Chapter 8
Carly
Saturday afternoon feels a little like I accidentally walked into somebody else’s life and forgot to leave.
But not in a bad way — because I am somehow standing outside a little ice cream shop on Pearl Street, sunlight hitting the windows, people drifting up and down the sidewalk in puffy vests and sunglasses, and Grayson Sparkks is turning around with his daughter on one hip like this is a completely normal thing for my body to be witnessing.
It is not normal.
It is deeply, catastrophically unfair.
Work-Grayson is bad enough — expensive coats, crisp shirts, the whole intimidating CEO package.
Weekend-Grayson, though, is worse. So much worse.
He’s in black joggers, a charcoal quarter-zip, white sneakers that probably cost more than I could ever hope to afford, and a navy baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
Casual enough to look approachable. Fitted enough to make me briefly forget my own name.
And then there’s Penelope.
She’s perched on his hip in a tiny pink jacket with little rainbow flowers on it, dark brown, almost black curls bouncing around her cheeks, staring at me with the solemn intensity of a four-year-old deciding whether I deserve to exist.
She’s so cute I almost steal her for myself.
“Pen, this is Carly,” Grayson says, his voice calmer than it was last night, but still carrying that same rough edge like he’s allergic to sounding too warm for too long. “Carly, this is Penelope.”
Penelope squints at me. “You’re a lady.”
I blink. “I am, yeah.”
She considers that for a second. “Okay.”
She reaches one tiny hand toward me like she’s granting an audience, and I’ve never felt more honored. I shake her hand because obviously that feels like the appropriate level of formality for a very small queen. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
She nods once, satisfied. “I’m having chocolate.”
“Excellent choice. The best, in my opinion.”
Her expression brightens instantly, a grin spreading across her cheeks. “Daddy got vanilla because he’s boring.”
I cover my mouth to hide the laugh building, failing miserably, and glance up at Grayson.
He’s already looking at me, assessing. Something hot skitters down my spine so fast it almost takes me out at the knees.
He arches a brow as he drags his gaze back down to his daughter. “I like vanilla. That doesn’t mean I’m boring, Penny.”
Penelope leans toward me in his arms, her ice cream nearly falling off its cone. “He likes things that are plain,” she whispers, but it’s absolutely loud enough for him to hear.
I press my lips together to hold in another laugh in front of my literal boss. “That sounds like a very sad way for him to live, doesn’t it?” I whisper back.
A muscle jumps in Grayson’s jaw, but there’s the faintest hint of amusement there, too. “I’m standing right here.”
“Yeah,” Penelope grins, kicking her legs against his stomach and back. “I know.”
She’s too damn cute.
We go inside, and somehow the afternoon settles into something that feels easy instead of painfully awkward.
I’d been braced for the kind of meeting where I’m hyperaware of every word I say, every blink, every movement of my hands, but Penelope doesn’t permit that kind of tension to survive in her presence.
She wants to know my favorite color, whether I like dogs, why grown-ups drink coffee, and whether I know any princesses personally.
I answer every question with the gravity it deserves.
Grayson mostly hangs back, watching. He’s not cold exactly, but he’s careful, protective in a way that makes perfect sense now that I’m seeing him with her.
He holds doors, wipes a streak of chocolate from the corner of Penelope’s mouth with a napkin, makes sure she doesn’t trip stepping off the curb.
He listens when she talks, really listens with a grin, even when what she’s saying is complete nonsense.
He seems like he genuinely cares about every single word out of her mouth.
It is, unfortunately for me, one of the hottest things I have ever seen on one of the hottest men I have ever seen.
At the park, Penelope decides within seconds that I am acceptable company and starts begging me to push her on the swings.
Grayson stands off to the side with his hands in his pockets, cap shadowing his eyes, while I let his daughter boss me around with the confidence of a small and benevolent dictator.
“Higher!”
“You’re four, Pen. You don’t get to tell me to risk my employment,” I laugh, and I catch the faintest little smirk on Grayson’s mouth across the expanse of mulch.
“Hiiiigher!”
I laugh and push her just a little harder, making sure it doesn’t go too high. “Okay, but if your dad fires me before I even get hired, that’s on you.”
Penelope giggles so hard she nearly loses the rhythm of the swing.
Later, Penelope insists I help her collect the best leaves from under a tree because, apparently, some leaves are prettier than others, and this is a matter of urgent scientific importance.
I crouch beside her in the grass while she builds a tiny pile of winners and explains each selection to me in great detail.
“This one is good because it’s yellow.”
“You’re absolutely correct.”
“And this one is good because it’s shaped like a star.”
“You have fantastic judgment, Pen.”
“And this one,” she says, lifting a mangled brown leaf with reverence, “is good because I like it.”
I put a hand over my heart. “Honestly? That’s the best reason of all.”
“Hard to argue with that,” Grayson says from somewhere just behind us, his voice warm with amusement. “If Penny likes something, that usually settles it.”
She positively beams at me, and I’m such a goner for this kid that it’s almost embarrassing.
By the time we circle back toward the parking lot, Penelope is practically attached to my hip, babbling about the different birds she saw in the park and how she wonders if they’re the exact same ones that visit her backyard.
And the glaring problem now is that I don’t just want the job because I need a place to live or because the money from the Sparkks promotion will help me get my feet under me again or because Grayson clearly needs help.
I want it because Penelope is sunshine in tiny sneakers, and because seeing Grayson in dad mode has done irreversible damage to my ability to think straight.
He’s just… different out here.
Still reserved. Still gruff in that way that makes every sentence sound like it was dragged over broken glass before he let it out of his mouth.
But with Penelope, there’s this undercurrent of steadiness to him, this constant awareness.
One hand always ready at her back or one eye always on her, even when he’s talking to me.
He feels less like the imposing billionaire owner of my company and more like a man.
A very competent, very attractive, annoyingly broad-shouldered man trying to keep his life from tipping over.
By the time we reach the car, Penelope is chattering about the leaf she brought with her and whether ice cream should count as dinner.
“Absolutely not,” Grayson grins, opening the back door. “Nice try, though.”
I crouch a little so I’m closer to her level. “Thanks for hanging out with me today, Penny.”
She grins at me, all teeth. “You’re fun!”
“You are too,” I say, giving her a big smile right back.
She holds up the ugly brown leaf. “You can have this one because it’s good.”
I accept it with the seriousness of receiving a Nobel Prize. “Oh my goodness. I will treasure this forever. No joke. I’ll frame it and everything.”
Satisfied, she waves at me as she allows Grayson to buckle her in. I step back onto the pavement, smiling like an idiot while he checks the straps, says something low to her that I can’t hear, and gently shuts the car door.
Then he turns to me. And just like that, my smile slips.
The look on his face is different now, slack in a way that makes me feel like we’ve stepped out of the soft little bubble of the afternoon and back into real life all at once. Business again.
My stomach dips.
He slides one hand into the pocket of his joggers and looks at me for a second like he’s arranging his thoughts into the cleanest, least emotional order possible.
“You’re hired,” he says carefully.
I blink. “Oh.” Brilliant response, Carly. Really sharp stuff.
He glances toward the back seat, where Penelope is now pressing her hand to the window for reasons known only to children. “She likes you. That’s the deciding factor.”
Something warm blooms in my chest so fast it almost hurts.
Penelope likes me.
I got the job.
I got the job.
Somehow, again, I’ve nailed something despite being at my rock bottom.
But tangled right up with that is a smaller, sharper feeling. He said it so plainly, like this isn’t about me as a person, not really. Not about chemistry or trust forming or him seeing something in me beyond usefulness. Just a simple equation: his daughter approves, so I’m in.
And that’s fair. Of course it’s fair. It’s about Penelope, not me, and that makes complete sense — he needs this for her.
He would have chosen the first person to get along with her this well and be willing to move in.
But still, the tiny bruise of it settles somewhere under my ribs before I can stop it.
He keeps going in that same clipped, practical tone. “I’ll have a contract drafted. It’ll be separate from your Sparkks paperwork unless it’s easier for you tax-wise to lump it together. We’ll spell out hours, responsibilities, confidentiality, all of it.”
“Okay, yeah,” I say, because my brain is still catching up. “Great.”
He studies me. “How much do you want as a salary?”
I stare at him. “We already discussed salary,” I say, bewildered.
His expression doesn’t change. “For your promotion, yes. Not this.”
“Oh.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious. I hadn’t even considered this. “Honestly, I mean… I’d be living with you, right?”
“Yes.”
“And meals would be covered? Or at least kitchen access and stuff?”
A faint line appears between his brows. “Obviously.”
“Then I’m happy to do it for room and board,” I say. “Really. Especially since I’d still be getting paid by Sparkks. I don’t need anything crazy, except maybe an adjustment on the insurance for the company car that comes with the promotion.”
He just stares at me. Actually stares. Not in the hot way, but in the deeply baffled way.
For one horrible second, I think maybe I’ve insulted him somehow, or maybe myself, or even his wealth as a concept.
“You don’t have to pretend money isn’t a factor,” he says at last.
My mouth falls open. “I’m not—I’m not pretending, Grayson.”
He ignores that, or maybe he just doesn’t believe me. “I’m not asking you to take on childcare, transportation, and a live-in schedule for free because you happen to need a place to sleep and access to a kitchen. That would be ridiculous.”
I blink again.
“One-hundred for the first six months,” he offers. “We can review after a month.”
My mouth parts. “Like, one-hundred—”
“One-hundred-thousand.”
My entire soul leaves my body. On top of my promotion? For a second, I genuinely can’t speak, can barely breathe.
He watches me with that same maddeningly unreadable expression and slightly narrows his eyes. “Will that work?”
Will that—Will that work? He’s asking me if that would work?
I make a noise that is definitely not a word, and he seems to take that as agreement. “Good,” he says.
Before I can recover enough to tell him that I need a calculator and maybe a paper bag to breathe into, he reaches for the driver’s-side door.
“I’ll send a moving truck tomorrow,” he says.
My head jerks up. “Tomorrow?”
He gives me a look like this is the least shocking part of the conversation. “Text me the address. Her mom is supposed to be picking her up in the morning, so we can get you set up without Penny butting in.”
I open my mouth, close it, open it again. “Okay.”
“Have your things packed.”
Things. My things. God, that’s bleak.
I have maybe two suitcases. Maybe a couple of boxes. Some clothes, my laptop, my sketchbooks, a handful of makeup, three houseplants clinging to life out of pure spite, and the pathetic remains of what used to be a stable adult existence.
“I don’t, uh… have a lot. I wouldn’t need a big van or anything.”
He opens the car door, his gaze dropping down my frame before jumping back up to my eyes. Did he just— “Just makes it easier to get you set up before Penny’s home.”
And then, because apparently detonating my entire life in under three minutes wasn’t enough, he gets into the driver’s seat like he didn’t just drop a grenade at my feet.
I stand there on the pavement, still clutching Penelope’s dead leaf, while he shuts the door.
I try to stop myself from thinking he might look back at me, but then the engine starts, and they’re pulling away, and I’m left staring after the car in utter confusion about how I managed to crawl my way out of rock bottom in forty-eight hours.