Chapter Eight
LITTLE SHADOW
Zayden
Maisie launches herself at me the moment Bree opens the door.
“Daddy!”
I catch her, swinging her up into my arms, and the tightness I’ve been carrying in my chest for the past few days finally loosens. She smells like strawberry shampoo and maple syrup, and she’s wearing a glitter crown that’s shedding sparkles everywhere.
“Hey, shadow. Nice crown.”
“Lily made it for me. We’re princesses.”
“I can see that.”
Bree leans against the doorframe, looking exhausted but amused. She’s got a twin on each hip—Luke is half-asleep, and Lily is waving a glitter-covered wand that explains a lot about the state of my daughter’s hair.
“She was an angel,” Bree says. “Honestly, the easiest kid I’ve ever watched. Unlike these two monsters.”
“I no monster!” Lily protests. “I’m fairy godmother.”
“My mistake.”
I shift Maisie to my other arm. “Thanks again, Bree. Seriously. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” But her eyes are knowing when they meet mine. “How was the trip?”
Three wins. Two assists. A hat trick for Logan.
And yet somehow, none of that is what replays in my head when I think about the trip.
No, my brain is stuck on a sidewalk in Detroit, Tori’s face tilted up toward mine, her breath catching when I touched her jaw, waiting for a kiss I didn’t let myself take.
“Good,” I say. “We swept all three.”
“I saw.” She’s still watching me with that look—the one that says she sees more than I’m saying. Archer probably tells her everything. “Well. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Actually, the agency’s sending someone tomorrow. Another interview.”
“That’s great. Fingers crossed.”
“Yeah.” I’m not holding my breath, but I don’t say that. “Thanks again.”
Maisie waves goodbye to the twins as I carry her to the car, chattering the whole way about princesses, glitter, and how Luke tried to eat a crayon while Lily told on him.
Maisie. Home. Real life.
This should feel like enough. It’s always been enough.
I don’t know why it suddenly feels like I’m missing something I never had in the first place.
· · ·
The gym at the practice facility is nearly empty when I get there the next morning. Just Banks on the bench press and Logan doing something with a resistance band that looks vaguely obscene.
“Bish!” Logan grins when he sees me. “You’re alive!”
“Why wouldn’t I be alive?”
“I don’t know. You disappeared pretty quick from the bar the other night.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Walk Tori back to the hotel?”
I grab a set of dumbbells and don’t look at him. “She was tired.”
“Uh-huh.” He grins at me, waiting.
“It was late.”
“Sure.” His smile grows.
“Drop it, Cupcake.”
Banks racks his bar and sits up, wiping his face with a towel. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him watching me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
He shrugs and picks up his water bottle. “You seem tense.”
“I’m not tense.”
“You’re doing bicep curls like the dumbbells insulted your mother.”
I look down. My grip is white-knuckled, and I’m moving way too fast. I force myself to slow down, but my jaw is still tight.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Banks nods like he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Cool.”
We lift in silence for a while. Logan eventually gets bored and wanders off to bother Archer, leaving me alone with Banks—who’s never been one for unnecessary conversation. It’s one of the things I like most about him. He doesn’t push.
Except today.
“The PT,” he says, not looking at me. “Tori.”
My hands tighten on the dumbbells again. “What about her?”
“Nothing.” He starts loading plates for his next set. “Just noticed you two have been spending a lot of time together.”
“She’s my PT. That’s literally her job.”
“Right.”
“It is.”
“I said right.” He’s built like a tank and about as expressive as one. But I’ve known him long enough to read the micro-expressions other people miss. And right now, he’s fishing.
I set the dumbbells down harder than necessary, muttering something in French that would make my grandmother cross herself. “Is there something you want to say?”
Banks finally looks at me. His expression is unreadable—it always is—but there’s something almost sympathetic in his eyes.
“Just be careful,” he says. “That’s all.”
“There’s nothing to be careful about.”
He doesn’t argue. Just turns back to the bench press and starts his next set.
I grab heavier dumbbells and try to burn off the restless energy crawling under my skin. It doesn’t work.
· · ·
The nanny candidate shows up at two o’clock.
Her name is Hannah Torres. She’s in her late forties with a warm smile, and a practical bun. She’s got fifteen years of experience, glowing references, and a calm energy that reminds me of Mrs. Hendricks.
“I understand your schedule is unpredictable,” she says, sitting across from me at the kitchen table. Maisie’s at school, so we’ve got the place to ourselves. “That’s not a problem. I raised two kids while working full-time. Flexibility is my middle name.”
“Weekends?”
“Available.”
“Road trips? Sometimes I’m gone five or six days at a time.”
“Also fine.” She folds her hands on the table. “Mr. Bishop, I’ll be honest with you. I’m at a stage in my life where I want work that matters. Helping a single father raise his daughter? That matters.”
I study her, waiting for the catch. The red flag. The thing that’s going to disqualify her like all the others.
“My daughter’s been through a lot of changes,” I say slowly. “People coming and going. She takes a while to warm up.”
“That’s understandable. Trust is earned, not given.”
“She’s got a routine. Specific foods, a stuffed elephant she can’t sleep without, a nightlight that stays on. I’m not interested in someone who’s going to come in and try to start changing—”
“Mr. Bishop.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “I’ve worked with kids who had far more complicated needs than a favorite stuffed animal. Your daughter sounds lovely.”
I let out a breath. “When can you start?”
She hesitates, and my stomach drops. Here it comes.
“I have a vacation planned. A non-refundable trip to see my sister in California—I booked it months ago, before I knew I’d be interviewing.” She looks genuinely apologetic. “I leave tomorrow and will be back in five days. I could start the Monday after?”
Five days. I can figure out five days.
“That works,” I say, and we shake hands.
It’s not perfect. But it’s close. I just need to survive five more days of duct tape and prayers.
How hard can that be?
· · ·
It’s midnight. Maisie’s asleep and the townhouse is quiet.
I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the same moment on a loop. Tori’s face in the streetlight. The way her breath caught when I touched her. The way she looked at me like she was waiting—hoping—for me to close the distance.
I should’ve kissed her.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and do something stupid.
The app downloads in seconds. Red icon, little flame. I’ve never used it before—never needed to—but Banks mentioned it once, saying it’s what guys use when they just want something casual. No strings. No complications.
That’s what I need. Something casual to get this out of my system. Tori cannot and will never be my hookup buddy. No matter how hot she is. She has rules. I have a daughter. This thing between us—whatever it is—can’t go anywhere.
So I’ll find someone else. Burn off the tension. Move on.
I start scrolling.
Blonde, twenty-six, likes hiking and mimosas. Pretty. But I’m not interested.
Brunette, thirty-one, marketing executive. Great smile. Doesn’t do anything for me.
Redhead, twenty-eight, “looking for fun.” Objectively attractive. I feel nothing.
I keep scrolling. Face after face, profile after profile. Some of them are beautiful. Some of them seem interesting. A few of them are exactly the type I would’ve gone for, before Maisie, before everything got complicated.
None of them are her.
I stop on a brunette with a sharp jaw and dark eyes. She’s pretty—really pretty—and something about her reminds me of...
No.
I close the app and stare at the ceiling.
This is pathetic. I’m a grown man lying in bed at midnight, swiping through strangers, trying to convince myself that any of them could make me forget the way Tori looked at me in Detroit.
They can’t. I know they can’t.
My mother would have opinions about this. She’d tell me—in rapid-fire Quebecois French that I’d pretend not to fully understand—that I’m too stubborn, too closed off, too much like my father. She’d also tell me that when I find the right woman, I’ll know.
I’m starting to think she might be right.
I delete the app.
The icon disappears, and I drop my phone on the mattress, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.
The thing is, even if I was willing to risk it—even if she was—I’ve got Maisie. My daughter has watched enough people walk in and out of her life. I’m not going to introduce someone new unless I’m sure, absolutely sure, that they’re going to stay.
Tori’s not a sure thing. She can’t be. We work together. This thing between us might just be proximity and tension and two people who’ve been alone too long.
It might be nothing.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
I lie there in the dark for a long time, not sleeping, not doing anything except accepting the truth I can’t outrun anymore.
I’m falling for someone I can’t have.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.