Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
If I had less to lose, I might not think twice about picking up where we’d left off, but I’d gone through hell to get where I was. I wouldn’t sacrifice my reputation or my relationship with my son for amazing sex with a charming closeted bi man who just happened to be passing through town. Nothing had changed.
I was still me. I was still a respected businessman, I was still Jake’s dad.
That was more than enough.
Shaking off my melancholy thoughts, I walked to work, my footsteps echoing on the quiet streets as I turned from Main Street onto Beech. I juggled my briefcase and climbed the short set of stairs to my office, a pretty light gray Victorian with a wraparound porch and flower boxes filled with tumbling red geraniums at every window.
When we’d first moved to Elmwood, Jake and I had lived on the first floor of the house and I’d run my business upstairs. The house was small, but it had been perfect for us. It had a huge yard and there were tons of kids Jake’s age on the block. Plus, the proximity to the center of town was good for a new real estate agent.
The business seemed to grow as quickly as Jake had. My one-man show morphed into a four-person operation: two other agents, a secretary, and myself. Needless to say, within seven years, it became far too cozy. So Jake and I moved to a beautiful brick colonial on Walnut Street that was roughly three times larger. My rationale at the time had been that teenagers needed space, and it sort of reminded me of the neighborhoods where I’d grown up in Philly.
Truthfully, the house had always been far too big for two people—especially as one of them had rarely been home. Jake had spent every other week with his mom and afternoons and weekends at the rink, so I rattled around a four-bedroom house with a fabulous great room and a kitchen any chef would be proud of all by my lonesome for years. I still did. If I were smart, I’d sell it and find something smaller.
I waved a greeting at my secretary, Tracy, who held up her hand to stop me.
“You have a client,” she whispered.
“I do?” I checked my watch. “Now?”
“Duncan’s wife called. He had an emergency root canal this morning.”
“Oh. Poor guy.”
“Yeah, I know. Sounds painful. Anyway, he was supposed to take Mr. Paluchek to see a couple of properties. Tamara has a meeting in Pinecrest, so—”
“Mr. Paluchek?”
“That’s me. I’m all yours.”
I whirled on cue. “You.”
“Me.” Smitty smiled. And damn, he had a great smile—toothy and wide with dimples and a hint of mischief. It was the kind of smile that was impossible not to return.
He should have looked out of place in an office setting with his casual white tee, running shorts, and backward Blue Jays cap, but he filled the room with an easy confidence and a sunny aura. After my odd freak-out session on my kitchen floor less than an hour ago, Smitty was a surprisingly welcome sight.
Don’t ask why. I had no idea.
I was in the throes of an emotionally vulnerable state of mind. Some guys bought sports cars in the midst of a midlife crisis; others fell apart over broken mugs and turned into mush around handsome men with hot bods and wicked grins.
“So…you’re the client.”
Smitty tilted his chin. “Yup. Duncan showed me the place on Myrtle yesterday afternoon. It was way too big.”
“The Fultons raised a family of five in that house,” Tracy chimed in, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Things to know about Tracy Stephens, aka, my work-wife-slash-The-Milligan-Company’s-Greek-chorus: She was roughly my age with short gray hair, green eyes, and perpetually pink cheeks. And she was a tad…nosy.
We’d met through our kids. Her oldest son was Jake’s age, and she and her husband, Mike, had two daughters and a younger son too. They were good people, and they’d been kind to Jake and me when we’d first moved to Elmwood.
In divorce situations like mine and Piper’s, I’d expected to get excluded from a lot of parental activities, but not on Tracy’s watch. She’d gone the extra mile, extending invitations to barbecues, tailgate parties, family picnics. She’d even invited me to join her book club.
I’d returned the favor by hiring her to run my office a few years ago after Mike had been injured in a logging accident and was out of commission for a few months. She’d become an indispensable part of my team and a good friend.
“Yeah, that’s a large home,” I agreed, shuffling around Tracy.
“Don’t you worry. You’re in good hands with Bryson,” she continued. “Only the best for our incoming coach, isn’t that right? My youngest son, Adam, will be on your team and I have to warn you, he’s a big fan.”