It’s an odd thing when there’s no one in the world you trust more than your dog. But that first time I had a seizure alone in my apartment, and Charlie did exactly what we had trained him to do—push the medical alert button on the wall that calls Joanna and then my parents, and then turn me on my side and lick my face to help me regain consciousness sooner—it sealed my trust.
And today, I hope I can help a little girl and her daddy find that same trust.
After stepping inside the coffee shop and letting the cool air rush over the beads of sweat on my forehead, I scan the room, looking for a man and young girl. Mr. Broaden gave me a brief description of himself in his email, so I scan the room, looking for a tall man with “hunny”-colored hair. Though, I really hope that his fingers hit the keys wrong and he actually knows how to spell the word honey.
I’m scanning, I’m scanning, I’m scanning, and….bingo!
There’s a tall man with dirty-blond hair, a to-go cup in each hand, walking toward a young girl sitting at a table. This has to be them. Charlie and I approach the two, and the girl notices us first. Her eyes light up when she sees Charlie, and I recognize the look. It’s the same one everyone gives my dog. It’s a look that says she’s seconds from lunging at him, and I’m going to have to tenderly ask her not to pet Charlie while he has his vest on.
Mr. Broaden notices that something has caught his daughter’s eye and he turns.
And then, BAM. The most spectacular pair of blue eyes hits me, and I almost feel like taking a step back. I’m staring into his eyes and dreaming of swimming in the shallow part of the ocean where you can still see your feet but the water is so blue that it looks like God dipped his brush in it after painting the sky. I immediately appreciate the way his eyes perfectly contrast the white cotton t-shirt that’s straining over his chest and shoulders.
I mean, wowza. Is this the kind of dad hospitals are cranking out these days? Where do I sign up?
I’ll take one dad with dirty-blond hair, tan skin, 6 ft tall, glittering blue eyes, and a chiseled body that makes my face turn into molten lava, please. Actually, better yet, I’ll just take this one. Thanks.
It’s impressive how quickly my mind absorbs the information that his ring finger is blissfully empty. Not a tan line in sight.
“Mr. Broaden?” I ask, sounding a little too excited for my taste. Take it down a notch, Evie.
“Yes?” he says tentatively, and I notice him briefly take me in. His eyes scan all the way down me until they land on Charlie and stop. He frowns and looks back up at me.
That’s a little bit odd.
I move my binder under my arm and then extend my hand to him. “I’m Evie Jones. It’s so nice to meet you in person!” My southern accent is friendly and inviting, and if we’re being honest, a little bit adorable, but he’s not taking my hand.
Why isn’t he shaking my hand? He’s staring at it like he’s just escaped from a deserted island that he’s been stranded on for most of his life. Human contact is foreign to this man.
My smile falters, and an odd feeling settles in my stomach. Finally, he seems to remember some sort of manners and shakes my hand. The moment his skin settles against mine I feel my whole body break out in chill bumps. Until this moment, I’ve been completely unaware of how important it is to me to have a man with hands so large they completely engulf mine. My hand looks like a tiny baby hand inside his, and I love it.
Mr. Broaden pulls his hand back, and I’m pretty sure he takes a step away from me. The bad feeling returns.
“I’m sorry, but…do we know each other?” he asks, his voice deep with only the slightest touch of a southern accent.
I’m not exactly sure how to respond to his question since we technically have met, but only over email. But he should know that already. He looks blindsided. Like I’m an insane woman who has just approached his table and he’s concerned I’m going to try to kidnap his daughter and run away.
It’s at this point that I realize the little girl at the table is biting her lip and focusing intently on the paper cup in front of her. She looks just about the right age to spell honey with a U and two Ns.
Chapter Two
JAKE
All of the alarms are sounding in my mind. Who is this woman? Why is she standing in front of me, looking at me as if I should know her? Is she a client of mine? No. I definitely don’t know her. Believe me, I would remember.
She’s exactly the sort of woman I would take one long look at and then mentally transcribe in my little black book of DO NOT EVER CONTACT AGAIN. I’m writing her name inside, shutting it, wrapping a chain around it, bolting it, and dropping it to the bottom of a lake.
This woman is trouble. Gorgeous, tempting trouble.
She’s too beautiful. And that immediately turns me off to her, because I just got off the phone with Too Beautiful. Not even five minutes ago, Too Beautiful was calling from Hawaii to tell me that she wouldn’t be able to visit Sam this weekend like we’d planned because her new boyfriend surprised her with a trip to some tropical resort. She said it as if I should be happy for her. I’m not happy for her. I kind of hope that the shark from Jaws comes and swallows Natalie up while she’s floating on a yellow tube in the ocean.
In case you’re currently worried about my mental health, you should know I haven’t always been this vengeful. Not sure if that makes it better or worse. I didn’t get to my current level of angst overnight. It took months of watching my daughter cry in her bedroom when her mom didn’t show up like she said she would, didn’t call like she said she would, wasn’t there for Sam like she promised she always would be.
Yeah, I don’t have any illusions anymore. Too Beautiful only sticks around until she gets bored.
I watch the woman carefully, not willing to let my guard down around this woman for one second. Her wide smile falters, and she looks at my daughter, Samantha, with a question in her eyes. This concerns me even more. It concerns me more than the fact that I’ve already memorized exactly what shade of green Evie Jones’s eyes are.
Mrs. Jones—the woman I know I’ve never met before this moment—comes to some sort of conclusion, and she looks back up at me. She smiles again, and my stomach tightens. I consider finding the dang key to my black book and fishing it out of the lake.
“I’m guessing you’re not the one who emailed me?” asks Mrs. Jones.
“Emailed you?” I ask, feeling like a patient learning he has amnesia. “No, definitely not.”
She nods and chews her bottom lip briefly while casting her eyes down at her dog. Her service dog. There’s a binder tucked under her arm with the words Southern Service Paws written across it.
Ahh—and now I have it.
Sam has been leaving their pamphlets around our house for weeks. She’s been begging me endlessly to let her get a service dog ever since she saw an interview of a woman and her service dog on an episode of Ellen. But I’ve been firm in my answer of no, and that answer still stands.
I’m not entirely sure how to proceed here. I’m mad that my daughter has evidently gone behind my back and contacted whomever this woman is without my knowing. But I also know that she’s had a hard year with her mom leaving and then being diagnosed with epilepsy, so I don’t want to pile on by reprimanding her in front of this woman. At the same time, it’s not okay for her to be pulling stunts like this. Ever since she was diagnosed, she’s been acting out in strange ways, and I’m not always sure how to handle her.