Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
LOTTIE
“What do you mean, someone keeps breaching the Hotline’s security? And you’re getting threatening emails?” Rowan asks. She’s been with me since the very beginning of the Single Dad Hotline, and until recently, she was my very best helper.
But once again, my personality test matched not only a single dad with a nanny, but if my hunch is correct, a man with his future wife.
I don’t begrudge them their happiness, but this is happening far too often for it to be coincidence, and now I’m forced to rethink my entire business model or lose it to thieving dickless assholes like my father.
The Single Dad Hotline was supposed to be a way to match single dads, and soon single moms, to the helper they need so they can be their best, present parent selves. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, my process works better for lifetime partners.
“Sebastian, get in here,” she yells to her boss-slash-maybe-boyfriend.
“That’s really not…”
“Lottie’s having cloud security breaches, and she’s getting harassed by, hold on. How many companies, Lottie?”
“That’s not the point, Row. I just needed someone to vent to.”
“Everything okay, Lottie? Have you spoken to Elijah?” Sebastian asks, and I internally die a thousand deaths.
Elijah is not only my older brother but one of Sebastian’s business partners.
“No, I haven’t. And you’re not going to either. I have this handled. I was simply confiding in my friend, who has an overactive imagination.”
“Lottie.”
My doorbell rings. Probably the Scuttlebutts again.
“Listen, I’ve gotta go. Everything’s fine. It’s just a bad day is all. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Before Rowan can respond, I hang up and toss my phone on the sofa, while closing out of the offending email from JW Technologies on my laptop.
The real mindfuck here is that JW Tech is owned by Thane Wilder’s asshole of a father. But in all my research, Thane appears to be the apple that fell far away from his father’s tree. That’s the only reason he was even allowed into the Single Dad Hotline program when he first got custody of Kara.
And now that I know him a little better, I’m happy to say that my instincts about him were correct. He loves his sister…but he can still be a pain in the ass.
I have an email and a text chain to prove it—each one more probing than the last. For every three messages he sends me, I send one in return. He intrigues me in a way that most people don’t, but regardless of how interesting I may find him? I don’t foster relationships with clients. Ever.
As long as he’s not tied to JW Tech, or trying to acquire my company, we’ll be fine.
Shutting my laptop, I race to the door, knowing the Carvers will be here any second, and because they’re impatient, they won’t be waiting in my office next door. I must have accidentally locked my door, otherwise they would have walked in here like they own the place.
It’s what everyone does in Sweetbriar. Six years later, I’m still trying to get used to it.
“Mrs. Carver, I…” My mouth snaps shut as my mind attempts to make sense of what’s happening on my front porch.
The man who has taken up far too much real estate in my mind lately—for my liking anyway—strides into my home with freaking Hercules strapped to his chest.
Thane Wilder is in my home.
When I close the door, I find him glaring as though he’s about to pick a fight with me.
“Are you ill?” he barks.
The urge to look behind me is strong. This can’t be happening right now.
“Ah, no. What ar?—”
“Those aren’t pajamas?” His gaze rakes over me, and irritation prickles in the backs of my eyeballs as I peer down at myself.
An oversized navy sweatshirt with the neck cut out so it hangs off one shoulder and gray leggings are not pajamas.
“No, Thane, they’re not.” I don’t offer anything else. Screw him as he stands there in perfectly pressed trousers and a nice crisp button-down.
He takes in my appearance one more time with a frown, then silently removes Hercules from the wearable dog carrier and sets her on the floor. The scary screaming of a mischievous Maltipoo is instant.
“Why does it do that?” he asks, pointing to the floor.
“Why are you here, and how did you end up with Hercules?”
Thane doesn’t answer, but leans down and picks up the dog, then repositions her in the dog carrier.
“She’s seriously underweight,” he mutters. “She can’t be more than ten pounds.”
“Thane. What are you doing here?”
“I needed help with this thing.” Again, he points to Hercules.
Is he purposely being obtuse? I know his social skills are…awkward sometimes, but this is next-level. Not only did I witness Thane in action firsthand at the nanny event, but his daily emails since Kara ran away border on rude sometimes.
At some point, he decided that I was the best fit for Kara, so he stopped reaching out to Rowan for help. But I’m not now, nor have I ever been, fit for looking after children. It’s why I created the damn hotline in the first place.
As a glutton for punishment, I keep responding to his messages. But he’s not the only one I’ve gotten close to. I also have a budding friendship with Kara since she’s been texting me too.
I’ve effectively taken over Rowan’s role without even realizing it.
Taking a deep, centering breath, I try again. “Thane, why are you here, in my house, in Sweetbriar, Tennessee? You shouldn’t even know where I live.”
“It’s public information. All it took was a quick google search to turn up Charlotte Sinclair, 152 Matchmaker Lane, Sweetbriar, Tennessee.”
The damn Scuttlebutt Society changed my street name after I was listed in Forbes as a rising star. They meddle in every-freaking-thing.
“But why are you here?”
He scowls at Hercules when she yips.
“Yipping means she’s happy,” I tell him, and he frowns harder.
“That’s fucking annoying.”
He’s not wrong.
“Thane.”
Exasperation finally has him glancing up. Then he does that thing where he studies every inch of my face until the heat coming from my cheeks could warm the entire town for winter.
“You’re upset.” His tone is so mild-mannered, it’s as if he’s reading today’s weather, and it makes me feel like I’m the volatile one here.
“What gave you that idea?”
He steps closer, close enough I can smell the leathery scent of his aftershave.
Then he points and moves his finger in the shape of my face. “You’re all red, and your eyebrows are causing a line to form between them.”
I immediately swat his hand away and step back. “You’re not supposed to tell women they have lines on their faces.”
“Should I lie?”
“What? No. I…”
The doorbell rings again. This day is about to get wackier.
I shush Thane with a finger in the air and open the door. To my surprise, I find Kara and a man I’ve never seen before, but I instantly want to ask him what the hell he’s doing wearing a sweater-vest in Tennessee during the summer.
“Lottie!” The little girl’s face lights up with pure joy as she barrels into me for a hug. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, no. No, you didn’t,” the man says, staring over my shoulder. He’s still standing on the porch, so I wave him in before the Carvers catch sight of him. Gossip runs faster than the rapids around here.
“Didn’t what?” I ask.
Kara looks between me and her brother. “You’re in big trouble, Thane. You said I crossed lines when I snuck out to go to the movies with Orla. Well, newsflash, Brad , this is so much worse.”
“Who’s Brad?” I ask.
“Him.” Kara hitches a thumb toward her brother. “It’s brother and dad together since he’s trying to act like my dad lately.”
Oh, crap. This family dynamic is exactly why I can’t get close to either of them. I’m not emotionally equipped for it.
“Time out.” I cross my hands in a T-shape in front of my face. “That’s not exactly nice, Kara. And Thane, for the love of God, please tell me why the hell you’re standing in my house.” I didn’t mean for my voice to rise three octaves, but frustration is controlling everything.
“Check your app, Thane,” the strange man says.
Thane huffs but pulls out his phone.
“I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“She’s a cross between disbelief and anger.” Thane stares at the phone in his hand with a deep-set scowl. Someday, the inflections in his words will make sense to me. And I’ll never admit that his cool, detached tone is somewhat comforting.
What would it take to make him lose that calm exterior?
“Lottie.” Thane inhales a deep breath. “This is Rafe, and I moved here because I require close proximity to you so you can help me and Kara.”
“You—you moved here to be close to me?”
“That’s what I said.”
“The judge said Rafe has to work with us for a month to help Thane identify emotions after I snuck out. We’re just lucky that he’s him and he could have someone fill in for him since he’s the boss. And when Brad dragged us here, Rafe came with us.”
“Ran away, not snuck out,” Thane grumbles, to which Kara rolls her eyes.
“I was gone for three hours. Three. And I came home.”
“After the police showed up at the movie theater.”
“Whatever, Brad. Rafe’s on vacation. Sort of. He’s helping Thane learn how to communicate better.” Kara crosses her arms over her chest, and we appear to be in some sort of standoff as everyone stares at someone else.
The entire conversation makes me feel a little bad for Thane though. I remember what he sounded like when he called the night she ran away, and that’s a tone I’d like to never hear from him again.
“I’m his emotional support person.” Rafe grins, but I sense that he’s more than that. “Thane’s using an app that will help him decipher expressions. Tone will take longer to figure out.”
I nod as if that makes total sense, then focus on Thane, who stands stoically with his hands clasped beneath the dog carrier.
Thane is in his early thirties, and by all accounts, one of the smartest people in the country, so why wouldn’t he be able to decode facial expressions or tone?
“You understand that this is completely unprofessional and borderline stalkerish, correct?” My voice cracks, and it sounds like weakness, so I stick out my chin and straighten my back.
“The house next door became available, so I purchased it.” A muscle ticks in Thane’s jaw, and now that he’s studying my face, he barely blinks. “I don’t see what the problem is.”
Rafe and Kara groan while I dig deep for any meditation technique that will help me here.
I cannot control others—I only control myself.
Okay, let’s focus on the facts. Thane, my client, is in my home. He bought the house next door to me, intentionally, because he thought it would help his sister, and he truly appears to see no problem with that whatsoever.
And apparently, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I don’t care either because my heart did a somersault at the sight of him once the shock wore off.
“This is so messed up,” I mutter. “Why are you carrying Hercules?”
“She was in the master closet.”
“What? That asshole just left her there?”
Thane doesn’t answer me. Obviously Johansson left Hercules behind, and I’ve learned that Thane isn’t the most emotive guy, so unnecessary words are not his forte.
“The Carvers said the shelter was full, so I’d have to keep her. Temporarily.”
Fuck. Fuckety fuck.
“You’ve, ah, met the Carvers?”
“They were selling jam or something. So what do I do with this thing?” Thane asks, pointing to his chest again.
When did that become my problem?
Apparently, it became my problem at a kiddie camp in Sailport Bay when all my attempts to avoid this man were thwarted…by him.
It would be so much easier if I was creeped out by him, and admittedly, this is some next-level stalker shit, but I don’t think even I can classify the tingle in my chest as creeped out.
And then there’s his sister, who reminds me so much of myself at that age. It’s why I’ve bonded with her against my better judgment.
It never should have gotten this far. I shouldn’t have even had any direct contact with them, but I can’t deny that a tiny, nearly imperceptible thrill lights up my chest whenever one of his formal-ass messages comes through.
Now they’re my neighbors and they have an emotional support person in tow.
How did this become my life?
My front door opens, and Mrs. Carver walks in.
“Don’t you knock?” Thane blurts.
Mrs. Carver belly laughs. She thinks he’s joking.
“Sweetbriar has an open-door policy, son. If it’s open, we enter,” she says.
“Lock the door every time you enter,” Thane says, pointing a finger at both Kara and Rafe.
“Oh, good. Good. Vinny said he saw two more guests enter while I was in the restroom. Lottie, dear, you need potpourri or something in your office. It’s got a foul scent in there.”
“I don’t have clients there, Mrs. Carver. It’s just a place for me to work. No one is supposed to be in there but me. However, the Scuttlebutts insist on holding meetings there every Tuesday.”
“Yes, yes. So, you’ve said. Come now—all of you, next door. You’re just in time for the meeting. Having you there will help with the planning, and Boone is excited to get to work.”
Mrs. Carver ushers us all out of my house, across the porch, and into the second half of my duplex that I remodeled into an open floor plan office. It has storage on the second floor and guest space for when Rowan comes to visit. She hasn’t come yet, but she will.
Stepping into my office, I’m not at all surprised to see the other Scuttlebutts already mingling.
Mrs. Perez stands in the corner with her hands on her hips and a wide smile that means she’s assessing our new guests.
“You work here?” Thane asks. “And live there?”
“What, didn’t that show up in your research?” Unfortunately, my snark bounces right off him.
“That was sarcasm,” Rafe explains, to which Thane leans into my personal space to stare at my face. His eyeballs move rapidly as though he’s memorizing every inch of me.
Back up, buddy. Back it right back up. The chemical reaction I have to this man is unsafe for everyone in a ten-mile radius.
You know why, my conscience singsongs. Well, maybe not sings…more like raps in my ear. Not the rap full of profanity, but the Snoop Dogg affirmations kind of rap. My mind is a scary place sometimes.
It was a mistake, an error in my calculations , I silently fight back.
Liar. You don’t make mistakes. You and Thane had the highest match percentage of anyone you’ve ever tested. 99.7% doesn’t lie.
“Thane, try this,” Mrs. Perez says. When Thane opens his mouth to reply, she shoves something in.
His gasp is audible, and then he begins choking.
“They’re my famous peanut butter surprise cookies. The surprise is the chocolate filling.” Mrs. Perez is the matriarch of Sweetbriar, and pushy as hell.
“Oh no.” Kara gasps to my left.
“Oh shit.” Rafe runs from my office.
That’s when I remember Thane is allergic to peanuts—the only imperfection I could find on his application to the Single Dad Hotline—and only an imperfection because I freaking love peanut butter. Ugh.