Tessa

My phone rings, and Barclay’s name lights up the screen. I freak out and stare at it for a beat. Holding my hand to my chest, I accept the call. Before I speak, I hear the unmistakable wail of a baby crying in the background.

“Barclay? Is that you?”

“Oh, Jesus. Tessa. I’m babysitting my niece and can’t get her to stop crying.” He sounds frantic and distressed. “It’s been over an hour.”

He tries to quiet the baby with soothing shushes, but she continues to scream. Poor baby. Poor Barclay.

“Have you changed her diaper or tried feeding her?” I ask, listing off the basic baby needs.

“Yes, all of those. And more than once. I’m at my wit’s end on how to help her.”

“Her cries sound like she’s in pain. Maybe it’s gas? Have you tried burping her?”

“What do you mean?” he shoots back at me. Bless his heart. He has no clue. No wonder the sweet thing’s hurting.

“Babies take in too much air when eating—”

“I need help,” he groans. “I’m sending my driver to pick you up.”

“Until I get there, place her on your shoulder and lightly tap her back between her shoulder blades.”

“Will do,” he says, and the line goes dead.

I glance down at my Betty Boop PJ short set. Yeah, I need to change, especially since the no bra, half-my-boobs-hanging-out look isn’t appropriate with how things have changed between us.

I jump over the spilled popcorn on the floor and scurry to my closet. After slipping on a pair of jeans and a soft pink camisole, I thread my toes through my favorite flip-flops and race to meet his driver in front of the hotel. The sidewalk spins in my rush. I shouldn’t have started that third glass.

Ten minutes later, with instructions from his driver, I’m knocking on his sister’s apartment door in the Upper East Side. I press my ear against the door, listening for a baby’s cry, but hear nothing. It’s a good sign.

Barclay opens the door, and I hardly recognize him. His hair looks like a blender attacked it, a cloth diaper drapes over his shoulder, and his navy polo is covered in baby powder. He gazes at me with a look of surprised terror. He has babysitting PTSD.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I am now. She fell asleep.” He exhales and drags his hands over his face. “You were right about the burp. I had no idea a baby that small could belch like a frat boy drinking beer.”

“Can I come in or do you want me to leave now that everything’s okay?” I shift on my feet, hoping he wants me to stay.

“Oh, shit,” he says, moving out of the entryway. “Would you mind staying for a while in case she wakes up?”

No woman would tell a smoking hot, six-foot-three man covered in baby powder no. Even if he’s her boss’s boss.

“Of course. I’ve been babysitting since I was fourteen.”

He lays a hand on my shoulder, leaning into me. “Thank you, Tessa.” His touch isn’t meant to be sexual in nature, but my nipples harden and a place low within me clenches. He quickly removes his hand. I’m sure my face shows the effect he has on me.

I walk past him into the main living area, needing some space, and glance around in shock. “It looks like a baby tornado hit,” I say, laughing.

Diapers are strewn across the floor and couch and bottles sit on every flat surface available, including expensive looking antiques. I count five pacifiers on just the coffee table.

“I thought I could handle a sweet baby for the night, apparently not,” he says with a huff.

“Yeah, I’d say the baby showed you who was boss.”

I help Barclay clean up the mess, and check in on his niece, Beatrice, who’s sleeping like an angel in her crib. She has a mop of curly hair the shade of Barclay’s, and her long black eyelashes rest against chubby cheeks. She’s adorable. I wish she were awake to play with, but I’ll keep that thought to myself.

I tiptoe out of the room, and Barclay’s leaning against the wall, looking like he ran a marathon. I bite down on my lower lip, trying so hard not to laugh.

“I know. I know,” he says, smiling at me. “I suck at babies.”

“You just need some coaching.” We stand in the hallway, gazing at each other, awkwardness growing by the second. Maybe it’s time for me to go.

“Would you like a drink? God knows I could use one.”

I nod, though it feels like there’s a large elephant in the room we aren’t addressing. Basically, I shouldn’t be here alone.

“Maybe a diet soda or something. I’ve already had two, working on three glasses of red wine tonight, so no more alcohol. Mrs. Mackenzie gave me the bottle.” Barclay raises a brow at the mention of his assistant, but doesn’t ask anything further. I follow him to a sparkly kitchen with shiny granite counters and stainless steel.

“Have you eaten dinner?”

“Just popcorn.”

“Tessa, that’s not food. I’m ordering pizza from John’s. Have you tried it yet?” He hands me a drink.

“Thanks,” I say, lifting the glass. “It’s been the dollar slice life for me. The cheap place by the office, and it’s not even worth a buck.”

“That’s like eating cardstock with tomato sauce. John’s it is.” Barclay pulls out his phone to call in the order, and a pacifier tumbles out of his pocket, landing on floor. We both stare at it and laugh until we’re in tears.

“Hey,” Barclay says, after calling in the pizza order. “Let’s play a little game while we wait.”

“What do you have in mind?” I ask, giving him a pointed stare.

“We’ll ask each other a few what or why questions. For instance, why do you always wear pink?”

“So, you’re going to start with that one?” I ask, and he laughs.

“Yeah, I guess I am.” We take a seat on the couch with a comfortable friend-zone distance between us.

“After having a boy, my mother loved dressing me in pink frilly clothes. One day, I asked her why the boys at preschool didn’t wear pink, but the girls could wear blue. She told me it was because pink gave me a special superpower and I believed her. So every day, I have to wear something with pink in it.”

“I do believe she’s right,” Barclay says, his eyes darkening. “The color looks lovely on you, Tessa.

“Thank you,” I say, blushing pink, of course. “Okay, my turn. Are there any rules?”

I give him the once over, contemplating how far I want to stick the knife.

“Nope,” he quips, and I take a deep breath.

“Okay, then. Why isn’t there a Mrs. Hammond, or a soon to be one?” I go for the throat. After all, he’s thirty-seven. In Alabama, guys that age have kids in middle school.

“Honest?” he asks, and I nod, watching him squirm. “Well, I’ve never been with anyone who made me want this.” He gestures around the room full of baby gear and wedding photos. All scream one thing: commitment.

Considering how I feel so drawn to him, maybe not being together isn’t such a bad thing in the end. He’s the kind of man who could tear my heart to shreds.

An hour later, we’re sitting on the couch eating pizza. Neither of us has mentioned anything related to me working at Hammond, or us being together last Saturday night. But with the dinner over, I can feel the unspoken words hanging in the air.

Which one of us will be brave enough to broach the subject?

“Tessa.” He turns toward me on the couch, but the way he said my name makes the atmosphere shift from casual fun to serious. “I want to talk to you about Monday. I should’ve handled the whole thing better. I did some digging around and confirmed what you told me.”

“It’s okay. I have to take the blame for not telling you I dropped off my résumé and about my blog, especially after Don mentioned it.”

“But the thing is, even after a week away from you, you’re all I think about. Day and night. When I get my coffee, I remember the day I met you. I even had a cherry tart while in Paris. And I’m not a big fan.”

“Me too. Well not the coffee or cherry tart in Paris. More just sleeping in my bed alone. It’s then that I think about you the most …” my voice trails off, and his eyes darken.

“Do you miss me?” he asks in almost a whisper, daring to brush a hair off my cheek, leaving a tingle over my skin.

“Yes, so much it hurts.” My voice cracks as I speak through the pain in my chest.

“I feel like I’ll go mad if I don’t have you in my arms again,” he says, an aching longing in his voice.

“This isn’t helping Barclay.” I glance away, because looking at this beautiful man with troubled eyes breaks me.

“Text me when you get lonely and miss me. There’s nothing wrong with us doing that.”

I nod, looking up at him with cloudy eyes. Why does he have to be so perfect?

“Ah, fuck, don’t cry, Tessa. I want to be with you too. For now, sweet girl, all we can do is be friends. I miss you too much to have you completely out of my life.”

He reaches for my hand, encircling it with his. His thumb brushes my knuckles in a rhythmic back and forth motion, and my breaths become deeper, quicker. It’s simply too much, but I can’t move away from him. I need this connection.

We stay locked in this position for minutes, gazing at each other with faraway eyes, imagining dreams that can’t be realized.

“I can live with that. For now,” I whisper.