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“Because I’ve lost my mind?”
I laugh. “I lose mine at least twice a day. I still don’t call people who save me from drowning for no reason.”
“I saved you.”
“Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to.”
He chuckles. “Well…I guess I’m calling because…”
“Because?”
“Because he’s going to do it!” I hear Chloe yell in the background.
His response is swift and firm without being mean. “Chloe.”
How is it that fathers can say so much with just a name? My dad has the exact same ability.
“You’re going to do it?” I ask tentatively, rather than get in the middle of their parent/child dynamic.
“He’s going to do it!” Chloe shouts excitedly.
Her name is swift and firm again, but this time, somehow, Jake manages to combine the disciplinary word with a laugh. “Chloe!”
The sound is magnetic. So much so, I have to shake off the eerie, warm way it makes me feel.
Finally, of his own accord, Jake confirms my salvation from the land of terrible personal ads. “Yes, I’m going to do it. Slightly under protest, but my daughter thinks this is the right thing to do…for both of us. And…since I’ve done such a good job of raising her,” he says teasingly, “I’m going to trust her judgment.”
Instantly, I feel giddy. I honestly have to work exceedingly hard not to giggle into the phone.
“But I have to remain anonymous,” he adds, his voice edging along serious. “I cannot be part of a circus, and I won’t bring my daughter into one, no matter what she thinks is a good idea.”
“Of course,” I say swiftly, trying not to sound too excited and failing miserably. “Bachelor Anonymous. You can’t put the word in the title without meaning it, right? I’ll use the utmost caution and discretion when it comes to your identity during the dating portion of the contest.”
The line goes silent, and I start to worry that maybe he’s decided this is a horrible idea after all.
“All right, then.” He eventually puts me out of my misery. “Where do we go from here? God help me…but what are the details?”
Hallelujah! I fist-pump the air and then promptly clear my throat and try to act like a professional woman who isn’t tempted to hop up onto her desk and start twerking.
“We should probably get together in person,” I respond. “It’ll be the easiest way to go over everything, and I have some paperwork for you to sign.”
“Okay.”
“When would be a good time to meet?”
“How about now?” he shocks me by offering. “You can come to our house. We were just about to figure out dinner, and you can join us.”
Their house? Holy geez, that seems personal.
“Holley?” he questions.
“Right. Your house. Now.”
He laughs a little, and I’m completely surprised by his mirth. I’m even more surprised when he speaks. “Stop overthinking this and just come over. Do you like spaghetti?”
How in the actual hell does he know I was overthinking it? And, of course, I like spaghetti. I’m not a monster.
“I like spaghetti.”
“We’ll see you in a little while, then,” he says, voice easy breezy. “I’m assuming you have my address from that lovely application my daughter illegally sent in on my behalf?”
I hum my affirmation. “Mm-hmm. Sure do.”
“Great. Drive safe, Holley from the Tribune.”
“I will. See you soon, Jake from the Ocean.”HolleyThe speaker box to my left squawks unexpectedly as soon as I lower my window, and I jump.
“Holley?” the young woman’s voice says excitedly.
I put a hand to my chest, suddenly concerned that I’m on camera. I try to look for a lens inconspicuously, but I can’t find one. “Um…yes?”
“Yay! Come on through,” she says as the box buzzes, and the gate starts to open.
My Infiniti—or what my dad likes to refer to as my “I’ve been dumped crisis car”—purrs as I rev the RPMs and let off the clutch enough to roll through the gate.
My tires rumble on the paver driveway as I pull around the circle and come to a stop right in front of the grand steps of the main entrance.
They’re trademark rich-people steps—the ones that curve in sweeping arches all the way to the top instead of running straight across.
I don’t know how much money Jake Brent has, but I know it’s more than I do.
Though, I suppose that’s not the hardest of benchmarks to achieve. After nearly ten years at the paper, I do okay for myself. But I’m not knocking down any glass ceilings or anything.
I’m pretty sure I’d need one of those flying machines from Willy Wonka to do that.
I pull up on the parking brake and cut the engine before taking one last look up at the house.
It’s fairly unassuming for its size and obvious opulence—I mean, I don’t see any gilded lions or anything—but I still feel like I’m suddenly playing ball in a whole other league.
I’m equipped for, like, T-ball. This is, at the very least, a Division I farm team or something.
