Chapter 7
The Deal
ZOE
Room Bloom is exactly what it sounds like—a sprawling warehouse of overpriced furniture.
I trail behind Jonah as he pushes a cart through the children’s bedroom section, finally freaking out at how quickly my life has imploded.
Eight hours ago, I was a semi-respectable production assistant, and now, I’m unemployed and furniture shopping with Jonah Holt.
“What about this one?” Jonah points to a race car bed that looks like it was designed by someone who’s never actually seen a race car.
“If you want Eli to think you’re trying too hard, sure.” I’ve been ignoring texts and calls all day as I check my phone, watching our video climb to over a million views in less than seven hours. “Your interview’s doing amazing, by the way.”
Jonah nods, his mind clearly elsewhere. I don’t blame him.
His parents and sister can’t leave his aunt until she’s set up with an at-home care nurse, and he has less than seventy-two hours to transform his bachelor pad into something resembling a home for a kid before the social worker’s visit.
Not to mention he’s got a game tomorrow against the Blizzards.
“I appreciate this,” he says, and I look up from my phone. His usual scowl’s replaced by gratitude.
“Don’t get sappy on me, Holt.” I push past him to hide the warmth creeping into my cheeks. “Come on, the normal beds are this way.”
We round the corner into an aisle filled with more sensible options—twin beds, full beds, the occasional queen for the teenager.
Jonah gravitates toward a display in the corner, his eyes lighting up.
“Look at this.” He points to a metal bunk bed setup with a desk underneath.
“This is cool, right? And practical with the desk space.”
I stare at him in horror. “Are you serious? That thing is a death trap.”
Jonah frowns. “What? It’s sturdy.”
“It has a low safety rail on the top bunk.” I point to it. “Do you want your kid to roll off in his sleep and crack his skull open?”
“Kids still roll out of bed at nine?” Confusion flickers in his eyes.
“Let me tell you about my brother Max.” I cross my arms. “When he was eleven, my parents got him a bunk bed just like this one. Low safety rail.”
Jonah’s eyebrows rise.
“Three nights after they set it up, we hear this massive thud in the middle of the night, followed by the most god-awful wailing you’ve ever heard.
Max had rolled right off the top bunk and landed face-first on the hardwood floor.
” I wince at the memory. “Concussion, broken nose, two black eyes. He looked like a tiny prizefighter.”
“Jesus,” Jonah mutters.
“My parents felt so guilty they let him eat ice cream for breakfast for a week. And to this day, my mom still brings it up every Christmas like it happened yesterday.” I pat the death trap bunk bed.
“So unless you want a holiday tradition of ‘Remember when Dad bought the bed that almost killed you?’ I suggest we keep looking.”
Jonah stares at it like it’s transformed into a medieval torture device. “No bunk beds. Got it.”
“Smart man.”
“Thank you for telling me that.”
“No problem. That’s what happens when you grow up with three younger siblings—you become an encyclopedia of childhood disasters waiting to happen.” I walk toward a display of sensible twin beds with actual headboards and footboards. “These are more age-appropriate, anyway.”
Jonah follows, running his hand along a solid wood bed frame. “So what time do kids go to bed? Nine-year-olds, I mean.”
“Depends on the kid, but usually around eight-thirty or nine. Earlier if they’ve had a rough day, later if they’ve been napping or it’s a special occasion.”
“What do I do about nightmares?”
The questions keep coming as we move through the furniture section, picking out a twin bed, a desk that will “grow with him,” and a dresser that doesn’t look like it belongs in a nursery. I answer each question the best I can.
“How do you actually get a kid moving in the morning?” he asks.
“Routine. Kids thrive on routine. Shower, dress, breakfast, teeth, backpack, go. Same order every day.” I tick off each step on my fingers. “And for the love of God, have everything ready the night before. Clothes laid out, lunch packed, backpack by the door. Morning-you will thank night-you.”
Jonah pulls out his phone and starts typing notes, which is both adorable and concerning. I’ve never seen him this focused outside of a hockey game.
“This is... really helpful.” He glances up from his phone. “You know everything.”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “The oldest of four, two brothers and a sister. My parents worked and volunteered a lot. Someone had to keep the ship running.”
“You’re good at it.”
We move to the accessories section, picking out bedding, navy blue with stars, a reading lamp, and a bulletin board for Eli. Then we debate the merits of a desk organizer. Me: yes, absolutely necessary; Jonah: can’t he just toss stuff in drawers?
Then Jonah grows quiet.
“What do you do when they hate you?” His voice goes low.
The question stops me cold. I turn to find him staring at a display of family photos, his expression raw.
“Jonah...” I pause, searching for the right words. This isn’t about nightlight preferences or homework schedules.
“He hates me,” he says, still staring at the happy families in the stock photos. “And I can’t blame him. I wasn’t there for nine years.”
“Not by choice,” I remind him.
“Doesn’t matter to him. Result’s the same.” He finally turns to me, and the lost look in his eyes makes my chest ache. “So what do I do?”
I wish I had some parenting hack that could instantly repair the damage, but there’s no shortcut for that kind of hurt.
“All I know is this: you show up. Every day. You’re consistent. You’re patient. Even when it’s hard—especially when it’s hard—you keep showing him you’re not going anywhere.”
Jonah nods.
“Look, he doesn’t hate you,” I continue. “He’s hurt and angry and grieving. All that pain has to go somewhere, and you’re the safest target.”
“That sounds like hate to me.”
“It’s not. It’s actually the opposite.” I step closer. “He wouldn’t be so angry if he didn’t care. If you truly meant nothing to him, he wouldn’t bother with the anger. He’d be indifferent.”
Hope flickering across Jonah’s features before doubt clouds it again.
“Just be yourself,” I say. “Show him you love him, even when he’s being hard to love. That kid needs stability and consistency more than anything right now.”
Jonah looks at me like I’ve handed him a roadmap through vicious terrain. Then he clears his throat and looks away, emotion making him uncomfortable as usual.
“So, desk organizer?” He’s clearly desperate to change the subject.
“Definitely the desk organizer.” I let him off the hook.
By the time we finish shopping, the cart’s piled with everything a nine-year-old boy might need for his bedroom, plus a few extras I insisted on, like actual curtains, because no child should wake up to sunlight blasting their eyeballs at six a.m. The sales associate promises delivery by tomorrow morning, which should be just in time for us to get it set up and decorated for the social worker’s visit.
As we head toward the exit, Jonah’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, grimaces, then answers with a terse, “Hey, Coach.”
I give him some space, pretending to be fascinated by a display of decorative pillows while eavesdropping. From the one-sided conversation I can hear, Coach isn’t thrilled about Jonah’s sudden foray into fatherhood or his unauthorized media statement.
“Yes, sir... I understand... No, I’ll be there—tomorrow, nine a.m... Got it.” Jonah hangs up, looking like he just got slammed on the ice.
“Everything okay?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Peachy. Trout owner is meeting with me and Coach tomorrow. Probably to fire me.”
“He can’t fire you for having a kid,” I say, though I have no idea if that’s actually true. Labor laws for professional athletes are not my specialty.
“No, but he can tell Coach to bench me,” Jonah says as we exit the store into the crisp air. “And I was already on thin ice before all this.”
We walk to his SUV in silence, both lost in thought. As he loads our smaller purchases into the trunk since the furniture will be delivered, I check my phone again. “Update on video. Comments are mostly positive. Lots of ‘brave dad’ and ‘stepping up’ type stuff. Cool cool cool.”
Jonah grunts, but I can tell his mind is elsewhere. We climb into the car, and after he starts it, he sits, hands gripping the wheel.
He turns to look at me. “I need your help.”
“You have it. That’s why we just spent a small fortune on bedroom furniture.”
“No, I mean...” He pauses, nerves pinching on his face. “I need you to move in with me and Eli.”
I laugh. “Right. Because that wouldn’t be weird at all.”
“I’m serious, Zoe.” His expression confirms it. “The social worker called and said my case would be much stronger if I had reliable, live-in childcare support, especially with my travel schedule.”
“You want me to be your nanny?” I blink at him, trying to process this impossible turn of events.
“I need a support system to win my custody case.” His words come faster now. “You’re out of a job. That apartment over the laundromat you live in can’t be safe—”
“Hey, the dryer lint fires only happen, like, once a month. And the attempted break-ins have stopped since they put in bars.”
“—I’ll pay you well. And Eli seems to like you.”
My brain tries to keep up. Part of me is flattered that he trusts me with something so important. Another part is terrified at the thought of living with Jonah Holt, the man who’s always had this inexplicable pull on me.
“Look, I appreciate the offer,” I begin, “but I need to focus on finding another job. I can’t just—”
“You’ll have time to look for another job. My parents will be around all the time to help.”
“That’s an incredibly generous offer, but—”