Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)

Auditioning for Duck Dynasty? I mean...I know it’s the offseason but God almighty––for the sake of hygiene alone.

He wipes his brow with the towel, and when he opens his eyes, he’s staring directly at me. Even from across the room, they’re the iciest gray eyes I’ve ever seen, cold and unforgiving. A strange feeling sweeps through me. As if I just stuck my finger in an electric socket. The experience is not a pleasant one. I scowl. Then he scowls. Then he turns away. Ugh, this is not good. I’m feeling the heebeegeebees and slightly bummed at this inauspicious start.

A little at a time, I recall bits and pieces of news I picked up over the years. Shaw has a reputation for being closed off. He went from number one media darling when he was drafted, to Mr. Guarded in recent years. He’s been known to flip off hecklers and refuse autographs. Not a good look in the largest media market in the country. If he hadn’t won a Super Bowl for the Titans already and so beloved by the fan base, he would’ve definitely been run out of town by the ruthless New York media machine.

“Okay, the details. This job has an expiration date lasting ninety days.” Perfect’s voice brings a sudden halt to my musings. I can feel all the giddy excitement I was drunk on only a while ago bleed out of me. “For your services, you will be compensated a hundred thousand, provided all goes smoothly.”

“Did you just say one hundred thousand? For three months of childcare?”

“Yes,” he says with a completely straight face. And the maniacal spark is back in my eyes.

“With a stipulation, however. There will be three payments made. One at the end of each month––assuming you last. I mean, you remain in Mr. Shaw’s employ.”

Oh right, he’s difficult. For a hundred thousand, I could deal with it. Just as long as he didn’t marry me…and lie to me…and run a Ponzi scheme under my nose for five years.

“Agreed. When do I meet Sam?”

“Right now,” he informs me, rising from his chair.

Perfect leads me to a large upstairs bedroom with a playroom attached. A little boy with floppy, sandy brown hair is kneeling in front of an enormous Lego train set he’s meticulously assembling. When I walk over to him and sit down on the floor cross-legged, he glances up with large gray eyes that look somewhat familiar, before timidly returning his gaze to the messy pile of Lego pieces in between us.

“Did you do this all by yourself?”

Once again, he glances briefly at me. Then he shrugs and nods.

“Cool.” For the next twenty minutes, we don’t say another word. I search for pieces on the instruction manual and hand them to him while he assembles.

“All that’s left now is for you to meet Cal––I mean, Mr. Shaw,” says the hot guy that will thankfully not be my employer. “Have a seat and I’ll see if he’s available,” he adds once we’re back downstairs.

I sit there patiently for ten full minutes staring at the bare, ivory walls. Toes tapping, I clench my knees together and fight the urge to visit the bathroom as long as I can. Five minutes later, I finally cave and go in search of one. As I’m rounding a corner, I hear masculine voices. Sounds like an argument.

“No.” The voice is deep and smooth. It’s the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard and I don’t throw that word around casually. The kind of voice that spawned phone sex because this guy could get someone off by simply reciting the alphabet.

“What do you mean, no? Did a barbell fall on your head? We talked about this.”

“I mean no, find someone else.”

“Be reasonable for one fucking minute, Cal. She’s more than qualified, willing to work a temporary job, and I’m pretty sure Sam likes her.”

“Did Sam say something?” His voice is instantly softer, concerned.

“No, he didn’t have to. I saw it myself––he took to her.”

“Get her out of my house.”

Whoa…difficult? This guy is far from difficult. He’s a total, unmitigated jerk. The first doubts about how long I can last begin to creep in. How many others have there been before me?

“Listen, the last seven perfectly qualified candidates have quit within a week. We’re out of options,” Mr. Perfect asserts. Great. The odds are not in my favor.

“E––get that fucking cow out of my house now.”

In my mind, each word is spelled out separately and slowly, followed by a high pitch ringing in my ear.

Get. That. Fucking. Cow. Out. Of. My. House. Bzzzzzzz.

The son of a bitch didn’t even bother to whisper. He might as well have thrown a matchstick on an ocean of gasoline. All the resentment that has been festering beneath the surface for the past three years ignites in a blaze of glory. I don’t even take the time to think, I just react. Hundred thousand be damned. With my purse firmly tucked under my arm and my chin lifted, I make my way to the front door. As I pass the kitchen, I step into the doorway and wait.