7. Tessa
Tessa
Pulling into Liam's driveway—in my car—the gamut of emotions runs through me. I'm glad to be here, excited to meet Ruthie, and ecstatic to have a job again.
But I'm nervous as hell for it to be this one.
I've heard that typically, Liam is a walking Hallmark card—always rainbows and butterflies and dropping the next best piece of optimism.
But either that's changed, my sources lied, or I bring out the worst in him.
Either way, I've never started with a new family already feeling like I'm swimming upstream.
I'm not sure what made him change his mind.
Between my being late and his abrupt ending to the interview, I would have thought he'd just as soon retire early than hire me.
But I'm not asking questions. Ruthie seems like a great kid, and I'm hoping with time, and the chocolate chip banana bread I made fresh this morning—plus the fact that he told me to be here by 8am Monday, and it is an early 7:54—that I'll be able to prove to Liam that he made the right decision.
Taking one last look in the rearview mirror, I slide chapstick over my lips and fluff my lashes. I made sure not to overdo it with the makeup—not that I ever really do. But I want to show Liam from the moment he sees me that I'm here to work. And that I'll be a good example for his daughter.
I was also extra strategic about my hair and outfit.
Glancing down, I smooth over the cotton of my vintage-style t-shirt that I conveniently found in emerald green, and brush a spec off the toe of my new white and grey New Balances.
To be fair, I liked these shoes when I saw them in the store, and my old pair was worn and faded.
Still, Brooke did mention that the Montgomerys have a thing for athleisure.
And, I mean, if green is my color—with my hair and my eyes—I might as well lean into it anyway…
Go Gators!
I tuck a wispy hair back into the French braid I nearly tore my shoulder doing myself.
Apparently, braids are Ruthie's signature look, and I know of no better way to get in with a preteen girl than to match her style.
It was only an added bonus when I realized how much I actually love my hair done this way.
Grabbing the bread from the passenger seat, I take one deep breath before throwing the car door open.
I step out, grateful that the morning breeze is still here to help calm my nerves and stifle my adrenaline, and I pause just long enough to really take in the house.
Considering the circumstances before my interview, I didn't really have time to do it before.
It's beautiful—big, but not in an overdone way.
It's two levels—the top a light grey vinyl outlined in modern trim, and the bottom decorated in a beautiful whitewashed stone.
The covered front porch runs along the length of the front, supported by clean white pillars with a potted plant on either side of the door.
There are two wooden rocking-style chairs underneath the front bay window, turned slightly toward each other as if waiting for someone to sit awhile.
A waving Gators flag hangs on the pillar closest to the two-car garage that overlooks the driveway, the green and yellow bright against the neutral foundation.
How did I miss that before?
The house sits at the center of a perfect Golden City spring—more green grass around it than I've seen in months.
It looks like a family lives here, which is true.
But despite the traces of a woman's touch, thanks to Alex and Brooke, I know it's always been just Liam and Ruthie.
Still, I can't help wondering if there's an expectation—or current plan—for more people to fill it someday.
Reminding myself that it's none of my damn business, I walk toward that dark green front door. I attempt to stop my anxious grip from completely squishing my peace offering and practice my greeting in my head.
Good morning, Liam.
Hi, Mr. Montgomery.
Hello, thank you for the opportunity, sir. Please enjoy these carbs.
When I step onto the porch, I take one last breath, preparing myself to come face-to-face with Liam and wondering which version of him I'll get today.
I knock hard twice, immediately questioning if that was enough, but also feeling like adding more now comes off weird and impatient.
Luckily, footsteps grow louder on the other side of the door before I can paralyze myself with the decision.
When the door opens, I'm forced to drop my head, which was turned upward prepared for Liam's giant frame. Instead of his 6'3," maybe 6'4" body, I'm met with someone smaller—more petite.
Less grouchy grown man and more bubbly almost-preteen girl.
"Hi!" she squeals, her face brighter than her neon yellow soccer jersey.
I blink as if adjusting to light rather than the unexpected view in front of me. "Hi," I eventually echo, meeting her excitement.
The girl with brown hair, two pigtail braids, and Liam's face—just more feminine and twenty-five years younger—sticks out her hand. "I'm Ruthie," she says.
I adjust my grip, but before I can meet her palm, she pulls it away and leans in close. "Ooh, is that banana bread?"
I can't help the chuckle that escapes as I hold the loaf out to her. "It is."
"With chocolate chips?"
I scoff playfully. "Obviously."
Her eyes and smile both grow wide as she takes it and scurries into the entryway. "Come in," she urges, waving me inside. "And nice braid."
"Oh, uh…" I hesitate slightly, still thrown by the encounter. "Thanks!"
I step inside as Ruthie scurries toward what I know is the open space that holds the kitchen with stainless steel appliances and an island bigger than my bedroom. It's next to a living room that somehow feels both sterile and homey at the same time, and still partially visible from the door.
I pause just a few steps in, and just like the exterior, I take in the rest of the house for what feels like the first time.
The entryway is spacious, with high ceilings and natural light filtering in through the windows, with hooks on the wall beside the door and a mat on the floor.
There's a staircase to one side with the same warm oak hardwood flooring as the rest of the house and a black railing that gives it more of a masculine edge.
A room sits off of it that I can't quite see into, but there's a balcony connected up top that hints at the upstairs.
To the other side, separated by French doors with over a dozen windows, is a sitting room with a fireplace and what I can see of half a bookshelf.
"Take off your shoes!" Ruthie calls from the other room. She rips my attention away from my internal debate about whether Liam had someone design and decorate the house or if he did it all himself. "Dad's rule!"
I freeze, my mind shifting from being impressed that an extremely busy, single dad has such a welcoming home, to trying to remember if I did this the last time I was here.
Comfortable sneakers. Running. Liam's bright green swoosh.
Him stepping out of his, and me—nope.
I definitely didn't.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath. I unlace my first shoe. "Where is your dad, by the way?" I yell back to Ruthie.
"Right here," a voice bellows behind me.
I spin around, now half-out, yet still-half inside my New Balance. That, mixed with a very excited Sammy, causes me to stumble and grab onto the shoulder of the man I was already so worried about pissing off.
"Oops, sorry," I say, my cheeks instantly warm. I rip my fingers away from his giant, broad, muscular… from his arm, and use them to slide completely out of my first shoe instead.
Liam says nothing as he unclips Sammy's leash from his collar. He's wearing a faded Flames hockey t-shirt that may be made of the world's thinnest material, and black running shorts that somehow manage to exist around his massive quads without cutting off his circulation.
The dog sniffs at me, then jumps up as usual. Liam groans as he pulls him down, and Sammy licks my hand once before bounding toward Ruthie—or my banana bread—tail wagging as he waddles.
"Sorry, I was just…" I point to my sneaker, sliding the other off. I wiggle my toes in my purple socks, thanking God I at least picked two that matched today. "I thought you were here, or I wouldn't have—"
"I just took Sammy for a quick mile."
"Oh, yeah, no," I back track. "Ruthie's eleven. I mean, she can stay home alone for fifteen minutes. I wasn't saying that."
"Six and a half," he says dryly.
"Huh?"
He hangs the leash on the hook by the door and slides out of the same Nikes he had on before. "Well, technically, six minutes and twenty-four seconds."
"Oh," I say, incapable of forming real words. I realize that's not an outrageously small number, especially for someone professionally trained like Liam, but still. I can't even blow dry my hair in under seven minutes, and this man can make it to the Boulevard.
"Sorry," he says, hanging his hat on the hook as well and running a hand through his locks. My eyes follow his fingers before I dart them away. "I said 8:00 and considering your track record…"
I prepare to argue just as the corners of his lips curl slightly.
"Well, I told you that doesn't happen often," I remind him, instantly calmer with him cracking jokes.
He nods and narrows his eyes. "I believe the exact phrasing was never."
"Right. Never."
He tips his chin down. "Alright then."
Liam walks toward the kitchen while I remain frozen behind him, paralyzed by the size of this man's glutes.
My God, I'd kill for an ass like that.
"So, you've already met Ruthie," Liam calls over his shoulder
I spring to attention, following him into the kitchen area. "Sort of," I say, catching up and moving toward the island where Ruthie is stuffing her face full of bread. "I'm Tessa."
"I figured," she mumbles, her palm in front of her full mouth. "It's nice to meet you."
"You too."
"What are you eating?" Liam asks, cutting in and pulling the pan closer to him.
"Oh, I made banana bread."
Liam all but dives at the disposable metal tin, leaning down to smell it. When he realizes both his daughter and I are staring at his eagerness, he backs up slowly and casually pushes it away. "Cool," he says smoothly. "Not too much, Ruthie."
I wink at her as she nods in agreement despite the large chunk already missing.
"Alright, well, while she stuffs her face, why don't I give you the tour? You two can get to know each other afterward… while I shower."
His last words hit me as if he said while I jerk off, but I hide my reaction—and my instant guilt-induced nausea—turning back toward Ruthie. She smiles wide, the chocolate chips still caked on her teeth, and I laugh, my unease fading.
I think I'm gonna like this girl.
Liam stops only a few feet away, gesturing to the open space.
"This is the living area," he says. He points to the room I remember most, with the large sectional couch I sat on and the cozy recliner where he kept his distance.
There's the low wooden coffee table that sits on top of the plush woven carpet—everything the same light neutrals as the rest of the house.
Liam continues pointing door to door, explaining what's behind each one. "There's a powder room there off of the kitchen, that leads to the back deck, and the garage is through the laundry room there."
"Speaking of," I cut in while simultaneously trying to remember all the doors. "If you like your clothes washed a certain way, just let me know."
Liam shakes his head. "Ruthie should be doing her own laundry." He looks over at his daughter in the kitchen and arches a brow. "And I wouldn't make you do mine. But if you wouldn't mind throwing towels and stuff in if you see them piled up, that'd be great. No particular method to it."
I nod, offering him a closed-lip smile. "No problem. Laundry, cleaning, cooking—I'm good for it all."
I swear I see his shoulders drop slightly, but he doesn't acknowledge my statement specifically.
"Alright," he says simply. "Through here.
" He continues into a separate dining space with a long wooden table.
There are six seats, but only two cloth placemats—one at the head of the table and one at the first chair next to it.
A handful of drawings sit piled in the center, and there's a dog crate in the corner.
"Oh, does Sammy sleep in there at night?"
Liam laughs and rolls his eyes. "No, that thing has sat empty since his second night home. He sleeps with Ruthie and basically has free reign of the house despite my objections."
"As he should," I fire back. Liam fights a smirk but loses before nodding toward the entryway.
We round the staircase, and he sets one hand on the rail and one foot on the step before stopping. I only realize how closely behind him I am when I can barely stop in time to avoid crashing into his massive backside.
"That's just the study," he says, pointing through the French doors.
"It's his man cave!" Ruthie calls from the kitchen, her voice still muffled by what I can only assume is more forbidden banana bread.
Liam looks back at me, now even taller than before because he's perched on the stairs. "I like to sit in there sometimes and read or work on stuff."
I try to picture the Liam that I know—this push and pull of sunshine and rain—curled up by the fire with a book in his lap and a whiskey sitting on the table beside him.
My brain glitches slightly when I picture him in glasses he probably doesn't wear and pajama pants he probably doesn't own, shirtless from the waist up and nose deep in a good romance he probably doesn't read.
It's only when he grins at me before turning around that I realize why.
It's not that it's hard to picture.
It's that it's hot to picture.
Shit.
Blowing out a silent breath, I attempt to smother the unease that returns and follow him, leaving my completely inappropriate fantasy behind.