7. Addy
CHAPTER SEVEN
Addy
This is a mistake.
I know it’s a mistake.
I’m fully aware, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, that moving into the home of the man I had a wildly questionable, deeply unprofessional, extremely memorable one-night stand with is, objectively, a terrible idea.
And yet…
“Don’t forget to pack your boots,” Luci says through my phone, her face filling half the screen as she squints at me.
I drop onto the edge of the motel bed, my last few hours in Motel Sadness, thank goodness, and prop my phone against the lamp that flickers like it’s considering retirement.
“I cannot believe this is happening,” I say, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I cannot believe I’m willingly walking back into that situation.”
“You’re not walking back,” Luci corrects. “You’re walking forward. Into a penthouse. With a billionaire. And a child who likes you. And a dog who apparently worships you.”
“That dog would worship a sandwich,” I say.
“And yet, he chose you. Reflect on that.”
I snort.
She leans closer to the camera. “Also… the billionaire part.”
“I’m not doing this for the billionaire part,” I say immediately. “I just need a paycheck.”
“Of course not,” she agrees, nodding solemnly. “You’re doing it for the character development.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
I sigh, glancing around the room. My entire life is currently packed into two suitcases again, which feels both familiar and deeply humiliating.
“This is insane,” I say. “He’s my boss, Luci. My boss. And we…”
I stop because even saying it out loud feels illegal.
“You had sex with him in a plane bathroom,” she finishes helpfully.
“Thank you for that,” I mutter. “Really needed to hear it phrased in that way.”
“You’re welcome. I’m here for clarity.”
I press my lips together, staring at my reflection in the mirror across the room. I’ve actually made an effort today. Hair down in soft waves, light makeup, jeans that fit properly, a cardigan that says approachable but not desperate.
“I just… I don’t know how I’m supposed to act,” I admit. “Like, do I pretend it never happened? Do I acknowledge it? Do I—”
“You pretend it never happened,” Luci says immediately. “Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Unless he brings it up.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
“Then you pretend you don’t remember.”
I blink. “That feels aggressive.”
“Addy,” she says, deadpan, “you need this job.”
“I know.”
“You need housing.”
I nod. “I know.”
“You need stability.”
“I know.”
“And most importantly,” she adds, pointing dramatically at the screen, “you need to never, ever let Bryce Biggs think he ruined your life.”
I straighten slightly, my chest settling into place.
“I’m not going back,” I say quietly.
“I know you’re not.”
“I’m staying here. I’m making this work.”
“You are,” she agrees. Then her expression shifts, softening just a little. “And for what it’s worth… I think this could actually be good for you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Living with a man who already knows what I look like mid-crisis?”
“Yes,” she says firmly. “Because you won’t be pretending with him. You already embarrassed yourself. The worst has happened.”
I pause. “That's disturbingly comforting.”
“Exactly.”
I laugh, shaking my head.
“Also,” she adds, eyes gleaming now, “he’s hot.”
“Seriously?”
“What? He is.”
“I'm not discussing my boss’s attractiveness with you.”
“You already did. Extensively. With adjectives.”
“That was before he became my employer!”
“Details.”
I grab a pillow and throw it at absolutely nothing. “This is going to be a disaster.”
“It might be,” Luci says cheerfully. “But it’ll be an interesting one.”
I groan.
She grins. “Call me when you get there. I want a full report.”
“Goodbye, Luci.”
“Love you!”
“Love you too.”
I hang up before she can say anything else, deeply unhelpful.
Silence settles over the room.
I look around one last time.
This place.
This weird, awful, transitional space where everything fell apart and then… didn’t.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself, standing up. “New life. Let’s not screw it up immediately.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside with my suitcases, waiting for my Uber and humming Toxic by Britney Spears under my breath.
With a taste of your lips, I’m on a ride…
“Not helpful,” I mutter, cutting myself off.
Because wow, no, that isn't the song we should be associating with Ethan Strong right now.
I switch.
It’s gonna be me…
Also not helpful.
Why are all 2000s songs either about toxic relationships or terrible decisions?
I sigh, shifting my weight as a breeze cuts through the street.
My phone buzzes.
Uber arriving in 2 minutes.
Right, this is it. I take a deep breath.
“You’re fine,” I tell myself. “You're a professional. You're capable. You're not going to think about the fact that your boss has…”
Nope.
Stopping that thought immediately.
The car pulls up.
Game time….
Chicago looks different when you’re not walking it aimlessly with emotional damage and a questionable caffeine budget.
From the backseat of the Uber, it feels bigger. Sleeker. More intentional.
Like maybe I can belong here.
Like maybe this can actually work.
The car turns into a quieter street, lined with tall buildings that scream expensive in a way I can’t even quantify.
And then we stop.
I blink.
Because…
Oh.
This isn't a building.
This is a statement.
Glass, steel, clean lines. The kind of place where people definitely have their lives together.
“Here we are,” the driver says.
“Right,” I reply faintly.
I grab my suitcases, step out onto the pavement, and stare up.
“Well,” I murmur. “No pressure or anything.”
The lobby doors slide open automatically, like they sensed my intimidation.
Cool. Love that.
I step inside and immediately feel underdressed.
It’s all marble, soft lighting, and quiet luxury. The kind of place where even your footsteps sound more expensive.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Act like you belong here.”
I will never belong here, but I walk forward anyway.
“Hello there!”
I freeze because that voice belongs to a woman who absolutely knows everyone’s business.
I turn, and there she is.
Mid-forties, perfectly styled hair, bright eyes, and the kind of smile that suggests she’s already decided she likes me and is going to ask invasive questions.
“Hi,” I say cautiously.
“You must be new,” she says immediately, stepping closer like we’re already friends. “I would’ve remembered you.”
Oh, this is happening.
“Yes,” I say. “I just… I’m moving in.”
Her eyes light up. “With Ethan?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to sound normal. “I’m… the nanny.”
“Oh, thank goodness.”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“That poor man,” she continues. “He’s gone through so many nannies. And Oliver is just the sweetest thing, but he’s very particular. Very perceptive.”
I nod slowly.
“I’m Diane,” she adds, extending a hand. “Diane Carter. I live here.”
Of course she does.
“Addy,” I reply, shaking her hand.
“Lovely name,” she says warmly. Then her gaze sharpens slightly. “And how do you know Ethan?”
“We…” I start, then pivot smoothly. “Through the agency.”
Technically true.
Diane studies me, then smiles again. “Well, welcome. You’ll love it here. And if you ever need anything, anything at all, I’m just down the hall.”
I have no doubt.
“Thank you,” I say.
She leans in slightly. “And between us?”
Oh no.
“Yes?”
“He could use someone like you.”
I blink. “I don’t…”
“He’s been very closed off,” she continues, like she’s narrating a documentary I didn’t sign up for. “Since Megan. And Oliver deserves warmth in that house again.”
My chest tightens slightly because suddenly this isn’t just a job; it’s more.
“I’ll do my best,” I say quietly.
Diane smiles, satisfied. “I’m sure you will.”
The elevator dings.
Saved.
“I should…” I gesture vaguely.
“Yes, of course,” she says, stepping back. “Go on. I won’t keep you.”
You already have, Diane.
You absolutely already have.
I step into the elevator, pressing the button for Ethan’s floor with slightly shaky fingers.
As the doors close, I let out a long breath.
“Okay,” I whisper.
This is it. No motel, Bryce, or running. Just a penthouse, a job, a child, a dog, and a man who already knows exactly how badly I can ruin my own life in under twenty-four hours.
The elevator hums upward.
My heart follows.
“Cool,” I murmur. “Totally fine. Completely normal. Nothing to see here.”
The doors slide open.
And just like that, I’m home.
Or at least…
Something like it.