Heartless: A Small Town Single Dad Romance

Willa: I just got up.

Cade: Okay?

Willa: I’m making coffee.

Cade: Alright.

Willa: I’m getting dressed for the day. Panties? CHECK.

Cade: Too much information.

Willa: Luke is now awake.

Cade: Oh good.

Willa: He peed.

Cade: The bed?

Willa: No. In the toilet. Sounded like a big one. Like when Austin Powers comes out of being frozen or whatever.

Cade: Why are you telling me this?

Willa: Just keeping you apprised of *everything we do!!!*

Cade: I already regret telling you that.

Willa: Oh, I’m just getting started.

Cade: Willa.

Willa: Remember that time you BEGGED me to stay?

“Let’s just put some back in the bag!” Luke says, standing on a chair beside me at the kitchen counter as we stare into the bowl of pancake mix.

The pancake mix that is now more chocolate chips than batter. I’m no mathematician, but I’m pretty sure this ratio is off. I forgot that children’s motor skills aren’t super refined and handing Luke a bag of chocolate chips to put in might not have been the most strategic plan I’ve come up with in my life.

“Dude. We can’t put them back in.”

He shrugs, not looking sad about it. “I guess we’ll just have to eat them.”

I try not to laugh. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he did it on purpose. “Guess so.”

We move his chair over to the stove, and I read him the riot act about hot elements, telling him that his dad will bury me in a hay field somewhere if I let him get burned.

He giggles and tells me I’m hilarious.

I’ve never felt cooler than I do hanging out with a five-year-old.

Especially when he sits across from me at the table, pats his belly with sticky chocolate fingers and exclaims, “You might be better at cooking than my dad!”

I point my fork at him. “I cannot wait to tell him that.”

His little blue eyes go comically wide. “You can’t tell him that. He’ll be sad.”

“Don’t stress, little man,” I reply, trying not to melt over how sweet it is that he’s so worried about his dad. “Your dad will be able to handle the loss.”

He sighs deeply and gazes at me expectantly. “What now?”

“Anything you want.” I grab my plate as he picks up his and hands it to me.

“Anything?”

I peer down at him, one brow shifting up. “Almost anything.”

“One of the kids at school said that he and his dad drove really fast down the back roads and threw heads of lettuce out the window and watched them explode on the road.”

I stare at the little boy, all earnest and genuine. It’s like he doesn’t even realize what majorly hillbilly shit he just asked me to do.

Goddamn, small towns are weird.

“It’s day one. Are you trying to get me fired?”

“You can’t get fired. We like you too much!”

“Who is we?” I ask, loading the dishwasher. And I freeze momentarily when his response is, “My dad and me.”

I will not burst his bubble by telling him that his dad does not, in fact, like me. He just needs my help and is stuck between a rock and a hard place.

A hard place where I’m literally his last and only option.

I shrug. “Okay sure, why not?”

Hillbilly shit it is.

I take the top off my Jeep, and we cruise to the grocery store blasting some of my favorite ’80s hits. Luke cackles maniacally from his seat in the back when I do my best Billy Idol imitation.

I rolled my eyes when I saw the booster seat already installed in the back seat. I told Cade I could handle it, but he went into my vehicle while I was sleeping and did it anyway.

Control freak.

In town I easily find the grocery store. I took a bit of a detour on my way out to the ranch and gave myself a pep talk. I considered turning my ass around and heading back to the city where I could stick to what’s comfortable, but I’ve never been one to say no to new experiences. So I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and got a lay of the land so I wouldn’t be totally useless without someone showing me around.

“How many are we getting?” I ask Luke, who is strutting through the grocery store like a tiny king. Cowboy heir to the deer antler throne. Or something equally rustic.

“Ten,” he replies decisively.

“Ten? That’s a lot.”

“It’s just the right amount.”

I stare at the section of iceberg lettuce before us. If we take ten, we’re clearing out more than half of what’s here. “Five.”

His head shoots in my direction so quickly, little brows furrowing. He instantly looks like his dad. “Seven.”

I press my lips together so hard it almost hurts. This kid is too smart. “Five, final offer.”

A little spot on his jaw pops, and I am dying. He is a miniature Cade. Take away eye color and the resemblance is uncanny. Hilarious. “Fine.”

“You’re going to be bored after three,” I supply, while reaching for the first head of lettuce.

“I am not!”

I turn and quirk a brow at him. “Luke. I may be new here, but I’m going to tell you what I told your dad. Mind your tone. You and I aren’t going to talk to each other like that. Or I’ll put you back to bed for a nap.”

His baby blues widen. “Naps are for babies.”

“Agreed. But if you act like one, I might get confused.”

He sighs heavily and offers me a brief nod before reaching for another head. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you for apologizing. That was very not-baby-like.”

A smile touches his lips and I mirror the expression. I feel like the two of us just came to some sort of understanding.

When we turn to leave, I’m met with a far less friendly glare.

“Who are you?” a woman asks, hand propped on her hip with a grocery basket in the opposite hand. The way she draws out you reminds me of the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland puffing out smoke O’s. But all she’s blowing at me is bad breath.

Not a fan of the way she’s glaring at me either. Up and down with a little sneer on her face, like I’m yesterday’s roadkill.

Regardless, I smile sweetly—a little too sweetly—and say, “I’m Willa.”

The woman sniffs, the tip of her nose wiggling. I’m having a hard time placing how old she might be. The mini skirt and rhinestone sneakers make me think young, but the heavy makeup flaking in the creases on her forehead makes me think older. It’s a fascinating dichotomy.

“What are you doing out with Cade’s boy?” She bends down a bit to address Luke. “You okay, honey? Do you need my help?”

An earnest and confused look is what Luke gives her back, followed by, “Yeah?”

He rears back a little, and I think it might have to do with her breath. To be fair, I’d like to get as far away as possible too.

“You sure, baby? Is this woman taking you somewhere you don’t want to go?”

I roll my eyes. “If I were kidnapping a child, I wouldn’t stop at a grocery store to buy five heads of lettuce first. I’m his nanny.”

Her eyes narrow, but she turns them back on me. “I applied for that job.” She sniffs again as she straightens.

“Yeah, and my daddy said he’d rather roll around in the manure pile than hire you.”

My eyes nearly pop out of my head right as my hand slaps over my mouth to contain my amusement. This is a moment where I need to behave more grown-up than I’m feeling inside.

The woman blinks rapidly, heat rising on her neck. I honestly feel bad for her. I mean, we can’t be offended by the things a five-year-old says . . . but we can be offended by the things men who are pushing forty say.

“I’m so sorry.” I scoop Luke’s hand into my own and give her an apologetic look. “I, uh, I hope you have a lovely day.” Smiling brightly, I drag Luke toward the till, feeling so grateful that I’m off to a good start in this small town.

Dropping my panties and insulting the locals. And it’s only day two.

I keep that smile plastered on my face throughout the checkout. It feels like people are giving us weird looks. I swear I can feel their eyes on me. Their judgment. Maybe it’s in my head. Maybe it’s not real at all.

All I know is that I can’t get out of there fast enough. I’m not used to living somewhere that everyone recognizes you. I’m sure it’s why my parents travel so much. To get away from the people who stop them and ask for autographs all the time. To just be.

“Okay, get in, little man.” I open the back door of my jeep and toss the bags of lettuce in the front.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, climbing into his seat.

I sigh, watching his little hands pull the strap down over his shoulder and then struggle with the buckle. I reach across him and lend a hand, pulling away when I hear the telltale click. “Yes and no. Sometimes there are things we don’t say out loud.”

No point in beating around the bush.

I round the vehicle and hear his confused, “What do you mean?” through the open top.

“What I mean,” I start, getting into the vehicle and buckling myself in, “is that there are things we think in our heads or say to other people who we know and trust that we don’t share publicly. So like when you run into people like we just did, we might think about it, but don’t say it. It’s a bubble thought.”

“What’s a bubble thought?”

I feel like he’s missing my point here.

“Ever read a comic? Or see one in the newspaper? Your dad seems like the type of person who reads the newspaper.”

“Only on the weekends,” Luke supplies as I back out.

Figures.

“Okay, so comic book characters sometimes think things that they don’t say out loud. And that’s drawn as those little bubbles coming out of their head. So sometimes—bubble thoughts. That way, you don’t hurt anyone’s feelings when you say it out loud. Got it?”

“When you called my dad a woman hater, was that a bubble thought?”

Shiiiiittttttt.

Called out by a five-year-old.

I’m teaching a kid about bubble thoughts when I haven’t mastered the concept myself.

I swallow and peer back at him in the rearview mirror. “Yeah. It was a bubble thought. Sometimes they slip out on the best of us.”

“What do you do when that happens?”

I groan and stare hard at the road in front of me as we cruise down the main street toward the empty fields that head back to Wishing Well Ranch.

“You apologize,” I say, feeling like a heaping pile of trash for saying what I said. Made even worse by the knowledge that his son heard me.

“My dad will accept your apology. He likes you.”

“How do you know he likes me?” He’s mentioned this twice now, and honestly, I’m downright confused.

“Because he hasn’t said a thing about rolling around in the manure pile.”

I snort. Because that’s the bar. If Cade Eaton “likes” you, you’ll know because he won’t mention his preference for rolling around in horse shit.

Within minutes we’re on a back country road and our serious conversation turns to squeals of joy as the wise-beyond-his-years kid in the back seat tosses heads of fucking lettuce out the window and laughs hysterically.

I laugh too.