Cutie and the Beast: A Roommates to Lovers Single Dad Romance (Cipher Office Book 3) Read online

  But once Trevor discovered weightlifting, he was hooked. He’s not as hard core as a bodybuilder would be, but he’s definitely found a new obsession in the three years we’ve been working together.

  I continue looking over my notes, planning out some new exercises for my various clients and classes. I’m so engrossed in my work, I don’t realize we’re open for business until I hear, “Beeeeeeeeast,” being yelled in my direction. That’s become my nickname in recent years, ever since I broke the gym record for pounds squatted. I had a plaque on the wall and everything for my accomplishment. It’s not there anymore—lost in the fire. Frankly, I’m relieved. It was a terrible picture.

  Looking up, Trevor is headed my direction, a smile on his face. Briefly, I wonder how he got past Gina without his face being ripped off for being a morning person.

  “What’s up, Trevor?” I stand up and walk around the desk, greeting him with a quick handshake and pat on the shoulder. “You ready to get started?”

  “Hell yeah. I’ve had a protein shake and a glass of water. I’m pumped to shred these muscles. It’s back day, right?”

  “Yep. I wanna go old school with you today. No fancy equipment, just using your body weight. Lots of reps.”

  “Sounds great.” I knew he’d say that. The good thing about Trevor is I could tell him we’re going to scale a building for our workout and he’d be willing to do it. The bad thing about Trevor is I could tell him we’re going to scale a building for our workout and he’d be willing to do it. Two sides. Same coin.

  “All right. Head on over to the treadmill to warm up, and I’ll get everything ready to go. Meet me in the weight room when you’re done.”

  He nods and trots over to the machines, greeting everyone he passes. Most of them still look like they haven’t woken up yet. Such is the curse of early morning workouts.

  I, on the other hand, head over to the designated workout area to grab some kettlebells. I wish I had another cup of coffee to keep me energized, but I don’t have time to worry about it anymore.

  The day is just beginning. Time to get a move on.

  Chapter Two

  ELLIOTT

  “What in the world is this?”

  I cringe and pretend not to hear her, knowing exactly what my mother is talking about. It’s been a point of contention for a while…

  The coffee table in the living room.

  She has one of those formal tables that opens up to an oval shape, but when you fold the sides down, it’s a rectangle. For whatever reason, my mother, Rose Donovan, wants the sides up. Always up. No ifs, ands, or buts… leave the sides up!

  Yes, it makes the table bigger and looks lovely, but unfortunately, I have an eight-year-old daughter who loves to use that coffee table as her dance partner. In particular, she uses it to support her body weight whenever she has the desire to kick her heels up in the air. Fifty pounds of partial handstand is not what the table was designed to withstand, and no matter how many times she has gotten in trouble, Ainsley never learns. Or, as we parents call it, she has “selective learning”.

  She has been grounded from the living room, grounded from the television, sent to her room, and lost dessert. I’ve even gone as far as to take her favorite Jojo Siwa bow away from her, which created a massively dramatic crisis. But even the thought of not having her giant hair accessory doesn’t seem to stop this kid when the music moves her.

  So, to ensure the table doesn’t break while I find which disciplinary measure will work with my child, I’ve taken to folding the table down. Seems logical, right?

  Not with my mother.

  Don’t get me wrong, I understand her position. We invaded her space three years ago when I ended up in a nasty divorce and needed to get back on my financial feet, so it’s up to us to be respectful of her space and her things.

  But again, Ainsley is eight. She’s lived here since she was five. While I very much feel like a guest in this house, my daughter doesn’t. This is just her home where she lives with her mother and her Gigi, and where all her kid-related learning happens—including unintended natural consequences like broken tables.

  “I don’t want these wings down. I want them up,” Mom passively aggressively says toward the floor, pretending to be muttering under her breath as she puts the table back in a different position. But I’m fully aware these words are actually for my benefit. “Honestly. I don’t know why people can’t leave my things alone.”

  I give up. She’ll keep bitching if I don’t explain my reasoning. She’ll probably keep bitching anyway, but at least she can tell her friends all about the fight we got in about it. They love tsking and consoling her about how unfortunate it is that her empty-nest phase was invaded by her ungrateful daughter and grandchild. Or at least that’s how I imagine their conversations go. The reality is probably much milder, but when you live in a constant state of negativity, those anxious thoughts make me hyperaware of every little thing we do wrong. Even when I’m not wrong, just preventing.

  “I put them down, Ma,” I call from the kitchen while slicing up some cantaloupe. It was a little overripe when I picked it up at the store earlier but not too ripe to eat. Considering it’s the closest we’re going to get to summer fruit in the dead of winter, I’ll make the sacrifice. “You know Ainsley keeps putting all her weight on that table.”

  “Well, I wish you would get her to stop.”

  I take a deep breath, trying to control my emotions. “I know,” I mutter. “You remind me of it daily.”

  Mom comes into the room and begins rummaging around for the Tupperware lid while I continue my knife work. It’s disturbingly therapeutic every time I have to bang the blade into the juicy flesh. Either I need to move out soon, or I need to be locked up. “Honestly, Elliott. I wish you would leave my things the way I want them. This is my home, and I should be the one who decides how the furniture is placed.”

  “I understand that, and I’m trying to be sensitive to it. But you can’t have it both ways, Mom. I’m working with Ainsley on being respectful of your furniture, but I’m also trying to keep it from breaking until she finally learns.”

  Mom sighs and puts the lid next to the dish I’m filling. “I know you are, honey. And I don’t mean to sound negative.”

  I love my mother. I do. The minute she found out my marriage was falling apart, she offered up her home. No matter what part of Chicago you live in, this is an expensive city and being a single mom is no easy financial task. Especially if you’re in your early forties and have been out of the work force for ten years. The middle-aged discrimination thing we were warned about? I’m finding it to be true. It doesn’t matter that I have almost a dozen years in social services work. I’m not the prime candidate. And the jobs I have been offered? Well, let’s just say I can’t provide for a child on twenty-five grand a year. Especially in the summer with exorbitant childcare costs.

  So yes, I’m grateful my mom opened her home to us, but we are all at the point where we need some space. And we need it sooner rather than later.

  “I know, Mom,” I reply, gathering up all the cantaloupe rinds while she holds the trash can next to my workspace so I can toss them in. “But I’m really trying. I remind Ainsley constantly to keep her hands off the table, but she forgets. Would you rather be inconvenienced by putting the wings up when people come over? Or would you prefer it to break?”

  “I’d prefer neither, to be honest.”

  I bite my tongue from popping off with a sarcastic retort and settle on, “Again, I understand. But you’re not in a position to choose that yet. Hopefully soon.”

  Her eyes light up. “Oh, that’s right! Your interview is today. When is it?”

  “Um,” I glance at the clock over the stove. “I need to leave here in about forty-five minutes if I’m going to make it on time. Do you remember I need you to pick up Ainsley from school?”

  “Of course, I remember,” she says with a flick of her hand. “Ainsley wrote it on my calendar herself.”
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br />   I can’t even fight the smile at that one. While my mother and I have settled into a strained relationship over the last couple of years, she and my daughter have gotten much closer. I joke that they’ve become best friends, but in a way, it’s true. Gigi is the first person she wants to show her school artwork to. Gigi is the one she wants to take her swimming. And she must always, always sit next to Gigi at the dinner table. If nothing else, I love that about this time in my life. Those memories are priceless. Even if the bickering between us two adults is not.

  “I hope she used pencil this time.”

  “It was a pen. Which is still preferable to the time she used a permanent marker. No amount of white-out would fix the date on the other side. I’m still not sure if I was a little early or a little late to my doctor’s appointment the following week.”

  Snapping the Tupperware lid closed, I begin the process of cleaning all the sticky juice off the counter. It’s the last task left to complete before changing for my interview.

  I applied for a position in the childcare center of Weight Expectations, a local gym. The hours are okay—if I get it, I won’t go in until ten and I’ll leave at dinnertime every day—but I can take my lunch break to pick up Ainsley from school and bring her back with me since it’s only a couple of hours. The pay is comparable to jobs that don’t provide a childcare perk. Plus, there are benefits. Actual health insurance benefits. I haven’t had those since the divorce, so it was a pleasant surprise.

  Because nothing says middle age is coming like being excited to finally schedule your annual pap smear and mammogram.

  “Be happy you could see the time well enough to get there within the fifteen-minute range, so they still saw you.” I rinse the now-dirty washcloth under the warm water, anxious to get ready to leave. Thank goodness all I have to do is change and brush my teeth. Not that I need to dress up or anything; I don’t think they expect people working with children to show up in a pantsuit. At least, I hope not. “If the Sharpie had moved a centimeter to the left you would have been out of luck,” I joke, but Mom isn’t biting.

  “Seriously, Elliott. You weren’t destructive at all as a child. “

  Destructive is a bit of a stretch considering we’ve left nothing but normal wear and tear in our wake. But I’m honestly kind of surprised she doesn’t have plastic coverings over all her furniture, so I guess in her mind, it does seem like we tear everything up.

  “I don’t understand how she’s so different from you.”

  I shrug noncommittally even though her words actually sting. “I have a different parenting style than you do, Mom. I’m choosing the battles I think are important to fight.”

  “And my table isn’t an important fight?”

  And here we go again. The argument that will never die. I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised. The inability to let go has been a point of contention my entire life.

  Don’t get me wrong—my parents were actually fantastic when I was growing up. We went on family vacations and I did activities. We were involved in the community together, and it wasn’t uncommon for one of them to come have lunch with me at school.

  But what they never realized, and what I’ve never said, is I always felt like I was walking on eggshells around them. It wasn’t because I was afraid I would be abused; it was because I was always trying to be “good enough” for them. Critical words were common and negative talk was the norm.

  As a child, I didn’t realize anything was wrong. I was actively taught to respect my elders and that’s what I did. I don’t regret my respect for authority. Quite the contrary.

  But when I started seeing the way the negative talk affected Ainsley, when I really started paying attention to the look on her face when my mother would speak to her the same way, it finally clicked.

  That day I realized I needed to make an active effort to watch my own tone and not say positive things in a negative way. That’s not a slam on my parents. My parents were wonderful. But my job is to be a better parent than they were. It’s the way the world works. You build upon the knowledge of those before you.

  “I don’t know, Mom, but I don’t have time to discuss it now.” Drying my now-clean hands on the dishtowel, I quickly deflect. “I need to go get dressed so I can leave. I really want this interview to go well.”

  Interpret: I need to get some money so we can get out of there.

  I don’t say that, of course. Too many eggshells, even for this forty-something woman.

  “Me too, honey. Go,” she says kindly, genuinely excited for me to start rebuilding my life. She needs space as much as we do. “I’ll finish up in here, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

  I don’t bother pointing out to her I’ve already finished everything, opting instead to race up the stairs of the small brownstone we all live in. It’s the same house I grew up in all those years ago.

  But maybe with a little bit of luck, and this badly needed income, Ainsley won’t consider it her childhood home too. It’s time. We’re ready to make a fresh start.

  Chapter Three

  ABEL

  “Get it, Beast! Get it!”

  I blow my breath out as I push my body up, lifting myself plus the two hundred fifty pounds that balance on my shoulders. As I get to the top, the yelling begins again.

  “One more, Beast! One more!”

  I take three quick breaths and slowly lower myself back down to a squat position.

  Customer-wise, it’s slow at the gym right now, mostly because of the time of day. It’s after lunch, but before the end of the work day. Lots of older folks come in at this time, so the free weights are usually free. It’s the perfect time of day for me to get in my own good, hard workout, which I’m almost done with.

  This is my last squat. After this, I’ve got stretching, a quick shower, and then it’s off to get Mabel from school so I can spend the rest of the day focusing on my dad duties. But right now? Right now I’m working out all my stress.

  “Push, Abel! Go! Almost there!”

  I reach the top and feel some of the pressure come off my back as my fellow trainer and lifting partner, Joey, helps me get to the squat rack and put the bar back.

  As soon as it’s secure and the danger of me dropping the weights on us is no longer a concern, Joey slaps me on the back.

  “Nice job today, Abel. You haven’t pushed that much weight that easily in a couple of months.”

  I squirt some water in my mouth before answering. “I think all the life changes jacked up my body for a while. But I’m feeling more settled now. Maybe that’s it.”

  “Seriously,” he replies, tossing his towel into the bin as we head toward the stretching tables. “Harder to focus on training when you’ve been putting out so many fires for this long. And I don’t mean the kind that burn the gym down.”

  “Ha, ha,” I retort sarcastically. Joey is always trying to pun things up around here. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. Mostly, it doesn’t.

  “You wanna be on top or bottom today?”

  One of our regular Golden Girls takes a step back and looks at us, mouth agape. If she knew Joey was talking about who was going to stretch first, she wouldn’t be so shocked. But, of course, that’s why he phrases otherwise-innocent sentences the way he does.

  I punch him in the chest, making him lose his breath with an “oomph.” “What’d you do that for?” he complains.

  Setting my foot on the table, I push myself into a runner’s stretch and make a point of breathing deep. The shred of my muscles feels great, but so does pushing them to be more flexible.

  “I know you say things for the shock value, but it’d be nice if you don’t give someone a heart attack while I’m trying to get out the door.”

  Taking his sweet ass time, Joey finally gets into position to begin his own stretch. “That’s awfully selfish of you. You’d just let her lie on the floor with only me to revive her?”

  Rolling my eyes, I switch legs. “Must be nice to only have to thi
nk about what you and your fancy man-bun have to do every day.” I swipe at his hair, making him bat at my hands. He hates it when people touch his lovely locks, so naturally, I make a habit of doing it often and making commentary about it when I do. “But some of us have other responsibilities.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Little Miss Mabel.” He acts like he forgot, but he’s full of shit. My kid and my friend have this weird relationship where she’s always trying to punch him in the junk and he always thinks it’s hilarious. I don’t get it, but hey, my girl is perfecting her kick-ass self-defense moves on someone other than me, so I’ve got no complaints. “Have you taken her to a bar yet? She’d be a total babe magnet.”

  I roll my eyes and consider messing with his hair again. “I’m not using my kid as a pawn to get laid.”

  “Your loss. When my nephew was a baby, I would get numbers from the hottest chicks anywhere I went. It was awesome.”

  “Did you tell them he was your nephew, or did you pretend you were a poor single dad?”

  He shrugs and switches legs. “I can’t keep someone from making assumptions.”

  “That’s because you’re a dick.”

  “Maybe. But I’m a dick who got some action.” He gestures for me to climb onto the table and lie on my back for partner-assisted stretches. Looks like he decided for us.

  Stretching my leg up, Joey leans into the back of my knee and pushes, making sure to support my rest of my leg.

  We take a solid fifteen to stretch, which is not as long as we should be doing it, but I’m running out of time quickly. In fact, I barely make it through my shower before it’s time to head over to the school for pickup.

  In my haste to not be late, I barrel right into a woman coming through the front door.