Blind Date With a Billionaire Single Dad Page 3

  “Not this time,” she said. “Your father is expecting us.”

  “Fine.” He sighed heavily, but it wasn’t in frustration from not getting his way. It was more like a sadness that spoke to unmet emotional needs.

  He sounded so depressed that I turned to the woman and smiled. “If it’s okay with you, I can buy the cookie for your son. It’s no problem.” I wasn’t trying to undermine her, but something about this kid pulled at my heartstrings. The reason for that wasn’t fully clear to me beyond the fact that I hated hearing any kid sound that sad.

  “Oh, I don’t want to bother you,” she said. “It’s okay.”

  I should have stopped there, but I didn’t. “It’s not a bother. It’ll make my day to see your son smile.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.” She smiled slightly and checked her watch and then motioned for Zac to hurry up. “Go on…pick one. We don’t have a lot of time.” She turned back to me. “He’s not actually my son. I’m his nanny.”

  “Oh, I see.” I wasn’t sure why she was telling me that, but I supposed it was always good to clarify relationships.

  Zac pointed to a humongous shortbread cookie with chocolate frosting and said, “I want that one.”

  “Nice choice,” I said. “I’ll have the same.”

  The woman at the counter packaged up the cookies in the fancy paper they used, and I quickly paid her for the items as she had a cash register at the bakery. When we finished with the transaction, I handed one of the cookies to the kid.

  Bessie nudged him on the shoulder. “What do you say?”

  “Thank you.” He turned to me, and I saw his face clearly for the first time. Up until that point, I’d only seen his profile or the back of his head, but there was no denying what I was seeing. He was the spitting image of my Zac.

  I froze, and it took a few seconds for my brain to register what was happening. It was almost like an out-of-body experience, not that I’d ever experienced that before. My mouth dropped open, and my heart skidded to a complete stop.

  It couldn’t be… Denial was on the tip of my tongue because I’d never heard of a coincidence like this before, but he looked very close to the kid in the picture the Wellington’s mailed to me six months ago. Children favored each other all the time, and the mind played tricks on people. I probably just wanted it to be him.

  This particular kid had shorter hair, but his features were exactly the same as the pictures I had at home.

  Zac looked at me like I was a weirdo, and I must have appeared like one the way I was staring at him in shock. “You’re welcome,” I finally squeaked. My throat closed up on me and my breath came out hard and fast.

  Bessie put a hand on his back, and they headed towards the checkout with their cart of groceries. As they left, every instinct told me he was my son, and I shouldn’t let him get away. I would never kidnap him or do something crazy like that, but I wondered if I should follow them home to see where he lived. Maybe I could talk to the Wellingtons and they would allow me to interact with him again. The likelihood of having another chance like this was slim to none.

  My legs trembled and nearly buckled as I watched them get in one of the checkout lines, oblivious to what had just happened. My heart picked up speed and pounded hard in my chest while I debated my next move. There was no question about what was appropriate here.

  I should let him walk out of the store and that would be the end of it.

  I’d agreed not to search for Zac, and in return, his adoptive parents graciously sent me pictures. That had been the deal. If anything, I should be grateful that some divine providential force (okay, maybe it was God) had allowed me to see my son even if it was only one time.

  It was a gift, and I should view it as such. But if I was truthful about the matter, I’d always wondered how he was doing, what kind of life he had, and if the Wellingtons were caring and loving towards him. He had a nanny, sure, but that didn’t automatically mean they didn’t pay attention to him. I wanted to believe the best, but a part of me feared the worst.

  My chest contracted, and a wound I hadn’t dealt with in seven years was suddenly torn open and exposed. I’d always told myself I’d done the right thing by putting him up for adoption, but seeing him now, regret filtered through me and I wished I’d made a different choice back then. It was as if the day I gave Zac away, a part of me ripped apart, and I’d never recovered. The pain was so acute, I was afraid I might pass out. The blood rushed from my face, and I fought to keep tears from falling. I couldn’t come unglued, not here in this grocery store. I had to pull it together.

  Slow down your breathing, Emery. I stopped and practiced a technique I’d learned a long time ago but hadn’t had to use in quite a while. Breathe in…count to five slowly…breathe out.

  When I was a child, I sometimes had tantrums when I was overwhelmed and felt powerless to deal with a frustrating or painful situation. I didn’t know how to express my feelings or problem-solve, so I would fall to the ground and kick my legs and scream. It was childish, yes, but I was a kid and didn’t have much structure.

  My mom tried everything from punishing me to asking me to stop nicely, to flat-out ignoring me. None of it worked. And then one day she wrapped her arms around my little body and held me close. I still remembered how safe I felt the first time she did that, how protected and loved it had made me feel. She wasn’t the type to give a lot of hugs, so I may have thrown tantrums more often just to experience that human contact. As I grew older, I learned the simple breathing technique I used now. It didn’t fix all my problems, but it helped me learn self-control in the midst of them.

  “Are you okay, Miss?” The lady at the counter looked at me with concern. She must have seen me making a conscious effort to get a hold of myself.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” I let out a breath and walked away so she wouldn’t ask any other questions I didn’t want to answer. What did one say in a circumstance like this? I gave away my son at fifteen, and that boy is my long-lost child? She would think I was missing a marble or two.

  Seeing Zac and Bessie up ahead, I moved part-way down an aisle and kept my gaze trained where I could still see them.

  I didn’t have a plan. I wasn’t even sure what to do.

  Seconds passed and then minutes. The checkout lady scanned their items and a teen boy bagged the food and put the bags in their cart. They moved to walk out the door, and without thinking through what I should do next, I followed.

  Picking up the pace, I kept a good distance between us and watched closely as they got in a gray Honda Accord. Guilt niggled at me when I hopped in my white Hyundai Tucson and trailed them out of the parking lot. I felt like a stalker…and I totally was. Well, not really. I wouldn’t allow myself to go that far.

  I decided right then and there that I wouldn’t talk to Zac without the Wellington’s permission. It was a boundary I shouldn’t cross. Having come to that decision, I felt much better. I didn’t want to do anything bad or unethical. I just wanted to make sure he was okay. Maybe I needed confirmation that the decision I made seven years ago hadn’t been the wrong one.

  I tracked the gray Honda Accord for about a mile, and then the vehicle turned into a gated community with a guard talking to each person before letting them in. My heart sank because there was no way I’d be able to get past that point, but I figured I’d give it a shot, anyway. There were at least four to five cars in line, and Bessie’s car was several ahead of me.

  When I reached the guard, he glanced at me with an easygoing smile. “You here for the interview with Seth Wellington?”

  I hid my surprise with a blank expression. Was that where all these cars were headed? It made sense that he believed I was there for the same purpose.

  “Yes.”

  My heart sped up at the lie. If Jesus was real like Peyton said He was, my actions wouldn’t please Him right now.

  It seemed almost too good to be true that Mr. Wellington was conducting interviews today. A panicked feeling
swelled in my chest at the thought of seeing Seth and Allie. What would they do if they recognized me? Would they call the police? Scream at me to get out of their house?

  The guard pushed a button, and the gate opened. I turned away from him and drove through. Bessie’s vehicle was no longer in sight, and I debated whether I should keep driving until I found it or turn around and go home. I couldn’t believe I’d come this far, anyway.

  Peyton’s words came back to me. Trust in Jesus. He has a plan for you. One day you’re going to realize you need Him.

  I’d always handled things on my own, but I was way out of my league with this and had no idea what to do next. If there was ever a time I needed help, it was now. “Jesus,” I said through a breath. “If you’re really there, show me what to do.”

  I didn’t receive an answer back, and I didn’t expect one, but as I continued driving, I realized many of the vehicles were all going in the same direction, so I followed close behind.

  The homes I passed were beautiful: grand on a level I’d never seen before. The succession of cars headed up a hill, and the further we got, the more elaborate the architecture of the houses. We finally came to one house set apart from all the rest with its own gate and a keypad to activate it. I drove up and got in line behind several other vehicles, but when it was my turn to type in the code, I didn’t know which numbers to use. I tried a few sequences that didn’t work and then hesitated. What was I doing? That feeling of guilt returned, knowing I shouldn’t be here.

  “It’s three-two-one-six,” a lady yelled from the car behind me. She glared at me and appeared impatient. “It’s lazy not to write down the number. You’re holding us all up!”

  “Sorry,” I yelled back, and then I quickly typed in the number and the gate opened wide. As I drove through, my arms broke out in goosebumps. I was really doing this.

  A large building stood in the distance, so enormous it looked like a museum or historical library. I drove down a long driveway and parked by the other cars off to the side. Bessie’s car was nowhere in sight. I exited the car on shaky legs and surveyed my surroundings.

  The home had a Mediterranean style with red roof tiles, archways, and more windows than I’d ever seen in my life. Dense trees and shrubbery were on either side, and palm trees dotted the front entrance. It reminded me of an oasis or a resort I’d never be able to afford. I’d known the Wellingtons were well off, but I had no idea they were this wealthy. Guess Bessie could have afforded that cookie as she probably had an expense account.

  Growing up in a wealthy family could be good or bad. Zac certainly wouldn’t want for anything, but money came with other problems. Not that I knew that from experience, but it seemed common knowledge that wealth couldn’t buy love.

  A few others walked towards the front entrance, so I did the same. Up until this point, I had acted impulsively, but I needed to have a plan. I shouldn’t just walk in there and wing it. Well, I could, but that might be disastrous.

  Perhaps I could go along with the guise of interviewing for this mystery position, and then once I had a private audience with the Wellingtons, I would tell them who I was and explain what happened. They might be willing to allow me to see Zac once in a while, especially if I didn’t make it known who I was. Then again, the more likely alternative was that they’d throw me out of their house. But if they did that, I could at least walk away knowing I’d tried. If I did nothing, I would always regret it and wonder if things could have turned out differently.

  Several individuals dressed in business attire passed through the entrance, and I followed suit. We waited in line to check-in with a man who sat at a small table in the foyer. He had a list in front of him and appeared to check people off as they gave him their names.

  When I realized there was no way he would let me proceed if I didn’t have an appointment, a feeling of helplessness swept through me, and it seemed the right time for another prayer.

  Jesus, it’s me again. If you can get me past this guy, I’ll know there’s something to this prayer stuff.

  A small smile curved my lips upward, and I linked my hands behind my back, looking straight ahead. I’d prayed more in the last fifteen minutes than I had my entire life.

  A sudden sensation of eyes boring into me pulled me out of my thoughts. People were staring, and I realized to my dismay that it was because I stood out. My wild hair and edgy makeup weren’t exactly fitting for a place like this. If I wanted to cover up the shaved area on my head, I would have to undo the braids, but that would only call more attention to my appearance, so I left it alone.

  To make things worse, I’d driven around all day to pick up applications, but not counting on an interview so soon, my clothes weren’t exactly professional. My dark blue jeans were okay-ish, but they had a small rip at one of the knees. It was the style but not everyone understood that. On the upside, the purple blouse I wore was the most conservative item of clothing I owned, but on the downside, I was sweaty from the heat. We were almost in June, so it wasn’t uncommon for the weather in California to be hot this time of year.

  I suddenly realized I was next in line. Blinking, I held a hand over my stomach to calm the butterflies and let out a breath. The woman in front of me stepped aside and sat down in the living room where extra chairs had been set out.

  “What is your name, please?” The gentleman wore a black suit and dark blue tie. He had a courteous manner, and I guessed he was most likely in his late forties.

  “Emery Chase.”

  He scanned the list, and I knew he wouldn’t find my name, but I stared at him anxiously, anyway.

  “You don’t seem to be on the list, Emery. Did you make an appointment? What time-slot were you given?”

  I started to say that I had, but lying a second time just didn’t feel right. “Um…I don’t have an appointment, but I’d appreciate you adding me to the list.”

  “Very well, I’ll pencil you in for Mr. Wellington’s last time-slot.” He flashed a dismissive smile and didn’t ask any questions.

  “Thank you. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Anthony Sinclair. I’m Mr. Wellington’s house manager.”

  I nodded and moved aside, hardly believing it had been that easy. Was that a result of prayer or dumb luck?

  I stepped into the living room and sat down with the others. At least eight people were waiting for interviews and probably three more that were behind me in line. How long would I have to wait?

  A thought occurred to me. Would Mr. Wellington recognize me? Seven years had passed, and I looked like a completely different person. Still, some people were good at recognizing faces. I was Emery Garrett when we’d last met, but my name had changed since then. If I hadn’t taken on my husband’s surname during my brief marriage, Mr. Wellington might figure it out and refuse to see me.

  I pulled out my phone and sent Peyton a text. No time to tell you what’s going on, but I need you to pray. Pray really hard.

  Chapter 3

  Seth

  “These people are ridiculous,” I said after the latest candidate left. I glanced at Rupert out of the corner of my eye. “I don’t like any of them. They’re so…fake.” We were sitting in the dining room, interviewing candidates to assist Susan Dawson, and I was beginning to think this entire effort was a mistake. Why couldn’t Susan suck it up for another few weeks until I got my casts off? I hated dealing with new personalities.

  “What do you expect?” Rupert asked. “This is an interview. People want you to see their best side.”

  My jaw tightened, and I nearly growled under my breath. “I can’t stand liars who embellish their skills. This is a waste of my time. Tell everyone else to go home.”

  “Not so fast,” Susan said. “There are only two candidates left. You can put up with a couple more interviews.”

  “Nope. I’m done.”

  My nurse’s shoulders slumped forward, and she let out a long breath as if this were the last straw. “Please, Mr. Wellington. We need the
help. You’re not exactly an easy patient.”

  “She’s right,” Rupert insisted. “Man-up and see this through.”

  “Fine.” I grit my teeth and dug up whatever fortitude I had left. “Show the next person in.”

  Rupert opened the door for a tall guy who appeared to be in his thirties and had brown hair pulled up into a man-bun—not a style I was a fan of but that didn’t matter as long as he could do the job. He had an agreeable smile that gave me the impression he would be easy to work with. Finally…someone who might be decent. He stood in the doorway and made eye contact with each one of us.

  “Good morning,” I said, glancing at my list. “You must be Greg Henson. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.” His wide grin held while he eagerly shook Rupert and Susan’s hands, but when he came to me, he sobered. He wasn’t sure what to shake since my arms were in casts, and he should have just moved on, but for some odd reason, he stood there like an idiot, waiting for me to hold out my hand or something.

  “Have a seat,” I said, glancing at him with a wary look.

  He did reluctantly, but then stood again and approached. “Here’s my resume. I have ten years of caregiving experience, and I’m the best in the field.” He held out the resume for me to take, and I had to wonder how ten years of experience had made him this dense. Rupert cleared his throat and stepped in to take the resume out of his hand.

  “I’m not one for pleasantries,” I said, “so I’ll just get to the point. I have two questions I ask everyone who works for me.”

  Greg sat down and nodded like an overeager puppy ready to please his master. “Ask away.”

  Some might have found his exuberance endearing, but it was a red flag in my book. “What skills do you have that apply to this job, and how do you think we will get along?”