Chapter 3
Not Her Job
Coleman
I’ve shown a million houses in my career, but I couldn’t tell you a single detail about either one I walked through this morning.
Not the square footage.
Not the kitchen layout.
Not whether the roof needs replacing.
All I’ve been thinking about is Remi.
And how I might’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.
She showed up this morning with a bag and a glitter-covered water bottle. Like this was just a weird little detour on her way to an art fair or a Taylor Swift concert.
The girls iced her out the second she walked in. Didn’t speak. Didn’t smile.
Just stared at her like she was another adult they were counting down the minutes until they could forget. I almost told her not to bother unpacking.
But then she looked at them—really looked at them—not like they were rude or broken or dramatic.
She looked at them like she understood. And I haven’t stopped thinking about that since I left.
I glance at the clock again. Only 2:17. I’ve been gone three hours.
She’s probably still trying to figure out where the cereal is or wondering why every single light switch in the kitchen is labeled with masking tape and Sharpie. It’s not that I don’t trust her. It’s that… I don’t trust myself.
I don’t trust that this wasn’t selfish. That I didn’t make her live in because I’m tired and lonely and unraveling and don’t want to come home to a quiet house anymore.
She didn’t ask to be here. And I didn’t ask her if she wanted the weight that comes with it.
She only met the girls once. Once. At a dance studio birthday party where Payton was complaining about the playlist and Paige cried because someone laughed when she missed a step. And yet somehow, Remi got through to them. Even for a moment.
But now? Now she’s in the lion’s den. Alone. And the girls know how to bite.
I pull into the driveway before I realize I’ve even left my second showing. My phone buzzes with texts—clients, agents, my assistant asking if I sent the staging details—but I ignore all of them.
Because the only thing I want to know is if my girls made it through the day without reinforcing the idea that everyone leaves.
I climb the porch steps, already preparing for the worst. I unlock the door.
The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
I step inside and lock the door behind me, waiting to hear the usual chaos—Paige humming off-key, Payton shouting about someone touching her stuff. But there’s none of that.
Just the faint smell of… something sweet?
I follow it, the hardwood cool beneath my shoes, and find her in the kitchen.
Remi.
Hair up in a messy bun. Apron tied loosely at her waist. Standing barefoot in front of the stove, a tray of cookies cooling beside her.
Cookies.
She’s baking.
She’s baking.
My jaw clenches.
That wasn’t in the job description.
I told her structure. I told her no surprises. No drama. No personal projects. This? This is personal. This is domestic. This is not what she was hired for.
And I don’t know why it bothers me.
I don’t know why it feels like she’s rearranging the air in this house without asking.
“You weren’t hired to cook,” I say sharply from the doorway.
She freezes for just a second before turning slowly. “I know. But the girls skipped their snack and I figured—”
“That’s not your job.”
Something flickers across her face—hurt, maybe. Or confusion. But she doesn’t say anything. Just nods and goes back to lining up the cookies with surgical precision.
I can’t be here.
I spin on my heel and storm up the stairs before I say something I can’t take back.
The girls are in Payton’s room, sitting on opposite ends of her bed like they’re on rival political campaigns. There’s a notebook open between them, filled with sketches and Sharpie lines I don’t understand.
“Hey,” I say, leaning in the doorway. “How was your day?”
Payton shrugs without looking up.
“Did you talk to Remi at all?”
“Nope,” Payton mutters, still scribbling.
Paige hugs her knees to her chest and stays quiet.
“Girls…” I step inside, rub the back of my neck. “I need you to give her a chance. She’s not like the others.”
Payton glances up, unimpressed. “They all leave anyway.”
“She won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
I exhale. “Just try. Please.”
They look at each other. A silent, coded twin conversation.
Then Payton speaks. “We will. But only if we don’t have to go to Stella’s this weekend.”
I stiffen. “You know the custody schedule.”
Paige speaks for the first time, voice soft and cracking. “She told us not to call her ‘Mom’ anymore.”
I blink. “What?”
“She said it’s weird,” Paige whispers. “She said if we’re out in public or if people are around, we should just call her Stella.”
I feel it like a slap to the chest.
“She told you that?” I ask, my voice tighter than I meant.
Both girls nod.
Something hot and sharp rises in my throat.
And just like that—I’m gone.
I walk out of the room, down the stairs, through the kitchen without saying a word. Remi glances up from the cookies, eyes wide, concern in every line of her expression.
But I can’t stop.
I walk out the back door and let it slam behind me.
Because if I don’t, I’m going to break something.