Chapter 7
The Wrong Shoes
Vince
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I storm back inside, the heavy front door slamming shut behind me, the impact rattling it in its frame.
Malia has taken the Porsche. She took the Porsche to pick up Devon, after I clearly told her I needed it for work today, the moment my online meeting ended. The meeting ran late, yes, but she took the car anyway.
Unbelievable.
I scratch my head in frustration, shoving my shoes on in a rush. I nearly topple over, fumbling with my phone to text her at the same time.
Vince: I'm going to kill you later.
Vince: Don't tell your mom I said that.
Malia: I'm so scared rn.
Vince: You're in serious goddamn trouble.
Malia: You took too damn long.
Vince: If you so much as scratch that car, you're double dead.
Malia: OK
"Dad, can I go to the movies with David tonight? He can come pick me up!" Tina's voice carries from the living room, sharp with teenage urgency.
"No, I won't be home till late," I shout back, my thumb stabbing at the Uber app on my phone as I frantically search for my wallet.
It isn't where I left it. Didn't I leave it on the kitchen counter?
"I'm still going to go! I'll be home by the time you get back.
Don't worry, we just wanna see that new horror movie that came out Friday," Tina calls out.
The television volume swells. "Lizzie says David is scared shitless of horror movies, and that he's gonna break up with me over this, but that's not even true because last summer Megan said she took him to see IT and he laughed the whole time.
So I bet Lizzie twenty bucks he stays through the whole movie date without freaking out—"
Oh my God, I don't care. I love my daughters to death, but raising teenage girls tests my patience in ways I've never experienced before.
"Sounds great, sweetheart," I mutter, still tearing through the house for my wallet.
"How does that sound great, Dad? Are you even listening?!"
"I got the gist of it, Tina! I'm sorry, I don't have time to sit and listen right now. I'm late. Where the hell is my wallet?"
My phone buzzes again. Gary, texting for the millionth time to remind me I'm really goddamn late for taping on Relay. As if I didn't already know.
Back the fuck off, I text him.
He replies with a crying emoji and some weird GIF I don't have time to watch. I know I'm late, and he isn't helping. Everyone is waiting on me, and my wallet is still missing.
"Dad, can I borrow a hundred bucks for tonight?" Tina asks, holding my wallet.
She's holding my wallet.
Tina, my youngest, just turned sixteen and completely spoiled—what the hell does she need a hundred bucks for? I storm over, snatching the wallet from her hands and tossing a twenty-dollar bill back at her.
"Ugh, Dad, what the fuck am I supposed to get with this?" she whines.
"Watch your language. And if you're gonna complain about a handout, give me the twenty back. That's for when you lose your bet to Lizzie."
She stares at me, her face a mix of annoyance and begrudging respect. "You were listening?"
Malia would've come back with something like, "You're being an asshole and working on a weekend. I deserve a hundred bucks." Or she'd just steal my car. Hypothetically.
"Yeah, I caught most of it, sweetheart, but I need to leave right now. Tell me about it later."
Tina sighs. "Whatever." She stuffs the cash in her jeans pocket and pulls out her phone.
My phone pings—my Uber has arrived.
"I'm leaving! Lock up before you head out, and please, for the love of God, don't do anything stupid like your sister probably is right now. You've got school tomorrow and then back to your mom's. Don't put me in the doghouse. Got it?"
Tina's eyes drop to my feet, a critical assessment that makes my skin prickle. "Dad, those shoes do not match your outfit. Like, not even a little. You're embarrassing."
"Love you, too. Bye."
"Are you kidding me right now?!" Gary hisses, storming over to cut me off mid-conversation with the producers.
We exchange quick goodbyes, and they scatter, leaving me alone with a red-faced Gary.
"Vince, this poor guy has been waiting an entire hour for you to show up! Not to mention the crew was starting to—"
"I told you I'm sorry. What else do you want me to say?"
"Oh, I don't know, how about, 'Thanks for having my back, Gary,' or, 'It won't happen again, I understand why you're upset.' Or literally any form of empathy for how I've been stalling for you like crazy because you're my friend and I'm trying to save your ass—"
Gary keeps ranting, but my attention shifts. Over his shoulder, I notice the guy doing the screen test. He looks completely zoned out, his leg bobbing up and down as he slouches in the chair.
Bored. Not nervous.
Why isn't he nervous?
My eyes snag on the column of his thigh, the denim stretched taut over solid muscle that doesn't quit.
Even in that careless slouch, the line of his leg is defined, powerful, flowing into the narrow cut of his hip where his brown leather belt cinches a shirt tucked with military precision.
The fabric pulls just enough across his shoulders and abdomen to reveal a physique honed by function, not vanity—the lean, corded strength of someone who moves his body for a living, who could probably pin me to the floor without breaking a sweat.
This isn't the sculpted-for-camera bulk I maintain, the kind that looks good but might fold under real pressure.
No, this is something else entirely—wiry, dense, the kind of strength that surprises you.
I let my gaze travel down his own legs, noting how his shoes perfectly complement the dark color of his pants, a complete, intentional look from head to toe.
I curse under my breath, Tina's voice echoing in my head.
"Dad, those shoes do not match." I'd lunged for the first pair I'd seen by the door, a scuffed-up pair of sneakers.
Here he sits, a study in effortless coordination, looking like he'd just stepped out of a magazine spread I'd never even bother to pick up.
The precision of his appearance feels like a personal affront.
The longer I look, the more I appreciate how put together he is. In every sense of the phrase.
"Vince!" Gary snaps.
"What?"
"You're not listening." He follows my gaze, his expression shifting from exasperation to something more complicated as he notes precisely what has captured my attention. A weary sigh escapes him, the sound like air leaking from a punctured tire. "Be nice to him, okay?"
A chuckle escapes me, carving the lines of his scowl deeper.
"I'm serious." Gary adds. "We're behind already. Please, for the love of God, don't get punched in the face again. Be nice."
I smirk. "I'll be nice."
Gary's face tightens, a warning etched into the lines around his eyes.
"Not that kind of nice, Vince. I'm not joking.
" He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.
"This guy will punch you if you go too far—I'm getting all the vibes.
" He straightens, his gaze flicking toward the man across the room before snapping back to mine.
"You get decked again, and this whole thing is over. "
"Be nice, but not too nice? Now you're just being picky."
Gary grabs my shoulders like he's trying to exorcise my entire personality. "Vince, can you please just do this right?"
I nod, straight-faced. "Yeah, I'll do it right."
"Good. Now get out of my sight. Or into my sight. Whatever. Just sit down so we can finally start taping."
Gary storms off, undoubtedly looking for someone else to yell at.
When I approach the guy in the chair, he finally sits up straight and smiles.
When he stands, I realize he's taller than average, taller than the last poor soul they'd stuck in that seat, but not taller than me.
His handshake is firm and professional, a reassuring grip that I instantly respect.
Under the studio lights, his blonde hair practically glows. And then he cocks his head to the side, raking his fingers through it as he introduces himself.
Andrew.
I completely blank, like a goddamn lunatic.
My eyes trace the sharp line of his jaw, following it to where it melts into the curve of his neck and shoulder. I watch the way his lips lift into a smile, how his big blue eyes lock onto mine, steady and unwavering, pinning me in place under the studio lights.
Where did this gorgeous fucker even come from, and who the hell gave him permission to do this to me?
The question ricochets through my skull, a frantic search for an explanation that doesn't exist. He shouldn't be here, shouldn't look like this, shouldn't be unraveling my carefully constructed composure with nothing more than a smile and those impossibly blue eyes that see too much.
My mind races, cataloging details I shouldn't be noticing: the way his blonde hair catches the harsh studio lights, turning it almost white at the temples; the slight cleft in his chin that I hadn't seen before; how his collar sits perfectly against the strong column of his neck.
This is not just physical attraction—this is something deeper, more dangerous, a recognition that feels both foreign and terrifyingly familiar.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat I'm sure the microphones will pick up, broadcasting my betrayal to everyone watching.
If Sam knew what was running through my head, I'd be both mortified and murdered.
Definitely murdered. The image flashes through my mind: Sam's face, usually so warm and full of laughter, contorting into something cold and unforgiving.
I can almost hear her voice, sharp with disbelief, asking how I could do this—how I could look at someone else this way after everything we've been through.
She'd see the truth in my eyes before I could form a lie, and the thought makes my stomach twist into knots.
Six months we've been building something real, something stable after years of chaos.
Six months of late-night talks, of shared vulnerabilities, of Sam patiently piecing me back together when I didn't think I was worth the effort.
And now? Now I'm standing here, my body betraying everything we've worked for, all because of a blonde stranger with eyes that seem to know exactly where all my weak spots are.
I remind myself we have an audience.
The crew watches, waiting on me to show up and do my job.
I can feel their collective gaze like a physical weight, a hundred pairs of eyes cataloging every micro-expression, every subtle shift in my posture.
Gary's warning echoes in my ears—"Don't get punched in the face again"—but this is worse.
A punch would be honest, straightforward.
This... this is a slow unraveling, a quiet betrayal that happens in silence.
I force my lips into something resembling a smile, hoping it doesn't look as brittle as it feels.
My professional mask slides into place, but it feels thinner than usual, more fragile, like it could crack at any moment and reveal the mess underneath.
My fingers twitch at my sides, desperate for something to hold onto, some anchor in this sea of confusion.
The thought of Sam settles into a pit of guilt in my stomach, and I force myself to look away. I focus on the camera lens instead, that black void that has been my salvation so many times before. But today it offers no comfort, only a stark reflection of my own turmoil.
I can see Andrew's silhouette in the glossy surface, a ghostly presence that lingers even when I'm not looking directly at him. The guilt intensifies, burning like acid, and I have to swallow against the bile rising in my throat.
Sam deserves better than this—better than a man who can't control his own thoughts, who gets distracted by a pretty face when he should be focused on building a future.
I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, too long for professional standards but not long enough to fully compose myself.
When I open them, I'm still trapped in this moment, still caught between the life I've chosen and the pull of something I can't have, shouldn't want, and yet can't seem to resist.
I sit down ready, or pretending to be, for taping to start.