Author's note:
Thank you very much for your response to chapter one – I truly appreciate the encouragement. This is a story about a consenting relationship between adults. Feedback is always welcome and gratefully accepted. Many thanks again to karaline for her patient editing and advice. And thank you again for reading!
*****
Buyer's remorse was real. Jane had lost more than one sale because of it and she was determined to prevent it from scuttling the biggest deal of her life. She'd gotten through Mike's front door and put down the groundwork for a productive and hopefully life-saving relationship. Now the hard work started.
Dressing for her first day of work was more challenging than usual. Mike would be working her hard – she had no doubt about that – so a meticulous face and wardrobe wouldn't be practical. A full day of housework in heels would be excruciating. But based on how they'd left things on Friday there was no question that sex wouldn't be far from his mind. Or hers.
He'd asked – commanded, actually – that she wasn't to wear panties, so he clearly planned a peek or a feel, and that implied a skirt. Maybe even a short one. It surprised her how eagerly she was anticipating his advances. Well...perhaps it wasn't that unexpected; the sex had always been great, back before everything had gone south. And despite all bad blood between them, the spark was still there.
After a lot of careful thought she decided to change things up and go with skin-tight, black yoga pants and a form-fitting, pink tank under a baggy, gray sweat-top that draped to mid-thigh. Plain cotton socks and sneakers. Comfortable to work in, flirty and entirely appropriate around a kindergarten-aged kid. Even without the panties.
**
Monday morning with Mike and Nessa she played it very low-key. Polite and reserved, she arrived at seven-thirty sharp and was formally introduced to a shy but endearingly curious Nessa, whose wide, brown eyes held more questions than her mouth seemed willing to ask.
Then Mike presented Jane with 'the list', a detailed rundown of the chores he'd assigned to her that day. He handed her the folded sheet of paper without preamble or apology, gave her the spare key to his apartment, then hustled Nessa out the door. Jane had offered them a ride but he declined.
Well, he'd left her a key; that had to be a sign of budding trust, right?
Standing alone in the front hall of the apartment she opened the paper and scanned her task list for the day. Laundry, including bed sheets. Bathroom. Nessa's bedroom cleaned and dusted. Groceries – he'd left money for them on the kitchen table. The expected dinner menu was laid down in meticulous detail; Jane remembered that training for a fight required a specialized diet. Dishes after dinner, then a complete clean and disinfect of the kitchenette.
He was going to work her hard, as she expected. And although Jane wasn't looking forward to the coming weeks of domestic servitude, she was buoyed by the knowledge that the age-old principle of reciprocity would work in her favour. She'd work her ass off and in return he'd feel an obligation to reply in kind. The harder she worked for him, the more beholden to their agreement Mike would become. Bye-bye buyer's remorse. Every salesperson was part psychologist.
She tossed the list aside, kicked off her sneakers and shed her coat. She had all day to finish the chores, but first she wanted to explore a bit. You could tell a lot about someone by their personal effects, and she needed to know everything there was to know about Mike and his surprise daughter. She started in the kitchenette, opening drawers and cupboards, checking the fridge and freezer.
She could clearly see a woman's influence in the kitchen utensils – Mike wasn't the type to buy a melon baller or tea infuser. There were cookie cutters in a variety of fun kiddie shapes. Did Nessa's mom enjoy baking for her daughter? That was useful to know.
The plates and cups were of the cheap bargain-brand variety but adorned with bright pink and purple floral patterns. Mike hadn't bought them; he would have chosen plain white. Further back in the cupboard there were baby plates, plastic bibs and infant bottles. Nessa was five years old, so why keep these around? Had her mom been hoping for a second child? Had Mike?
Nessa's mom had left her 'fingerprints' all over the kitchenette, but the fridge was all Mike's handiwork. No butter, no coffee, no cream. No soft drinks. No alcohol. No sugary or salty snacks. No frozen pizza. No hot dogs or condiments. Food was just another part of Mike's training regimen. Jane almost felt sorry for Nessa – nothing but depressing health food as far as the eye could see.
There were eight photos on the walls of the main room in addition to many pieces of Nessa's painted and drawn artwork. All the photos featured Nessa smiling with a woman who had to be her mother. Mom appeared friendly and honest but plain-looking, and it caused Jane to speculate about what drew Mike to this apparently unremarkable woman.
The only bedroom was larger than Jane had pictured but smelled musty. The white-painted walls were covered in messy, paint-and-crayon art pieces. A small, dirty window hid shamefully behind purple drapes. Nessa had a double bed with a few small stuffed horses and a dress-up doll. The thick comforter was girly and floral. There was a circular mini-trampoline in the middle of the room, and a tiny desk covered in paper, crayons and finger-paints. Just a single, child-sized chair at the desk. Nessa spent a lot of time playing alone, it seemed.
Like the main room, the walls of Nessa's room were hung with pictures of her mom, smiling and happy with Nessa as a baby and as a toddler.
The pictures supported a growing suspicion: Nessa's mom was dead. No mother would willingly abandon a happy life with her daughter. There wasn't much chance a mother could lose her daughter in a divorce, either. That almost never happened. Only death would break that bond.
Jane was surprised at how sorrowful that thought made her. Her sympathy for Nessa grew. No kid should suffer a loss like that. It wasn't fair. A good mother was a rare thing, after all. No one knew that more than Jane.
Mike obviously wasn't the girl's real father – he wasn't in any of the pictures, and he would have been dating Jane at about the time Nessa was born. So how had he ended up here, with the kid? What had happened in the five years since she'd last known him?
Too many unknowns made her uncomfortable; she could feel them lying in ambush waiting to blindside her at an inopportune moment. She'd have to keep her eyes open.
**
"No! You can't move like that; bishops can only move slanted," Nessa scolded.
"Huh. Well, where do you think I should move?" Mike asked, a puzzled expression on his face.
"Move like this," the girl said, picking up one of his black pawns and advancing it two squares.
The two of them were cross-legged on the floor, facing each other across a chess board. Jane was at the table peeling potatoes and looking up frequently to survey both father and daughter. They were an interesting pair.
The kid was impressive – still in kindergarten and already she knew the names of all the chess pieces and how they moved around the board.
Mike was impressive, too, but in a different way. He seemed to know how to make it absorbing and fun for Nessa, playing just well enough to create a challenge but dumbing himself down enough to give her confidence in her abilities.
Or maybe he really didn't know how to play chess.
The girl had all his focus; he wasn't playing with his phone or distracted by the TV. When she talked, he was listening. When she looked up, he was paying attention to her. When it came to the daddy stuff he was all business. Where had he acquired these parenting skills?
