The next morning I wake up with a gasp in one of Cal’s many guest rooms. For a moment, I’m not sure where I am before I suddenly remember.

Kids. Custody. Cal.

I roll over and groan into the pillows, then I heave myself out of bed and shuffle off to the kitchen in search of coffee, pushing a hand through my greasy, tangled hair.

It’s barely light outside the massive plate-glass windows—in fact, I was counting on nobody seeing my unwashed, unbrushed self—but I find Cal standing at the ridiculously complicated-looking espresso machine, already dressed. “Hey,” he says, cheerful as a Boy Scout. “You’re up.”

“Um.” I pull my cardigan tighter around me, acutely aware of the fact that I’m not wearing a bra under my tank top; I can feel my nipples tighten up under the thin, translucent fabric. “Yup.”

“Morning.” If he’s still annoyed at me from our conversation last night he gives no indication, nodding genially at the machine. “Coffee?”

“I’d love some, thanks.” I watch as he grabs a mug from the cabinet, twirling the handle around his index finger before setting it down in the bay and pulling a series of levers, efficient as any barista. I’m surprised he knows how to do it at all: I keep expecting a gaggle of housekeepers and assistants to appear from some hidden servants’ quarters, but I have to admit that for a rich dude, Cal seems remarkably self-sufficient.

Any goodwill I’m feeling in his direction vanishes a moment later: “So hey, would you mind hanging with these guys for a while this morning?” he asks, setting the mug in front of me. “I gotta go into the office, take care of a few things.”

“Wait a sec,” I say, pausing with the coffee halfway to my lips. “You’re going into work?”

Cal holds his hands up like, what can you do? “Won’t be long.”

“It’s Saturday.” I glance at the clock on the stove. “And it’s not even seven a.m.”

“Just got some stuff to sort out,” he says. “Thanks a million, Jules.” Then, with the same kind of winning smile I’m sure has been helping him get his way for thirty-five years—and which makes me want to punch him in the face—he’s gone, the front door snicking quietly shut behind him.

“What the fuck,” I say out loud, my voice echoing in the quiet apartment. I sit there for a minute, fuming dumbly, before finally taking my coffee down the hall to the bathroom for a shower. I’m just pulling a clean pair of jeans on when my phone vibrates on the vanity, Olivia’s number lighting up the screen.

“Jules,” she says, her voice as clear and rested as if she’s been up and working for hours; what is it with these people and their early rising? “How’s it going?”

Well, your billionaire fucked me through the mattress three years ago in Las Vegas and I’m pretty sure I hate him now, I think and don’t say. “Fine,” I promise instead. “You know, just getting settled.”

“Glad to hear it,” she tells me warmly. “I heard from Cal that you were incredibly helpful during the hearing yesterday.”

Something about that surprises me, though I’m not sure why—after all, he’s the one who hired the Agency to begin with. Of course they talk. Still, there’s something unnerving about the idea of them debriefing our little arrangement. I wonder what else he said about me, then tell myself I don’t care. “It seemed to go well,” I agree brightly. “We’ll just have to see what the judge says for the long-term.”

I’m just hanging up when the phone vibrates again with a text from Hallie, who offers none of Olivia’s tact: details immediately!!! she demands, and I know she’s just woken up and seen the frantic, emoji-laden update I sent her last night. How’s it going?

Kind of miserable, actually, I key in, wandering back to the kitchen and poking around until I find a spotty banana, shoving half of it into my mouth while I type. He’s about as qualified to be a parent as I am to be a billionaire’s fake fiancée. The apartment is a total joke—I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s the size of an airplane hangar, but still, a total joke. He has no idea what he’s doing with these kids. He just randomly dumped them on me and took off, probably to oversee a corporate merger or buy a prostitute. It’s a miracle nobody has drowned in a swimming pool yet.

Oh nooooo! Hallie texts back, along with a line of wincing faces. That bad?

Worse, I complain. Okay, I’m venting, but after the way he acted last night, can you blame me? I honestly feel like maybe they should live with their ice queen aunt after all. She looks like Cruella de Vil, but at least she seems to give a crap.

It occurs to me that it’s possible I’m being the tiniest bit unfair—clearly Cal cares about Lottie and Ezra—but I’m pissed. Those kids just got here. Shouldn’t he want to be spending every possible second with them?

Shouldn’t he want to spend time with me?

Danger, Jules Robinson, I tell myself firmly, setting my phone down on the counter. Yeah, he looked good this morning, all broad chest and an ass you could bounce a quarter off, smelling of herby, expensive cologne. But the man couldn’t be more off limits if he had a radioactive belt wrapped around his . . . assets.

I’m eyeing the espresso machine, wondering if I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of coaxing it into spitting out another cup when Lottie pads into the kitchen. “Where’s Cal?” she asks with a frown.

“Hey,” I say brightly. “He had a work emergency, but he told me to tell you he’s super sorry and shouldn’t be too long.” I smile at Ezra as he trails in behind her, Howard in tow. “You guys hungry?”

Not surprisingly there’s hardly anything in the cupboards, but I scrape together what we need to make passable pancakes—I even find an ancient-looking bag of M&Ms—and set them both to work measuring and mixing while I pull up some music on my phone. “You guys like the Beatles?” I ask hopefully. My nine-year-old nephew Charlie just went through a major Ringo phase; we had his last birthday cake decorated to look like the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. “Yellow Submarine?”

Lottie eyes me as with an expression like I’ve suggested an enriching morning selection of baroque chamber music. “Um,” she says, “not really.”

Man, I am striking out with this kid all over the place. “That’s okay,” I say gamely, handing my phone over. “You wanna pick something out?”

She looks at me for another dubious beat before she takes it, scrolling until she finds some Lorde and connecting quickly to the built-in ceiling speakers. I’m kind of impressed—both with her musical taste and her technological aplomb—and I’m just about to tell her so when Ezra calls out from across the kitchen. “Hey Lottie! Look what I can do!”

I glance over in his direction, jaw dropping in horror: “Oh, dude, please don’t—”

But it’s too late: Ezra’s already got an M&M shoved good and far up his little nose. He breathes in deeply—intending, I think, to shoot it out in our direction—then abruptly frowns. “Uh-oh,” he says. “I think it’s stuck.”

Forty-five minutes, some burned pancakes, and a panicked call to my brother the pediatrician later, I’ve just gotten the thing out with a pair of tweezers when Cal strolls into the apartment, looking relaxed as a golden retriever who’s been snoozing in the sun. The guy probably went for a visit to his personal masseuse. He’s wearing a deep-blue button-down and a pair of tailored wool pants, his ass round and muscular and, frankly, bitable-looking under the fabric.

I’d like to kick him in it.

Hard.

“Hey,” he calls, picking Ezra up in one arm and turning him upside down, the kid giggling as delightedly as someone who didn’t just spend the better part of an hour with a candy-covered chocolate morsel jammed up in his nasal cavity. “Everybody in the car; time for a field trip.” He grins at me. “Thanks for keeping an eye on them,” he says.

“We’re gonna need to stop someplace for breakfast,” I announce tartly, skirting past him into the elevator. At least I’m wearing a bra this time. “Where are we going?”

Cal smiles, still looking delighted with himself. “You’ll see.”

We head down to the garage and pile back into his ridiculous sports car; Cal zips toward the Back Bay and then west down the wide, leafy swath of Commonwealth Avenue, weaving expertly through traffic as we pass historic brownstones and elegant old churches. I watch as the city gives way to suburb, the houses getting bigger and further apart until finally Cal pulls the car to a stop in the driveway of a big Victorian house set back on a gigantic green blanket of lawn.

“Where are we?” Lottie asks suspiciously, peering out the window like she’s worried he’s about to drop her off with the witch from Hansel and Gretel. “Who lives here?”

“We do,” Cal says grandly. “We can move in tomorrow.”

I whip my head around to look at him. “What?” I ask, suddenly realizing. “That’s what you were doing?”

“I told you,” he says, holding up the keys. “Business.”

I scramble out of the car, the kids piling out behind me and stand in front of the white picket fence for a moment, gaping. “You’re telling me you just . . . went out and bought a house this morning.”

Cal shrugs. “I mean, I got the paperwork started last night. But I wanted to see it in person before we committed.”

“Thoughtful,” I mutter, shaking my head. Even after three years of working in the corporate law world, I’m still not used to money like this. Cal probably goes around picking up real estate the same way I’d buy a sweater on clearance at H&M.

Still, I have to admit I’m a tiny bit impressed he took my words to heart about the apartment. This place looks like a Norman Rockwell painting. I half expect there to be an apple pie cooling on the windowsill.

“Come on, gang,” he says now, heading up the walk and unlocking the front door, ushering the kids inside. “Go on in and have a look.”

I do a slow tour through the house, taking in the open kitchen and ornate woodwork on the massive fireplace, the built-in bookshelves and the antique curio cabinet with its stained-glass front. There’s a wide-open staircase and lots of windows, a family room with couches so big and comfortable-looking I want to sink into them immediately. Warm-looking hardwood floors gleam in the early afternoon sun. I spy brightly colored pillows on top of the beds and thickly piled carpets I want to rub my bare feet across, a third-floor turret bedroom with a reading nook that’s distinctly Lottie-sized; there’s even a trampoline in the enormous backyard.

It’s perfect. Warm, comforting, and ready for kids. Hell, all that’s missing is a puppy with a bow around its neck.

“You were right,” Cal says coming up behind me as I eye the deep soaking tub in the master bedroom. “They need a place to be kids.”

I hesitate, not entirely sure how to respond. On one hand, who doesn’t like to be told they were right? Apple should market that as a ringtone. On the other hand, I still can’t get over the guy impulse buying a freaking house!

“It’s beautiful,” I say truthfully. “And it’s going to be really great for them. But you can’t just buy your way into domestic bliss, Cal.” I sigh, knowing I sound like a broken record but not necessarily caring. “These kids are hurting, even if they aren’t showing it. Their parents are gone. They’ve spent the last four months being shuffled around and dragged into court and argued over. They still don’t know where they’re going to be ten days from now—”

“With me,” he interrupts, and there’s a steely set to his jaw I haven’t seen before. “They’re going to be with me.”

“I just don’t know if you really get what that’s going to look like,” I argue. “And if you don’t, then it’s better to admit that now than to put them through any more craziness.”

I’m expecting a knee-jerk argument, but instead he seems to actually think about what I’m saying, leaning his head back against the doorjamb. “Look,” he says finally, scrubbing a hand over his obnoxiously symmetrical face. “The probation period is over in nine days. If we get to that point and you still think I’m such an idiot—if you really don’t think the best place for these kids is with me, or I’m trying to buy their affection or whatever—you can tell the judge that. In fact, you can tell her the whole truth, Agency and all. No hard feelings. Deal?”

I consider that for a moment, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth. “Deal,” I agree. He sticks his hand out and we shake—just as an enormous, glass-breaking crash sounds from downstairs.

“Um, Cal?” Ezra calls sweetly. “Howard broke something!”

“Home sweet home,” Cal says with a grin.