Game Changer: A Single Dad/Nanny Romance (Change of Hearts Book 1) Read online

  I realize I’m a lucky son-of-a-bitch to have live-in help. There are plenty of single parents out there who struggle to manage a household and hold down day jobs with no help whatsoever. But I can’t help feeling the way I do.

  There are days I miss Becca so much. She was a hell of a mother to Caleb. Even though he wasn’t her biological son, and he came into this world under a cloud of indiscretion, she made the ultimate sacrifice to be his only true mother when Penelope, Caleb’s birth mom, gave up her parental rights when he was still a baby and Becca adopted him as her own.

  I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but marrying Becca was not one of them. The unfairness of it all is that Caleb will never know his true mother or know what it feels like to have both parents in his life, racks me with guilt every day.

  And Penelope will never be that person.

  She was a one-night mistake that had a lifetime of consequences.

  Lucas responds with a laugh. “Absolutely, bro. I’m here to help. How does eight tomorrow night work? How about that new place, Gravel, on Second Ave?”

  “Perfect, man. See you then.”

  I’m about to say goodbye when I hear a weird noise. I’d moved around the corner just for a second while I was on the phone to be out of earshot but still close enough to Caleb if something happened, but I became distracted by my conversation with Lucas.

  The sound coming from Caleb is alarming. I rush around the corner to find that he’s fallen on his right side and is convulsing.

  “Fuck,” I roar. “Luc, call 911. Caleb is seizing!”

  I drop the phone and fall to my knees alongside my son who is in a state of seizure.

  His little body is tense and quaking, his muscles spasming and twitching, his eyes rolled back into his head.

  The instructions given to me by his physicians and therapists at the onset of his condition immediately come to mind, as I thwart off the panic by recalling the steps required to handle this emergency. I grab a throw pillow from the couch, hoisting his head gently with my hand and sliding it under his head, keeping him on his side so he doesn’t choke on any spittle or vomit.

  It punches a hole in my gut to see his little limbs seize and quake like this, turning him into an immobile statue and me into a helpless father. When we first came home from the hospital after the accident, the doctor’s prepared me for the worst and the inevitable. Seizures are common in children who’ve had traumatic brain injuries, yet they couldn’t tell me when or what might trigger a seizure. It was anyone’s guess what could bring one on or when they might happen.

  We’ve been lucky because he hasn’t had one in the last six months. As he’s grown older, the frequency has declined. The very first one he had happened two weeks post-accident, and was mild, but caught me off guard, extremely uncertain how to remain calm when my son was seizing uncontrollably. It was alarming, to say the least.

  Since that time, he’s experienced four different episodes, each one in varying degrees of seriousness. There is no rhyme or reason and no predictable pattern to what might prompt them, but I’ve been keeping a journal of when they occur and trying to pinpoint anything of statistical relevance.

  All I can do is ensure he’s lying on his side, with his head protected and ensure there’s nothing obstructing his mouth or any hard objects in his way that might cause him more harm. I hold his head, whispering words of assurance to my son as I wait for the paramedics to arrive.

  “You’re gonna be fine, Caleb. Daddy’s here and loves you. You’re doing great. I’m so proud of you, buddy. You’re getting so smart and learning so much every day. You amaze me, Caleb. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  Leaning over my young son’s quaking body, I plant a kiss on the top of his head, sweeping the now sweat-drenched hair from his forehead, and close my eyes against the pain of seeing my son in this condition. And I worry.

  I worry that someday this will happen when I’m not around. That it will happen when he’s at school and the kids won’t understand it and will tease him and make fun of him. They’ll be cruel and mean because they’re kids and Caleb will be different than them.

  So many worries enter my head as the blaring sounds of an ambulance become louder and louder in the distance the closer they get and they’re soon right outside my house.

  I can see the lights flashing from the front window from my spot on the floor and wave them in as they knock and announce their arrival.

  “We’re in here,” I say, directing them into the house. “I think it’s near the end.”

  Caleb slowly comes around, his big blue eyes opening wide, as tears flow down his flushed cheeks. He blinks at me with no understanding of what’s happened, or who the two paramedics are at his side, but I comfort him with my hand on his arm as they take his vitals.

  “You’re okay, Caleb. You just had a seizure. You’re okay now. The paramedics are just going to check things over and make sure you didn’t hurt yourself.”

  As the aides take his vitals and ask me questions, Caleb begins to cry out of fear and I know exactly how he feels. My adrenaline has slowly worn off and I’m trembling and exhausted. Just like when I used to play ball, the adrenaline is the boost that drives you to win and to push through the fear of failure. But once that rush of excitement and anxiety wears off, you come crashing down in the inevitable freefall.

  That’s when only sex, or a fight, or a very stiff drink can alleviate the aftershock.

  And I’m not in the position to have any one of those at the moment.

  12

  Brooklyn

  It’s a little after midnight as I unlock and enter the front door, finding the house interior is dark and quiet as I walk inside.

  I left Peyton a little while ago at the block party listening to a live band with a couple of our classmates we’d run into earlier in the evening. We’d known Jake and Conor since our sophomore year and although they are great guys and I know Peyton hooked up in the past with Jake, I’ve never had any interest in Conor. He’s asked me out on multiple occasions, all of which I’ve declined.

  But tonight after a few beers in the beer garden, he got a little handsy, prompting me to take my leave.

  As I softly toe off my sandals and pad into the kitchen to get some water, I pull out my phone to use as a flashlight. It’s then that I notice I have seven queued texts and two missed calls. My heart is in my throat with alarm as I scroll through the texts and notice they are from Garrett.

  To my utter horror, a string of them lights up across my screen, one after another.

  Urgent! 911.

  In case you get home and we’re not there, taking Caleb by ambulance to Children’s Hospital.

  In the ER now waiting.

  Still waiting.

  Hello? Brooklyn, are you getting these?

  I hate to ask, but can you pick us up? No car. Brought here by ambulance.

  NM. Home now.

  Oh shit. My heart sinks down to my toes as I read and reread them, and the urgency involved in them. They were all sent within a three-hour period. A panicky sickness sloshes around in my stomach and I want to heave at the distress that I can feel through these messages.

  Oh my God, I’ve failed them already in my first month on the job. Garrett tried notifying me for over three hours and never heard back from me. He is going to think I’m the most unreliable nanny in the world. He’ll never trust me again.

  I wasn’t intentionally ignoring my phone, but it was so loud at the block party, with voices of the crowds, singing and live music, I just couldn’t hear my phone after I put it in my purse once I met up with Peyton. And because of that oversight, I’ve fallen down on the job.

  My shame and panic have distracted me until the clank of a glass against the table grabs my attention. Clutching my heart, I gasp loudly, whirling around to see a dark, imposing figure at the table.

  “Garrett!” I practically wail, rushing to the table and dropping to my knees next to his chair without thoug
ht.

  I touch his thigh, my hand cold against the heat of his leg. His muscle flexes and tenses under my palm.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry,” I repeat, unsure of what else I can say.

  “Where the hell were you? Why didn’t you respond?” His voice is razor-sharp, like a crack across the face with a palm and his eyes flash dark. “I tried for hours, Brooklyn.”

  The scent of bourbon or whiskey fills the small space between us, giving me reason to believe this isn’t his first drink.

  Of course, he would have a drink. Who wouldn’t under that level of stress? He must’ve been out of his mind with crazy worry about Caleb. And he was alone and had no one else to go with him or be by his side for support.

  I lift the phone in my shaking hand as if its presence clears things up and provides evidence to exonerate me. “I know. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t hear anything. I didn’t even think to check until I got home.”

  He bristles with anger. “Jesus Christ, Brooklyn. I was out of my fucking mind with worry. Not only was I worried about my son, but I had to wonder why you weren’t responding and if you were in a ditch somewhere or died in some fiery car accident.”

  Tears prickle at the edge of my eyes as I hear the pain and panic laced through his words and my body slumps to the floor, hand still gripping his leg. His own hand suddenly lands on top of mine, tentative at first, but then squeezing hard, as if to emphasize how much this ordeal cost him.

  I look up into his face with pleading eyes, the words tumbling out of my mouth as the tears stain my cheeks. “Please tell me Caleb is okay. Is he home now? Is he asleep? Can I go see him?”

  I begin to stand, but his grip on my wrist and his authoritative command keep me rooted there.

  “Stay,” he demands. “I’m not done with you yet.”

  I gulp. Here it comes. This is it. Garrett’s patience with me is gone and he’s going to fire me right now.

  What will I do? I need this summer job and the hands-on experience for grad school next year. And I’ve already developed such a bond with Caleb and care for him so much, I don’t want to leave him. There’s so much more progress that can be made and I know I can help him if I have a little while longer.

  Garrett gets to his feet, towering over me as I lift my chin to look up at him. There’s an electric current crackling between us, made up of fear, frustration and something else entirely. Something dark and forbidden.

  I wet my lips and swallow as he pulls me up to stand. Garrett steps into me and I instinctively back up. Glancing down, I see his palm still clamped around my wrist, feeling my blood rush to the site where he holds me. I’m rooted to the floor, unable to move further, my back now up against the kitchen wall.

  His voice rasps as his eyes volley between my eyes and my mouth. My lungs drag in the air that doesn’t seem to circulate or oxygenate. I’m literally breathless. I force out a gasp as our bodies physically collide and his voice cuts through the silent darkness.

  “Do you know what you did to me, Brooklyn? You made me fucking worry about you.”

  My breath is caught in my throat. My senses suddenly overwhelmed with everything Garrett. His smoky, bourbon scented-breath, the hard resistance of his muscular thigh positioned between mine, and the empty ache inside me that needs to be filled.

  “I don’t want to care about you.”

  My nipples pebble with desperation and need. In need of his touch. His kiss. His body.

  His murmur is so low it’s barely audible. “But I do.”

  He’s a breath away from me, our eyes locked in some sort of battle of wills. A battle to hold out. To not give into this contagious energy between us. Unable to hold off any longer, I throw my arms around his neck, stretching up on my tiptoes, as my heart beats so hard it could smash through my ribs.

  My hands coast over the ropey muscles in his neck, staring into his eyes that have turned dark and heavy with arousal.

  “Don’t,” he hisses, his gaze latched onto my parted mouth, but I don’t listen.

  Our lips collide in a hungry, desperate kiss. My lips part and his tongue slips into my mouth, demanding something my body is eager to give.

  The groan that escapes his throat fills me with such hungry need. As if he feels the same way, one hand slides down the curve of my waist and behind, grabbing my ass to tug me closer. The fullness of his erection presses snugly in the cleft of my shorts where I’ve come alive and hot with want.

  Garrett’s other hand cups my jaw, tilting my head so he can deepen the kiss. I clutch at his neck to give myself more leverage. To take what I want from him. To give him what he needs.

  I’ve never experienced a kiss this passionate or desperate before. Garrett kisses me as if I am the air he needs to breathe. The sustenance he requires to live.

  Our kiss deepens as I part my mouth wider, to allow his tongue to roam free, as he licks and sucks every part of my mouth.

  Crazy, desperate desire awakens and sparks like a dormant sleeping dragon low in my belly. Our breaths turn into pants and turn ragged as he plunders my mouth and claims me.

  Needing friction where I’ve grown wet and desperate for release, I lift my leg, wrapping it haphazardly at his hip, as his arm drops to secure it in his hold.

  He breaks away, mumbling against my lips. “This is too good. You feel so fucking good.”

  A small helpless noise falls from my mouth as I clutch at his shoulders to find purchase, bucking my hips against his, the wet, sensitive flesh underneath my panties seeking out and demanding more friction.

  All I can think about is getting Garrett’s hands on my naked body. Having him slide his cock inside me and taking me right here, against the kitchen wall. Letting him have me as a way of slaking his need and finding relief inside me. I want to give that to him because in doing so, I’ll get it in return.

  Something broken inside him speaks to something desperate to help inside me, complementing us physically and connecting us emotionally.

  I’ve wanted this generous, sexy, devoted man since we first met. That first day when he single-handedly cleaned up the mess with his shirt and held his son in his arms.

  I want to fix what’s broken in his life. Repair the loneliness that has deconstructed this once great ball player.

  Moving my hands up to his head, I spear my fingers through his short, soft strands, tugging and eliciting a grunt of approval.

  “I-I want you inside me. I want to make you feel good.”

  I don’t know what happens, but one second his hands are roaming my bare leg and the next thing I know, my feet have hit the ground, my arms are left dangling at my sides and Garrett has taken two gigantic steps away, panting like he’s just won in OT, and glaring at me as if he just learned I had the Ebola virus.

  He’s retreating. His face turns white, his mutinous glare turning into a scowl.

  No, no, no. Not yet.

  His gaze hardens on me with an accusatory look that fills me with shame as he rakes a hand through his messed-up hair.

  “No. This can’t happen. I’m going to bed.”

  Before I can even work my mouth open to say ‘wait,’ Garrett’s grabbed the bottle of booze and his glass and in three long strides, is halfway down the hallway to his bedroom, where the soft click of the door is the only indicator that the night is over.

  Leaving me alone and questioning all my morals.

  13

  Garrett

  Rolling over in my sweat-drenched sheets, I’m careful not to jostle the 40-ton boulder that is my aching head and stare blurry-eyed at the clock and then the photo on the bedside table.

  Ten-thirty a.m.

  I’ve slept in when I should be out taking care of Caleb.

  The photo of Caleb is pre-accident, taken two years ago, just before the accident on Mother’s Day, when Caleb was two and still in diapers, running around like a maniac. Becca and Caleb had flown out to see me in LA that weekend while I was there for a game against the Lakers and w
e’d gone out to Laguna Beach. The picture is the two of them out on the beach making a sand castle, happy smiles, and sand for miles.

  There are so many mistakes I’ve made in my life, having Caleb and fighting for him was not one of them. And marrying Becca wasn’t either. She took on the role of mother to my son without batting an eyelash and was a natural, unlike his birth mother, Penelope. Caleb loved Becca something fierce and lit up anytime she was around. I don’t blame him. She was an angel.

  Or, she is an angel.

  Although I’d made a life-altering choice the night I slept with Penelope, and it caused over a year of heartache and legal battles, the day Becca adopted Caleb as her own was the best day of our lives. And for a little while, our life was picture perfect, just like this photo.

  But then the accident happened. Caleb’s needs came first. I had to end my ball career and find an alternative career. And then the letters, texts, and calls began. Penelope wanted back in.

  I wasn’t nervous at the onset or overly concerned about Penelope. She was unstable, yes, but I didn’t think she would have the funds or the desire to go back to court. She’d originally voluntarily given up her rights – for money – but it wasn’t a bribe. It was all done through the legal process. The initial lawyer on the case told me I had nothing to worry about.

  When I moved to Phoenix, that’s when things started to get a bit dicier. Penelope became a little more aggressive in her attempts at wanting to see Caleb again. She’d claimed to have changed and cleaned up her act, realizing she missed her son.

  Per my attorney’s advice, I didn’t respond to any of her attempts. No sense opening the door a crack only to get it kicked open.

  Slowly I stumble out of bed and lumber to my bathroom, turning on the shower before taking a piss. My balance is a little compromised from last night’s binge, the bourbon seeping out of my pores.

  I sigh loudly as I step under the hot deluge of the shower, scrubbing a hand over my face, hoping it’ll relieve the tension and erase the memory of that kiss last night with Brooklyn.