face, just the rough cut of a jaw, the stubble on his chin, and silver holes hiding everything beneath it.
My second thought: holy shit. He is wearing a plain white T-shirt that is a little too tight and stretches around biceps that aren’t too big and aren’t too small, the fabric between just snug enough to showcase every toned, cut inch of what lies beneath. Broad shoulders. A tapered waist.
Please . . . pretty please let this colander-wearing stranger be Grayson Malone because, hello? He just stopped me in my tracks. This is what I’ve been looking for. This is who I’ve been looking for.
A jaw-dropping guy you want to tear your eyes
away from because you know you are staring but can’t help yourself.
Let the thigh-clenching commence.
And I haven’t even seen his face yet.
Is it asking too much of the universe for him to be some kind of tortured hero to boot?
Too much? Thought so.
“Can I help you?” His voice is deep and gravelly and scrapes over my skin in a way that makes me want to stand there and wait for him to speak some more.
For the first time, I have chills just from speaking to one of my finalists. Or is that a tingling hot flash? I’m not sure, but the one thing I am certain of is that he’s exactly what I’ve been looking for. Let’s hope that when he hears the news, he’s still the nice guy I vaguely remember him to be and that he’ll be thrilled to be a finalist . . . and maybe the Hot Dad poster child I’m already making him out to be in my mind.
“Um. Yes.” I force my eyes off his torso and back up to the colander, where I can just see the curve of his bottom lip as it turns up into a smile.
“Dad!” a voice calls from somewhere in the house, right before footsteps pound down a hallway and then abruptly stop. “Oh my gosh. You’re so embarrassing.” A belly laugh. “Take that off.” A slink of two small arms around Colander Man’s torso.
“Sorry.” The man turns to face his son and removes the colander. “But I am your father, Luke,” he says in his best Darth Vader impersonation.
The little boy laughs, and I feel like such an outsider standing on the porch as the man ruffles the little boy’s hair I can’t quite see yet.
I clear my throat, and by the way Colander Man whips his head in my direction, it’s as if he had forgotten I was there. I’m struck immediately by the man looking back at me. Light eyes. Messed-up brown hair. A grin that is wide and inviting.
Yep. He definitely has the “it” factor.
When our eyes connect and recognition fires in his expression, that smile that could warm your insides slowly falls, bit by sexy bit.
Oh crap.
“What are you doing here?”
The bite in his voice says it all. He remembers.
“Hi, Grayson. Sidney Thorton.”