Into You Series: The Complete Collection

7. Harry

CHAPTER 7

HARRY

“ H ey, eat your broccoli.”

I scoot the plate closer to Cara, and she scoots it back to me.

“Nobody eats broccoli,” she says.

I lift an eyebrow. “Who do you know that doesn’t eat broccoli?”

“People.”

I swear, this girl is going to be the death of me one day. She has all the Smith family defiance deep in her bones. I didn’t get a lot of that. I think Grant and Nia inherited the bulk of it, and then it continued sprinkling down through my other three siblings until I, the youngest sibling, got next to none.

I sip my coffee while tilting the fork on her plate in as welcoming a gesture as I can manage. But, really, how welcoming is broccoli anyway?

“No broccoli.”

“That’s crazy talk,” I say.

Cara’s lips purse and she mumbles, “Hey, I say that.”

“Eat.”

As she finally forks a piece into her mouth, chewing and squeezing her eyes shut as if I’ve given her poison, I unlock my phone and check our schedule for the night.

My class starts at six, which gives me just enough time to finish dinner and drop Cara off at Nia’s office. Nia tends to work late, so she has an area set up for Cara in her office with crayons and coloring books, along with a tablet for any movies she wants to watch. Nia is most likely going to be stuck with the distant sounds of the same princess movie from Saturday along with adorable, yet not conducive to work, off-key child singing.

I wish Cara didn’t have to hang out at the Treasuries Inc. offices. I wish Nia didn’t have to both work and attempt to watch her niece. I wish my parents hadn’t moved to Florida so they could watch her.

I’ll admit, in a moment of weakness, I googled Saria. It’s not that I’m seriously considering her babysitting offer, but a guy has to wonder if she’s just blowing smoke up his ass. It turns out she wasn’t lying. Saria is weirdly well known as the babysitter for yuppies. She’s on some official nanny website and is listed as one of the top-rated users. More than fifty testimonials. Certified in CPR. All the works.

I browsed through the website, seeing if there were other candidates I wouldn’t mind hiring, but they’re all out of my price range. Like I said, babysitters for yuppies. Before taxes, I’d be willing to bet Saria made close to my net profit for the auto shop—likely more. In addition to that, apparently she was well known in the area for volunteering at animal shelters. She’s in practically every photo on the shelter’s website for the past five years.

My curiosity satiated, I closed the browser, but not before taking one last glance at her profile, if not just to see her picture once more. Whenever she took her babysitting profile picture, she didn’t have the dyed hair. It was a natural brown, with an almost chestnut look to it. The all-American type of girl rather than this fashion goddess who keeps popping up in my world. Though, she did have that nose ring, which did something to spur a semi-erection that night and carry into my shower masturbation the next morning. Fuck, I’m pathetic, I know.

I look at my emails, answering a few inquiries rerouted from our website that Grace launched for me this past year. With her graphic design background, she said I was sorely lacking in the marketing department and whipped it up without me even asking. It took a few rounds of test emails for me to get the hang of answering from the online contact form, but it has streamlined the process significantly. No more five p.m. phone calls while making dinner. More cars in the shop equating to more money that can be put back into the business.

That’s the ultimate goal. Keeping up with the times. Working, but not overworking—a feat that’s difficult for me to grasp.

I swipe through more emails until a push notification appears at the top of my phone’s screen, signaling a new text.

Riley.

I glance over it and get a weird sense of relief and nervous jitters all at once. The text says she’s going to be in town and wants to visit Cara. While it’s nice to see some involvement in her daughter’s life—no matter how sporadic—it’s also nerve-racking. She doesn’t know what food Cara likes, or what time to put her to bed, or even how to not let Cara walk all over her. That’s a big one.

“Looks like Mom is in town Saturday,” I say out loud.

Cara pauses, furrowing her brow at her plate. I wonder if she’s trying to comprehend how long it’s been since she last saw her mother. The answer is at least two months. Last I checked, she was flying to Botswana or something. A mission trip maybe? It’s hard to keep track anymore.

“Mommy?” she asks.

I nod, not sure how else to answer except to simply say, “Yep.”

A small smile rises in Cara’s cheeks, but it’s slow and twitchy.

“Is that alright?” I ask, nudging her elbow with my hand. “Hey, I bet she’ll bring Fargo!”

Fargo is another half-abandoned mishap of Riley’s—a rescue mix between a Dalmatian and a golden retriever that is honestly too cute to even exist. Fargo lives with her half the time and her parents the other half while she’s out of the country. I would have happily taken that burden off her hands if she’d asked. Cara loves Fargo.

The fact that she might have that magical dog adds some color back to Cara’s cheeks that I hadn’t realized was missing. She shoves her fork into some broccoli and eats it with a smile on her face. Okay, so, a dog that isn’t even here can get her to eat her broccoli and I can’t? Geez.

“Cookies?” she asks, looking at the plate in the center of the table as she pushes her now broccoli-less plate forward. Although she’ll eat vegetables at just the thought of Fargo, I need the temptation of dessert to drive her forward. My cookies aren’t as good as her aunt’s baking, but good enough to coax some vegetables into her. God willing.

“Two,” I say. “And that’s it.”

I watch how many her little fingers take then turn back to my phone to confirm Saturday and Sunday with her mom. This will be good. More time to work undistracted and get some things knocked off my checklist.

“Alright, come on,” I say, standing up from my chair. “Get your plate to the sink. Time to go meet Aunt Nia.”

“Ooh, they have snacks and ping pong,” Cara coos.

“Ah, so the truth comes out,” I say.

She giggles.

Poor Nia. Playing ping pong with Cara is more like playing fetch. She’s in for it.

“Okay, that’s enough cookies for you,” I say, taking the plate when I see a little hand reaching to sneak one more. I’ll at least cut the sugar where I can. The less the better when Cara’s got a paddle in her hand and a tiny white ball as a weapon.

We pile into the car, seatbelt first, cracking the windows to feel the cool autumn air and turning up the volume when a princess song comes on because, hey, that’s just my life. Princess songs and seatbelt roller coasters.

Nia’s work is only twenty minutes away, so we’re pulling into the parking lot in no time. It’s right at about five, and employees are walking to their cars. I can’t imagine what it’s like to work here. There are no suits or ties—only sneakers, jogger pants, maybe the occasional backward cap. It’s not even business casual, just yoga casual.

I’m accustomed to seeing no cars. Normally I get here after five when even the receptionist has left for the day, but it looks like I’ll be running into many unfamiliar faces.

Cara grabs her backpack and we walk hand in hand across the lot and to the front doors, letting them slide open to greet her. I want to say this building was an abandoned grocery store, but honestly, who knows. It’s a thriving trendy company, and maybe sliding doors are just part of the new wave of corporate business initiatives or whatever. I don’t know, I’ve only picked up some corporate jargon due to the many hours I spend around my family and friends, all of whom seem to have worked here at some point. The only two remaining are Grace and Nia.

I usher Cara in, unhooking our hands so she can make her way to Nia’s office, likely after stopping in the kitchen to beg me for a quick snack. But Cara doesn’t move. And neither do I.

Because, goddammit, we must be cursed with Saria’s presence.

Maybe she was right the other day when she said she has a knack for weaseling her way into people’s lives. Or maybe it’s just my awful luck.

Saria stands behind the desk, wearing turquoise glasses in that weird pointed Audrey Hepburn old movie style. She’s not in yoga pants like some other employees we passed—a part of me feels ashamed for how disappointed that makes me—but she’s at least slightly professional. Her jeans look great on her, really hugging her small waist and accentuating her tiny frame. I want my hands around that waist again, but I try to shake the thought as soon as it appears.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” I say, unable to hold in the bark of laughter that follows because, seriously, how in the world does this keep happening?

“How did you know I work here?” she asks. Well, good, at least she looks just as stunned as we do.

“I didn’t. I’m here to drop Cara off.”

Her eyebrows furrow, and then it’s like everything hits her all at once.

Smith Mechanics.

Nia Smith.

“You must be Nia’s brother,” she says, a slow nod following, shaking her head with an exhalation. “Great, the HR lady’s brother. Fannn-tastic.” Her mumbles seem more to herself than me.

“Hi, Saria!” Cara says.

Saria blinks heavily, her large lashes batting in a motion that looks like she’s trying to wipe the scene from her mind. “Hey, pretty girl. What’s on the agenda today?”

“I’m gonna play ping pong,” she says, putting her hands on her hips as if she’s the master of it. Doubtful, but I dare anyone to tell her differently.

“Very cool,” Saria says. “Well you have fun.”

“Are you not coming?”

“No, I need to head home and feed my parrot.”

Cara gasps. “You have a parrot ?”

“You’re joking,” I deadpan.

Saria shakes her head, zipping up her purse and smiling. God, she’s so beautiful. Her deep red lips scream defiance, and even though she isn’t overly busty, the buttons on her shirt still tug tight around her breasts.

Shit, no, I need to get a move on.

“Well, it was nice to see you again,” I say, patting Cara on the back to get her walking forward again.

“Oh, Harry,” Saria cuts in. “Mind if I drop by Sunday to see how Frankie is doing?”

“Frankie?” I ask.

“My van.”

Of course she named the thing.

“Oh, uh, sure. We’re also open Saturday if that works better.”

Her expression falls and she smiles awkwardly. “I’ve got plans Saturday.”

Oh right. The board game party I turned down.

“Right. Well, Sunday then?”

She slowly nods. I can tell she’s not entirely sure of her answer, but I take it anyway. I’ve got to get out of here. She’s becoming a plague on our lives, infecting my head and now my hormones that seem to be slowly devolving into teenage-boy territory.

“Sure, yeah,” I say with a small wave.

“Bye!” Cara says as I corral her forward again.

Go, go, go.

We walk past the first open office space and into a side hallway where Nia’s office is. She looks up from her laptop, and a large grin spreads on her face.

“There’s my girl,” she says, sliding out a small stool next to her that Cara can plop down on.

“I promise I’ll pick her up early to get her to school,” I say.

“You’re never late. I’m not worried.”

“Thanks again, Nia.”

“Absolutely. My pleasure.”

And then I pause, wondering how to approach what I want to ask. Hell, trying to figure out what to even ask.

“So, uh, the receptionist…” I start, but when Nia’s nose scrunches up, I instantly regret asking. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, starting to type feverishly on her keyboard. Her posture is noticeably stiffer. “What about her?”

“I’ve never seen her before,” I say, leaning against the doorway as Cara grabs the tablet and starts tapping through movies.

Nia pauses mid-keystroke and stares at me pointedly. “Seriously, Harry?”

“What?”

“She’s too young for you.”

I let out a laugh, but it’s shakier than I intended. Bit too late for that.

“I’m not asking to date her,” I say.

“Good,” Nia says, huffing out air as she continues typing. “She had this weird thing for Ian a few years ago. I don’t know. Grace says she gets around too.”

I laugh. “God, what is this—the 1950s? Come on, Nia.”

Even as I say that, my stomach still drops in a way I didn’t expect. What, did I think I was special or something? That I was the first guy she’s pursued? If I’m that na?ve and gullible, I must be going through a pretty deluded dry spell. I should have learned my lesson with Cara’s mom. No one-night stands with younger women ever go well. Though, Cara was just as much my fault as she was Riley’s, and Saria and I did lay down ground rules for it meaning nothing.

“I’m just saying,” Nia says with a shrug.

“Alright, alright. Well, I gotta go.” I walk over to Cara, taking her chubby cheeks in my hands to tilt her forehead for a kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow, pumpkin. Bright and early.”

“Bye, Daddy. I love you.”

Those three words never get old.

“Love you too,” I say before kissing her again, giving Nia a quick fist bump, and leaving the office.

I walk past the front desk and am weirdly disappointed to not see Saria there. The lamp light is turned off and there’s no sign of a bag or laptop present. Probably for the best.

Though, when I cross over the threshold into the parking lot, there she stands, leaning against my car. The angel of death. Like the universe knew we had unfinished business.

“I wanna try it again,” she calls to me.

My gut clenches and I glance around the parking lot, shoving my hand into my pocket to pull out my keys. “And what is ‘it’ exactly?”

“Be my fake boyfriend. Please.”

I can see her phone positioned in her hand, clutched so tightly her knuckles whiten. A text message thread is opened. I’d be willing to bet my Porsche she got a text from her ex so here she is looking like a badass beauty against my car.

“I don’t have time to be in a relationship.” When she opens her mouth to speak, I quickly add, “Even if it’s fake.”

Saria smiles. “You’re gonna keep seeing me anyway. My van is in your shop.”

“I’ll have you in and out if I can help it.” I spent four more hours fiddling with that van and I know for a fact I’ll have it at least another two weeks, but I don’t need to tell her that in this moment when she’s trying to coerce me into something while wearing those hip-hugging tight pants of hers. Unfair to the nth degree.

Saria looks to the ground, kicking her boot out and twisting her curvy red lips to the side. She looks damn defeated.

Fuck.

“Saria, I’m a dad. I run a business. I’m trying my hardest to keep it afloat. The last thing I need is one more commitment. I’m sorry.” And I do feel sorry. I feel sorry that this firecracker is going to go to this game night alone, seeing her ex with another woman. It won’t be fun. In fact, it’ll suck pretty bad.

“My babysitting offer still stands,” she says.

I let out a heavy sigh, twirling the keychain around my finger as she looks at me, biting her lower lip.

“I’m not going to?—”

“Listen,” Saria says, walking toward me, her chest getting dangerously close. If she didn’t have a pointer finger out in some accusatory fashion, I might think we’re close to kissing. “Date me just until my ex gets married. You get classes, I get to not be an embarrassment to family and friends, and it’s all good in the end. We can have a fabulous, dramalicious breakup and then I’ll drive off into the sunset in my van, and you’ll have tons of money from my van repairs and a bunch of new knowledge. I don’t see how this is a bad deal.”

I hate how much logic is going into this. I hate how close she is. I hate how much I feel this attraction to her—not just to her looks, but with everything else too. She’s a wild card, frenetic and so out of my wheelhouse when it comes to women. But, what do I have to lose? A lot more than if I don’t try this out.

Whatever happens, happens.

“I mean,” she says as she breathes out, “the only issue is that you’ll have to get a babysitter for Saturday, but…”

“Actually, Cara’s mom is in town, so my Saturday just freed up.”