Chapter 7

7

ISAAC

Some days are more difficult than others. Today is one of those days. It would help if Simon would stop screaming.

"I want Tony the Tiger!"

After-work shoppers pack the grocery store, and for some reason, the aisles aren't big enough to move around in. I was doing fine with sticking to my list, which included cereal. But that's where it all went wrong. Because Simon can remember things I wish he'd forget, but he can't seem to remember he doesn't like Frosted Flakes.

"Please, Daddy." He stomps his feet as if that's going to make me say yes and stretches his arms up to try and grab the cereal. "I want it," he says loudly between scream-sobs. It's a thing.

"Simon." I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. Screaming back at him will not help. "They get soggy, and then you won't eat them."

"Yes. I. will. I'll eat them. I promise."

"No. I'm not changing my mind." A woman stares at me as she walks by us with her cart. I smile instead of yelling at her to mind her own business. I lean down and whisper—loudly, "We will leave right now if you don't stop."

He stares at me with his big blue eyes and his hiccupping sobs, and I already know the outcome. When we get to this point, there's nothing to do but remove us from the situation.

"But I want Tony the Tiger!"

I scrub my face. This day has been a complete clusterfuck. Exhaustion pulls at me, but I shake it off. "I said no."

"It's not fair." And now he's screaming about how unfair it is to the entire grocery store.

"Tough luck, bud. Life isn't fair." Fuck. I'm turning into my mother. I take a deep breath. Giving in would be so much easier.

This time. But not the next time. Or the next.

I had everything planned out. In a spreadsheet. The menu is posted on the refrigerator. But kids don't care about schedules. Or spreadsheets. And I was so tired last night that I forgot to take the chicken out of the freezer. Which resulted in this quick trip to the grocery store. Which resulted in a meltdown.

So, instead of baked chicken and rice, it'll be another PB&J night. This is the second time this week. God, I'm a failure as a father.

But at least you're here, sweetie. That counts. I can hear Zye's words. Maybe because he said them to me this morning.

The cart is full, but I ignore it as I scoop up my son, ignoring his cries for Tony the Tiger and the judgmental looks from a lady with bleach-blonde hair and a dog in her purse. Seriously, is that allowed?

I leave the cart, silently apologizing to the grocery store employees for having to put away our stuff. At least it's just canned goods and cereal. I've learned to shop for the perishables last.

"My fruit roll-ups." Simon stretches, trying to grab the box as I carry him away.

"If you scream and cry, we leave. Those are the rules, bud."

Simon slumps in defeat, and I briefly consider trying to finish shopping, but honestly, I'm done with this day.

Once we're home, I make dinner, and we sit down to eat. PB&J, applesauce, celery with peanut butter and raisins, and milk. That's all the food groups, right? Simon glares at his food. His eyes aren't as red anymore, but he's flicking all the ants off the boat. He hasn't touched his sandwich. God, I hope he's not getting sick. I have our vacation time planned out and barely any sick days.

I take a bite of my sandwich. Simon pouts. "You okay, bud?"

He shrugs.

I tip his chin so he has to look at me. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"I don't like daycare."

"Simon, you love it at Little Bees. All your friends are there. And Mrs. Wagner., right?"

Another shrug.

Did something happen today? No one mentioned anything when I picked him up. But Mrs. Wagner was busy with one of the other kids, and I got someone different. I check my phone to see if I have an email.

"No ‘lectronics at the table, Daddy."

Busted. That rule is mostly because Simon likes to watch YouTube videos on his tablet.

"It's work," I say and shake my head. Why lie? "I want to see if Mrs. Wagner emailed me."

His head drops, and I know the answer before finding the email. As I read it, my heart aches. I swallow my guilt because, fuck, I have nothing to feel guilty about. "Tell me what happened today."

"Nothing."

We both know that isn't true. "You can tell me." I touch his sweet face and my heart melts. His eyes fill with tears.

"We were playing like we were cooking supper, and Jessica said I couldn't be the mommy."

"Because you're a boy?"

"No. Boys can be mommies." I heard the duh in his words. "They said I couldn't be a mommy because I don't have a mommy."

Oh. I gently squeeze his arm. "You have a mommy, sweetie."

"But they didn't believe me." He stares at his sandwich and shrugs. "I don't believe me either."

Pain stabs through my chest. And I'm not sure which one is stronger: the guilt or my frustration with Jane. "Sweetie, you have a mom, and she loves you."

"She's not here."

I brush his hair back. "She's taking care of herself."

I've told him this before, but it doesn't make it any better.

His lip trembles as he pokes holes in the bread of his sandwich. I can't even get mad. "Daddy?"

"Yes, Simon?"

His face gets red and puffy as if he's trying not to cry. "I used to splash in the bathtub."

It takes me a second. He loves hearing stories of when he was little. I include his mom if I can in those memories. And his favorite is the time he splashed her. She was soaked and laughing so hard that I had to check on them to make sure everything was okay. It's one of his favorite memories, and mine, if I'm being honest. He hasn't asked for it in a while. "You did. And it was funny."

"Is that why Mommy left? Because I splashed her?"

Fuck. I hold in the sudden flood of emotions. But barely. Why does life have to be so hard? I can take it. Working two jobs. Being a single parent. The loneliness. The exhaustion. But Simon? He shouldn't have to deal with this.

"Hey, look at me, sweetie." I cup his chin. "It isn't your fault that Mommy left. She loves you. Come here."

He crawls in my lap and lets me hold him. We finish eating. Not that he eats much. I don't get the cube. This is bigger than Stella can handle.

I spend the rest of the night taking care of him. Trying to soothe him. After I rock him to sleep, I clean the kitchen and make Simon's breakfast for the next day. We don't usually have time to eat before I have to be at Zye's, so I pack it beforehand. There are other things I need to do. Laundry. Clean the bathroom. Figure out the best place for Simon and me to go for some needed time off before school starts.

I don't do those things. I'm too worn out. Physically and mentally. But when I fall into bed, my brain won't turn off. No, it wants to relive every moment of this awful day. How I need to do better. Everything from not being a good enough father to not being able to adequately fill the mother role.

The only way to turn it off is to distract myself by doing something I swore not to do.

I Google Prince Adrian. Holy hell. There are pictures of him everywhere. This is what happens when you aren't on social media. I should have recognized him right away.

Instead, I thought he was homeless. I called him a menace. And oh fuck . Did I really accuse him of trying to abduct children? But I also shared my food with him. Reluctantly. Still, that has to count for something. He seemed grateful.

And the kiss on my hand. I can almost feel his lips pressed against my palm. His green eyes as he stared at me as if he were interested. And those eyebrows. How can eyebrows be that sexy? The man is hot as fuck.

Nothing about what happened adds up. Why would a sexy prince want me? I'm nobody. Boring Isaac. A single dad working two jobs with a mountain of debt. That's attractive as fuck.

But I give myself permission, for once—for now—to believe it. Believe that a prince wants me. So much so that he switched teams. Or realized which team he really played for. I did that.

I'm even more exhausted the next day since I didn't use any of my precious alone time to rest. I've been a mess all week. Sure, it's nice to have someone interested in me. But having it and then realizing it's not even in the realm of possibility is like…going to Comic Con, but everyone you want to see drops out. Disappointing. Frustrating.

I got a taste of what I've been missing, leaving me feeling empty. Hollow. It doesn't help that Zye and Miles are kissing in the lobby when I arrive at my first job. Miles leaves for work at his auto repair shop, and Zye sighs dreamily. I'm happy for them, but Jesus.

As I spend the next hour helping plan weddings for happy couples, I feel even lonelier.

I don't mention my encounter with the prince to Zye. Would he even believe me?

Would anyone?

It's almost a relief to go to the job I don't like. I can focus on spreadsheets and numbers and not disgustingly happy couples in love getting married.

But then, like always, Paul ruins everything.

"Rough night, Isaac? Let me guess…you binged Star Trek Next Gen for the thousandth time."

Do the designers of grocery stores also design office spaces because, seriously, would it kill them to make the aisles bigger? I just want to get back to my desk with my second, okay, third, cup of coffee. I grit my teeth and keep my head down as we cross paths.

"No? Wait, I know," he says in a low, mocking voice, "poor little Simon had a nightmare."

Frustration and anger slam through me, and I spin, getting right in his face. "Don't ever say my son's name again."

"You act as if I'm the worst person alive." He plants his feet and crosses his arms.

"Glad you got the message."

Something that resembles hurt flashes in his eyes. "Simon and I were buds. We watched wrestling together."

"Which I was against, if you remember."

"And I practiced soccer with him when you were too busy."

"That was one—" I hold in the words and my frustrated scream. This is what he wants. "Just stop, Paul. You can't?—"

"Um, guys?" Macy stops in front of us, a stack of files in her hands. Several coworkers crane their heads over the cubicles. Others are peeking from their doorways. "You might want to keep it down. Or, at least, stop blocking the aisle." That's when I notice a few people, including my boss, Mr. Sanor, standing behind her.

"Sorry," I say to Macy and everyone in general, my face hot with humiliation. I nod at my boss and turn, going in the opposite direction and taking the long way to my desk so I can die in peace. Why do I let Paul get to me?

I ask Macy this exact question at lunch. The lounge area is sparse. Most people eat in the cafeteria downstairs, or they eat takeout since there are so many options in the area. I'm not willing to waste the money on either. And, if I'm being honest, sometimes I work through lunch.

"I dunno, but I liked seeing you give it back to him instead of just taking his crap."

"That felt good." Shocking Paul might have been worth it. Unless I lose my job. "I'm not sure Mr. Sanor would agree."

She leans closer. "Sod him." Her gaze shifts to something behind me. "And Paul."

I glance over my shoulder. Paul is talking and laughing with a guy who has worked at Anderson for over thirty years. We had a cake celebrating that fact a few weeks ago. They're by the door, and I'm not sure if they've just arrived or if they're leaving. Paul glances at me, scowls, and walks out the door.

"He's being more of an ass than usual, right? I'm not just imagining it?"

"He is, and you're not." She glares at her salad like it personally offends her. "You'd think they'd find a way for lettuce to taste good."

"They did. It's called drenching it in ranch dressing. And adding lots and lots of croutons."

She picks through her salad. "Not if I want to look bikini-ready for my cruise. I still need to lose another ten pounds."

"I think you're perfect the way you are."

Macy has this way of looking at people, looking at me. Like I'm made of numbers and she's shifting through them to find the mistakes. Figuring out when something doesn't add up. But not in a malicious way. It's so she can call me on my bullshit. "Thank you, Isaac. I could say the same about you."

I bite into my sandwich, less out of hunger and more to hide my shame. "I'm not perfect, and lately, I feel even more unperfect. Or is it imperfect?"

"Stop it right now, Isaac Brandt. You're a good person. Paul is a prat."

I smile at her. She's a good friend. "I can't figure out why he's being such a dick. Do I have a sign on me that says treat me like dog doo-doo ?"

She crunches on a carrot. "Dog doo-doo?"

"I'm trying not to cuss. I keep fucking up in front of Simon."

She laughs, and some of my tension eases away. "Right. I'm not sure the word shit is your problem."

"Gotta start somewhere." I take a bite of my celery stick and throw it down in disgust. I need to step it up and actually cook dinner tonight. No matter how much I want to throw myself on the couch and binge mindless TV. Or sleep for a million years.

"But to answer your question," Macy says, pulling me out of my pity party, "Paul can see the sign on you because he's the one who put it there. Now that you're preoccupied with someone else, he's fighting harder to get your attention."

My grape is halfway to my mouth. "That makes no sense."

She takes another bite of her carrot chips. "Which part?"

"I'm not preoccupied with anyone. And if I was, Paul wouldn't notice or care. We broke up." I stuff another grape in my mouth so I'm not tempted to say more.

"Poor, sweet, innocent Isaac."

"I'm not innocent." But my face heats, giving weight to her words.

"It's not a bad thing. Paul is a wanker. He thinks of you as his possession."

A couple in the corner argue about whose turn it is to clean the fridge. Other than that, we're alone. Thankfully. I lean in so no one else can hear, just in case. "I am not his possession."

"Of course, you're not. He's figuring that out. Which is why he's being a prick," Macy says in a matter-of-fact tone. "So, who is it, then?"

"Who's what?" I ask as innocently as I can and then stuff more grapes in my mouth. The hum of the refrigerator rises over the harsh whispers in the corner and the icemaker clunks along. It never actually makes any ice, but it works hard at not making it.

Macy stares at me, and for a minute, I want to confide in her. Well, Mace, I met this prince. You know the one? He skipped his wedding to hang out with me and my son? Uh. No. Jesus.

"I met someone. But it's not…I can't contact him. Or anything. It was nothing." Shit…shoot, this is worse than telling the truth.

"So you don't know his name?"

"He only gave me his first name." Technically, I'm not lying.

Her gaze drills into me. Was she an investigator in another life? She does audits, so that tracks. My phone alarm goes off, reminding me lunch is over. "Look at the time." I smile, trying not to seem too relieved.

"We are not done talking about this."

"Yup. Got it."

But when we return to our floor, I can tell something's wrong.

"Where is everyone?" Macy asks.

That's it. The floor seems to be deserted. The cubicles are empty. I check a few to confirm. No one. Voices come from the open area that contains the file cabinets and printers. We wander over, and the first person I see is Paul with his arms crossed. He glares at the other person hidden from my view.

"I want to know what's going— Isaac." He waves his hand. "What is this about?"

"What?" I step into the open space, and all the air leaves my lungs. Reginald? In my place of employment? Did I fall asleep at lunch and hit my head? Why would he be here? He gives Paul an impassive look, unaffected by his hostility, and it reminds me of the guards at Buckingham Palace. Nothing gets to him. He nods at me. "Um, Reginald? I don't understand." Did something happen to Adrian? The thought grips me and won't let go. "Is—" I stop before I say his name. "Is he okay?"

Something flashes in Reginald's eyes, and he seems less stern. It's not quite a smile, but it's close. "Can you please come with me?"

Oh God. My heart squeezes painfully. "That's not an answer."

"He's quite well, Isaac. Impatient, but well. Now, if you don't mind…" He gestures past the cubicles toward my boss's office and the conference rooms.

"What is this about?" Paul asks, but I ignore him and focus on Reginald.

"I'm at work. You get that, right?" My eyes stray back to the conference room. I can't lose this job.

"My apologies. I should have mentioned earlier that this has been cleared with your employer."

"Who the hell are you people? You think you can just show up here like…royalty, and everyone will bend over for you?"

My gaze darts to Paul before I can stop myself, but he's glaring at Reginald. He doesn't know. Does he? He seems clueless. I move to follow Reginald, and Macy grabs my sleeve.

"Are you sure about this?"

I nod with a smile. "It's fine." But I'm not sure of that. I have to trust that Adrian wouldn't do anything to jeopardize my job. But why should I? He doesn't know me. And I don't really know him.

None of that matters. If Adrian is here, I'm not passing up the opportunity to see him again. I follow Reginald into the large conference room, unsure what to expect. The conference table stretches the entire length of the room, only leaving space for the chairs and a small area used for presentations. I've given many end-of-month reports in that area. Now it contains a prince standing tall and regal. Dressed in expensive clothes. The light from the windows shines on him like a spotlight. Adrian is gorgeous. And unharmed. Relief rushes through me.

He turns as we enter. The tightness in his face smooths out, and he grins at me. I'm dizzy from all the emotions hitting me at once. Relief that I didn't make the whole thing up. The pull of my attraction to him. The feeling of everything being right. I return his smile and then my "dad instincts" kick in. This isn't some guy I met over the weekend. He isn't some long-lost love I found again. This is a prince. And I treated him terribly.

"Isaac," he says, stepping closer. "It's lovely to see you again."

The hasty apology I planned flies out the conference room windows. "Is it?"

Reginald clears his throat, but my focus is on the prince in front of me.

Adrian stops, his smile fading. "You're angry."

"No. No…" Am I angry? I'm not sure how I feel but anger is close. Frustrated. He's here to see me. And offer me what? No matter what it is, I have to say no. Jesus, Isaac. He flew across an ocean to see you. Hear the man out. That voice sounds suspiciously like Zye. Although Zye would tell me not to be a fucking idiot.

"Turning up at your place of employment was rude, but I needed to see you?—"

"Adrian, listen?—"

"Prince Adrian," Reginald corrects. "Or Your Highness."

Fuck. I swallow the lump in my throat. "Right, Prince Adrian." My body feels prickly and the words fly out before I can stop them. "Excuse me. I'm not sure of the etiquette. I've never met a prince before." I glare at Reginald. My voice gets louder with each word. "And no one gave me note cards to prepare."

Reginald's eyes widen, but he doesn't reprimand me like I expect.

"It's fine, Reggie." Adrian gestures at the other man. "You're quite right, Isaac. I'd like you to call me Adrian?—"

"Your Highness?—"

"Can you give us a moment, Reginald?"

"Sir, I'm not sure that's wise."

The blinds are drawn on the windows that face the hallway. I'd barely noticed when I entered the room. Not fully realizing the reason. Now it was clear. And poor Reginald. Adrian—Prince Adrian—must make his life difficult. But Adrian is giving him the pleading eyes I get from Simon when he wants to stay up another fifteen minutes.

Has he been with Adrian since he was a child?

Reginald sighs. "Very well. I will be right outside the door." He gives me a pointed look. Okay, then.

As soon as the door clicks shut, I'm apologizing. "I'm so sorry, Adrian." I shake my head. "Prince Adrian."

"No, please call me Adrian." He takes several long strides around the table until he's next to me. Tall. Gorgeous. Princely. "I'm the one who must apologize. I'm sorry for everything, Isaac."

"Everything?" What exactly is he apologizing for? "Showing up at my work?"

"Not just that?—"

I shake my head and hold up my hand. "Stop." His mouth opens. Fuck. Did I just shush a prince? I am the worst. "Um, sorry. I'm not good at this. At all. And I treated you horribly that day at—" I can't say the words, but he knows which day.

His gaze turns fond. What am I missing? "It's fine, Isaac. Believe it or not, I get tired of people kowtowing to me. Your candor is refreshing."

I snort and then cover my mouth. Oh God. I'm messing this up. "Why are you here?" There. That's a reasonable question. I resist throwing in a Your Honor, Your Majesty, or Your Whatever-the-fuck. Better to leave it out than get it wrong, right?

He glances away and his jaw tightens. "I need to talk to you about something."

God. That sounds serious. "I'm listening."

His smile seems almost guilty. Which makes no sense. "Not here. Not yet. I need…" He lets out a breath. "Isaac, I…" His eyes catch mine. So green. Intense. Beautiful. "Have dinner with me?"

"You flew across the world to ask me to dinner?"

"Not just dinner—" His eyes widen. "Oh God, no. That's not what I meant." Red stains his cheeks, and to see this man, this prince, nervous and awkward around me—just…me—tears down my defenses just a little. A crack in my force field.

"I do need to talk to you," he continues, "but first, I'd like to have dinner with you." He brushes his hair back, giving me a charming smile. The one that probably has everyone in the kingdom swooning over him. "You and Simon, of course."

Fuck. Simon. "I'm not sure, Adrian. He already talks about you constantly, and he drew you this picture—" My gaze darts to his. I did not mean to give so much away.

"Please?" he asks, his eyes soft. "I'd love to see him and you. I really missed you."

I study his face. He seems sincere, which makes it a thousand times worse. We spent less than an hour together. But I can't deny the connection between us. It scares the crap out of me, but it also feels truer than anything I've felt in a while. "I missed you too." The words slip out, and I don't try to stop them. I should. I absolutely should. But I'm tired, and I want something for myself. Is that so wrong?

Just be careful. That isn't Zye's voice in my head. He'd tell me to go for it. That voice belongs to me. The me that's been hurt before. "Okay. But I don't want this to be confusing for him."

"You name the place."

"The Corner Café. Christy's Café," I amend because that's the official name of the diner. It's on the corner of Main Street and Vine, so everyone calls it the Corner Café or just Christy's. Simon feels comfortable there, but how can that work? "I forgot about small-town gossip. Maybe we should go somewhere else."

"I'll handle it. We'll pick you up at…seven?"

"Can we make it six? Simon has a routine. And we're already breaking it."

"Absolutely." He grins widely, and my heart skips a beat. Lord. I stare at his beautiful face. Why me? I want to ask the question, but I'm afraid of the answer. "Can I…?" He steps closer and my heart skips several beats, speeding up to warp factor ten. Is he going to kiss me? He takes my hands and holds them up between us. My body tingles with excitement. "I know I'm being forward…" He leans down.

"This is forward?" Shut up, Isaac. "The last date I went on, the guy grabbed my ass. You're fine." Fuck. Reginald would give me a stern talking-to if he were in here.

Adrian laughs. "I love that you don't censure yourself around me, Isaac. It's tiring when people are afraid to say what they mean. It makes it very hard to trust." His eyes turn sad, and I hold back my impulse to hug him. That would be forward. How can this prince seem both majestic and vulnerable? "Although I don't like the idea of anyone touching you without your permission."

"Are you real?" I probably sound looney, but I need to know. His hands feel real as they tighten around mine.

"Very real," he says, his voice deeper as he leans in. His eyes drop to my mouth, and holy shit, he's going to kiss me. At my work. But I don't care. I want this. I stretch up on my toes—he's so freaking tall—I want there to be no doubt about my consent.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Three swift raps, and I'm jumping away. What if it's my boss? Or, God forbid, Paul. But would that be so bad? Show that asshole that someone wants me.

"Excuse me, Your Highness. It's time to go. We've used up the time allotted by Mr. Sanor."

My boss. How had they explained this?

"Right. Sorry." He squeezes my hands again and brushes his lips across my knuckles. My fingers tingle, and I can still feel the contact when he lets go.

Reginald hurries him away.

I'm back at my desk, ignoring the annoyed looks from Paul and the curious ones from Macy. The mid-quarter report is due tomorrow, and I focus on finishing it. My fingers fly of their own accord as I figure out the data using my ten-key. My eyes catch on my knuckles, and I lose my place. A prince kissed me there. But that means nothing. Adrian kissed me there. And that means everything.

After work, I focus on picking up Simon and not the feeling in my stomach like I've been transported and all my molecules rearranged. Simon, like most kids, has the uncanny ability to pick up on my moods.

I strap him into his booster seat. "Ready to go home?"

"Daddy, the parade."

Right. Zye promised him another parade, and I'd agreed. How was I supposed to know a prince would invite me to dinner? "One parade. We're going to Christy's for dinner, so we have to make it fast."

As we step through the door of Zyetastic Weddings, Zye hands me a crown. I'm grateful he didn't forget. He's such a good guy. The best. I laugh as I put it on because, later, I'm meeting with my own prince. The one Zye has been lusting over even though he has his own gorgeous man. This entire thing feels surreal.

"Someone's in a better mood."

"No. It's nothing?—"

"Are you guys going to dinner with us?" Simon asks Miles.

"No," I say sharply. Too sharply. Everyone stares at me. "It's—no." I adjust my crown and then help Simon with his, ignoring Zye's sharp eyes.

"Dinner? A date?" Zye asks, and it sounds like he's talking more to himself. "No, not with Simon there. Unless?—"

"Leave the man alone, Zye," Miles says, putting his hand on the back of Zye's neck. "Let's get this parade started. Justine is getting restless."

Zye glares at the bird. It's no secret that Zye is not an emu fan. The man raises chickens, but emus are where he apparently draws the line. A line that Miles decided to cross.

The parade is fun and silly, and Simon loves it. Justine refuses to stay in line. She pecks at everyone, but Zye is her favorite. Probably because his shoes sparkle more than his tiara. I set the cube timer because I don't want to be late. And I can't have Adrian picking us up here.

As we gather our things and start for the door, Zye stops me. "I want to hear all about his guy."

"What guy?" I wave him away. But we both know Simon will talk and Zye will get the story. Or at least Simon's version of it. I roll my eyes and nod. "Okay. Fine."

He preens a little and ruffles Simon's hair. "Have a good time with Prince Charming, Simon and Daddy ."

"Not Prince Charming, Prince Adrian," Simon corrects, and then his eyes go impossibly wide. "Are we having dinner with Prince Adrian?"

Well, fuck. I'm not lying to my son. But I'm not confirming anything either. "You'll see." Which has always meant yes to Simon.

Once we're home, we get ready as quickly as possible. Simon appoints himself as the lookout, hanging over the back of the couch and staring out the window as I fix my hair for the thousandth time. I've almost got it when he squeals. "Daddy, there's a big car here."

I rush to the window. A sleek black SUV that looks more expensive than my house pulls up next to the curb. My stomach flips. Oh God. What have I gotten myself into?

Simon rushes outside ahead of me and I grab his hand before he gets to Reginald standing by the back of the vehicle.

"Hold on. I need to get your booster seat." I grab it out of the car, and Reginald opens the back door for us.

"Is Prince Adrian here?" Simon asked. Reginald smiles, and it makes him look almost human.

I climb in first and stare. This isn't a vehicle. It's a room. With leather bench seating and two bucket seats on the other side. It has a bar. A TV. Adrian is seated on the bench seat, and I smile awkwardly at him. Simon's huffs, not happy he has to wait. That shakes me out of my daze. But I ignore his attitude. It's still my job to protect him.

"Hello, Simon." Adrian has changed into jeans and a sweater and looks approachable. Fuckable. Where did that thought come from? My son jumps into the vehicle and rushes to Adrian, throwing his arms around him. I'm horrified, but I also wish I could be as brave.

"I told Daddy you'd be back, but he didn't believe me. Oh, and I drew—" His face falls. "I forgot my picture. Daddy, we have to go back and get my picture."

Tears are eminent, so I point to the backpack. It has wet wipes, clothes for Simon—in case he spills an entire drink on himself. Again—and toys in case he gets bored. Not likely. And his picture for Adrian.

"Can I give it to him now?"

"After we get your seatbelt on." After he's buckled up, I hand Simon the picture. He stretches across me and gives it to Adrian.

Adrian exclaims over the picture, asking questions and looking genuinely thrilled. I can't help falling a little more for this man, which scares me. But I'm going to enjoy myself tonight. It might be the only night we get.

Simon asks Reginald questions about his Batman car, and Adrian turns to me. "After dinner," he says in a low voice, "we need to talk." He darts a glance at Simon and worry creates knots in my stomach.

Right. This is the reason he's here. And no matter what he has to say, I'm sure I'm not going to like it.