“Weekends?”
“Available.”
“Road trips? Sometimes I’m gone five or six days at a time.”
“Also fine.” She folds her hands on the table. “Mr. Bishop, I’ll be honest with you. I’m at a stage in my life where I want work that matters. Helping a single father raise his daughter? That matters.”
I study her, waiting for the catch. The red flag. The thing that’s going to disqualify her like all the others.
“My daughter’s been through a lot of changes,” I say slowly. “People coming and going. She takes a while to warm up.”
“That’s understandable. Trust is earned, not given.”
“She’s got a routine. Specific foods, a stuffed elephant she can’t sleep without, a nightlight that stays on. I’m not interested in someone who’s going to come in and try to start changing—”
“Mr. Bishop.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “I’ve worked with kids who had far more complicated needs than a favorite stuffed animal. Your daughter sounds lovely.”
I let out a breath. “When can you start?”
She hesitates, and my stomach drops. Here it comes.
“I have a vacation planned. A non-refundable trip to see my sister in California—I booked it months ago, before I knew I’d be interviewing.” She looks genuinely apologetic. “I leave tomorrow and will be back in five days. I could start the Monday after?”
Five days. I can figure out five days.
“That works,” I say, and we shake hands.
It’s not perfect. But it’s close. I just need to survive five more days of duct tape and prayers.
How hard can that be?
• • •
It’s midnight. Maisie’s asleep and the townhouse is quiet.
I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the same moment on a loop. Tori’s face in the streetlight. The way her breath caught when I touched her. The way she looked at me like she was waiting—hoping—for me to close the distance.
I should’ve kissed her.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and do something stupid.
The app downloads in seconds. Red icon, little flame. I’ve never used it before—never needed to—but Banks mentioned it once, saying it’s what guys use when they just want something casual. No strings. No complications.
That’s what I need. Something casual to get this out of my system. Tori cannot and will never be my hookup buddy. No matter how hot she is. She has rules. I have a daughter. This thing between us—whatever it is—can’t go anywhere.
So I’ll find someone else. Burn off the tension. Move on.
I start scrolling.
Blonde, twenty-six, likes hiking and mimosas. Pretty. But I’m not interested.
Brunette, thirty-one, marketing executive. Great smile. Doesn’t do anything for me.
Redhead, twenty-eight, “looking for fun.” Objectively attractive. I feel nothing.
I keep scrolling. Face after face, profile after profile. Some of them are beautiful. Some of them seem interesting. A few of them are exactly the type I would’ve gone for, before Maisie, before everything got complicated.
None of them are her.
