13. Addy
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Addy
By week three, I’ve learned several important things.
One: Oliver Strong can absolutely weaponize his own cuteness when he wants something.
Two: Captain isn't, in any meaningful sense, a trained animal. He’s a blond menace with paws.
And three: living in a billionaire penthouse doesn't, unfortunately, make your emotional problems disappear. It just gives them better lighting.
“Honestly,” I tell Captain as he trots beside me through the living room with one of Oliver’s socks hanging out of his mouth like a trophy, “you’re the only man in this house currently behaving in a way I can understand.
” Captain looks at me with bright, happy eyes and keeps going. “See? That’s what I mean. Consistency.”
Oliver, who's kneeling on the rug building some kind of aerodynamic Lego aircraft, looks up. “He stole my sock.”
“Yes, sweetheart, that does tend to happen when you leave your clothes at golden retriever mouth height.”
“I didn’t leave it,” he says, offended. “I dropped it.”
“Ah.” I nod solemnly. “A critical distinction.”
He narrows his eyes at me in a way that's deeply Ethan-coded, which is both funny and mildly unsettling.
This morning has already involved breakfast, a debate over whether blueberries are “too squishy to trust,” a full five minutes of explaining why Captain cannot come into the shower, and one dramatic floor collapse because the blue plane pajamas were in the wash, and apparently that constituted a personal betrayal.
I handled it all magnificently.
By magnificently, I mean nobody cried for more than two minutes, and one of us even maintained dignity throughout.
That one wasn't me.
Still, I’m starting to find a rhythm here.
A strange one, but a rhythm.
The days with Oliver have structure in the way children always secretly need, even when they act like tiny union reps negotiating against basic hygiene.
Breakfast, getting dressed, a little play, a walk if the weather behaves, lunch, quiet time, stories, snacks.
Small rituals that build trust. Predictability with room for detours.
And the detours, it turns out, are my favorite part.
Right now, Oliver is halfway through explaining to me why his Lego plane definitely needs "missiles but only pretend ones," while I sit at the coffee table sorting puzzle pieces and failing spectacularly to stop thinking about Ethan.
He left for work early again this morning, all crisp shirt and quiet focus. I only saw him for about thirty seconds in the kitchen while trying very hard not to remember the almost kiss from the other night, which I just can’t shake off, however hard I try.
“Addy?”
I blink and look up. “Hm?”
Oliver points at the wing I’m supposed to be attaching. “You’re not helping. You’re just holding it.”
“That,” I tell him, “is because I’m bringing emotional support to the engineering process.”
He considers this. “That’s not a real job.”
“It absolutely is. Ask any woman.”
He accepts this instantly, which honestly bodes well for his future.
Captain drops onto the rug with a dramatic groan and sprawls out across my feet like a furry paperweight.
I look down at him. “You too? Great. Love being physically trapped by dependents before noon.”
His tail thumps once.
I scratch behind his ears absently and lower my voice to a whisper only he can hear. “Also, your owner is still a problem.”
Captain blinks.
“I know. He’s very handsome in that deeply serious, emotionally constipated kind of way. It’s a whole thing.”
“Who’s a problem?” Oliver asks.
I nearly choke on air. “No one,” I say quickly. “Boring adult topic. Taxes.”
He goes back to the plane immediately, because nothing repels a child faster than the suggestion of tax conversation.
Bless.
By lunchtime, we’re both slightly stir crazy, which means I make the executive decision to take him over to Brewed Awakening.
This is partly because he likes the toy corner, partly because I desperately need caffeine, and partly because there's something weirdly comforting about having somewhere to go now.
Somewhere that isn't this beautiful penthouse full of tension, memory, and one silver fox I'm trying very hard not to think about.
Chicago's still new under my skin.
But it’s starting to feel less like a place I got stranded in and more like a place I might actually belong.
That thought's nice.
Dangerous, but nice.
Brewed Awakening is warm when we walk in, all exposed brick, soft music, and the smell of coffee so good it could probably heal minor psychological damage.
The windows are bright with thin afternoon light, and the whole place has that easy hum of people doing city things.
Laptop people. Meeting people. Someone in the corner definitely pretending to write a screenplay. An older couple sharing cake.
Normal life.
The kind I haven’t felt part of in a while.
Sophie spots me before I’ve even fully stepped inside. “Well, if it isn’t airport heartbreak in a cute cardigan.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Wow. You’re always going to refer to me in that way, aren’t you?”
She grins, already reaching for a cup. “The usual for him?”
Oliver stands a little taller. “Grilled cheese.”
Sophie nods. “And hot chocolate at a temperature that won’t cause nanny panic.”
I put a hand to my chest. “You know me.”
“I know women in charge of small children,” she says. “You all have the same haunted eyes.”
That’s fair, honestly.
A few minutes later, Oliver’s happily installed at a small table with his grilled cheese, Captain at my feet, and I’m leaning against the counter while Sophie wipes down the espresso machine and gives me one of those looks women give each other when they’ve decided you’re getting adopted, whether you like it or not.
“So,” she says. “How’s billionaire babysitting?”
I nearly snort coffee. “I’m sorry, is that what we’re calling it?”
“If the custom loafers fit.”
“It’s nannying,” I say, though weakly.
“Mm hm.”
“It is.”
“Sure.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re very smug for someone in pastry throwing distance.”
She smiles. “And yet…”
I sigh. “It’s good, actually.”
And it is.
Which still surprises me.
Maybe because I’d gotten used to expecting everything to become a disaster eventually. Bryce had that effect on my life. Every plan a little unstable, every promise held together with hot air and audacity. There was always a crack somewhere if you looked hard enough.
But this feels good. Complicated, yes. Potentially catastrophic, also yes. But steady.
“Oliver’s great,” I tell her. “He’s smart, funny, weirdly observant, and slightly manipulative in a charming way.”
“Those are the dangerous ones.”
“I know. He negotiated for extra story time yesterday like a tiny lawyer.”
“And the dog?”
I look down at Captain, who's currently resting his head on my shoe with the complete confidence of a man who contributes nothing to society.
“The dog,” I say carefully, “is an oversized golden criminal.”
Sophie laughs. “And the boss?”
My grip tightens a little on the coffee cup. “He’s… fine.”
She goes completely still for one beat. “Oh my goodness.”
“What?”
“That was the most suspicious use of the word fine I’ve ever heard in my life.”
“I meant fine.”
“You meant hot.”
I nearly choke. “I didn't.”
She lifts one brow. “You absolutely did.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
“I hate how quickly you got here,” I mutter.
Sophie grins in triumph. “So there's a here.”
“There isn’t a here.”
Sophie gives me a long, unimpressed look over the espresso machine. “There’s a very obvious here.”
I groan and look heavenward because the worst part is that I’ve known this woman for approximately five minutes and she’s already reading me with frightening accuracy.
“This is why women should never make new friends,” I mutter. “The intimacy develops too fast.”
“It’s one of our strengths,” she says.
I glance back at Oliver, who's now telling a stuffed bear in the toy corner something with immense authority. Captain has followed him and is supervising in the least useful way imaginable.
Then I lower my voice. “It’s not like that.”
Sophie gives me the kind of patient look usually reserved for children and liars.
“Okay,” I amend. “It cannot be like that.”
“Aha.”
I rub my forehead. “He’s my boss.”
“Yep, I know that much. And?”
“And,” I say, “there already was… history.”
Her eyes widen. “What kind of history?”
I should absolutely not tell this woman. This is the sort of information sensible adults keep locked in a vault until trust has matured and everyone has signed non-disclosure agreements.
Unfortunately, Sophie has one of those faces that makes secrets feel like a community activity.
“Plane history.”
Sophie blinks once.
I can practically see the pieces clicking into place behind her eyes, which is unfortunate, because I was hoping she’d be worse at puzzles.
Her mouth drops open. “You slept with him on a plane?”
I point at her with my coffee. “Not so loud, jeez.”
She slaps a hand over her chest, delighted. “Oh, I love this. I love this so much.”
“This isn't a love story. This is an HR complaint waiting to happen.”
“This is absolutely a love story.”
“It's absolutely not.”
She folds her arms. “Addy, you're a beautiful disaster living in a penthouse with a hot widower and his adorable child after sleeping with him on a plane. This is either a romance novel or the universe has become embarrassingly unoriginal.”
I stare at her.
Because annoyingly, that's not an insane summary.
“It was one time,” I say. “The time. Just after I got broken up with.”
She cocks a brow. “I see… so a reckless choice made in the heat of the moment, before he was your boss.” She beams ear to ear. “And now?”
“And now we're being normal.”
Sophie bursts out laughing so hard she has to grab the counter. “No, you're not.”
“We are.”
“You’re standing in front of me looking like someone who got professionally kissed by a tax bracket.”
“That isn't a real sentence.”
“It should be.”
I hate that I’m laughing. I hate that she’s funny. I hate that she’s saying things I don't want said out loud because they feel too true once they exist in air.
So I do what any mature, emotionally regulated woman would do.
I change the subject badly.
“Anyway,” I say, too brightly, “what about you?”
Sophie narrows her eyes. “Coward.”
“Massive.”
She hums, but mercifully lets it go. “Fine. I work too much, my roommate steals my oat milk, and last month I went on a date with a man who said he was ‘spiritually between careers,’ which turned out to mean unemployed and in possession of a podcast microphone.”
I gasp. “No.”
“Yes.”
“That’s devastating.”
“I survived.”
I press my hand to my chest. “You’re very brave.”
“I know.”
And just like that, the conversation loosens.
It becomes easy.
We talk while she works, and I hover. About Chicago, neighborhoods, bad dates, her ex who once tried to win her back with an edible arrangement, Luci and her deeply insane life choices, how hard it is to make new friends as an adult, and the horrifying cost of rent in any city where people say things like ‘artisanal’ casually.
She tells me she grew up outside the city, moved here for school, and never really left.
I tell her about bouncing between jobs, nannying families who ranged from lovely to deeply deranged, and how my sister once got banned from a bowling alley for “attitude reasons,” which is still one of the funniest phrases I’ve ever heard.
At one point, Oliver wanders back over, climbs onto the stool beside me, and announces to Sophie, “Addy talks to Captain like he’s a person.”
Sophie glances at me. “She seems smart.”
“I am,” I say.
Oliver frowns thoughtfully. “Captain doesn’t answer.”
“That's because he's mysterious.”
Captain, hearing his name, trots over and immediately puts his chin in my lap.
“See?” I say to Sophie. “He understands me emotionally.”
“That’s honestly more than can be said for most men.”
“Exactly.”
Oliver points between us. “You talk a lot.”
“We’re bonding,” I tell him.
He thinks about it. “Like glue?”
“Exactly like glue.”
He nods, satisfied.
By the time the lunch rush starts to taper, I realize I’ve been here longer than planned.
And that I don’t want to leave.
Not because I’m avoiding the penthouse exactly.
Okay, maybe a little because of that.
But mostly because this feels good. Standing here talking to someone who doesn’t know me as Bryce’s ex, or someone who needs something, or a woman one mistake away from having to start over again.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed that.
Sophie wipes down the counter again and gives me a look.
“What?” I ask.
“You should come out with me on Friday.”
I blink. “Out?”
“Yes, Grandma. Out. Drinks. Music. Human interaction after dark.”
I let out a laugh. “Wow. You make it sound both appealing and medically necessary.”
“It's both.”
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t want to. I do, very much, actually.
But there’s still that reflex in me, the one shaped by months of Bryce and years of precarious finances and too many situations where saying yes to fun felt irresponsible when life was already wobbling.
“Come on,” Sophie says, reading my face like it’s subtitled. “You need one night where you're not responsible for a child, a dog, or your own tragic sexual tension.”
I nearly drop my coffee. “You're never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
I groan. “I hate that you’re right.”
“I know.”
I glance over at Oliver, who's now sitting on the floor beside Captain and explaining airplanes to a toddler who didn't ask.
“Friday,” Sophie says, softer now. “Just a few drinks. Nothing wild unless we earn it.”
I smile despite myself. “That's exactly what someone says before things become wild.”
She presses a hand to her heart. “I’m offended by how well you know me already.”
I huff out a laugh. “Okay.”
Her whole face lights up. “Yes?”
“Yes. Friday.”
She points at me like I’ve passed a test. “We’re reclaiming your life.”