contacts and texted herself from his phone. “What’s your name?”
“Nate.”
Nate. It suited him, somehow.
“I’m Kris, with a K.” She returned his phone, her tone crisp and efficient. “You have forty-eight hours to decide. If I don’t hear from you by Monday at five p.m., the offer goes to someone else—someone who wouldn’t be foolish enough to let the deal of a lifetime slip through their fingers.”
“Princess, you’d have to offer me a lot more than $15K for this to be the best deal of my life.” Nate’s gaze dipped to her lips, the tiny movement charging his words with a sexual innuendo that sent an unexpected blast of heat through Kris’s body. His mocking smile reappeared. “Talk to you in forty-eight hours. Or not.”
He climbed into his car and drove away, leaving a fuming, strangely turned-on Kris in the parking lot.
Chapter Two
Nate Reynolds’s good mood evaporated the second he stepped inside his house. The booze-drenched air clogged his nostrils, and the familiar sight of his father passed out on the living room couch with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels clutched in his hand chased away any lingering amusement Nate felt after his conversation with the beautiful brunette from the parking lot earlier.
Kris.
She’d been a favorite of Alchemy’s male staff since she first showed up at the cafe a few weeks ago. She was a regular now, but her perfect hair and designer clothes screamed “spoiled princess,” which was why Nate had steered clear of anything resembling flirting. His coworkers could drool over her sultry looks and aloof haughtiness all they wanted, but uppity rich girls weren’t his type.
However, she’d turned out to be more intriguing than he’d expected—fiery and sharp-tongued, instead of dull and vapid like the few heiresses he’d hooked up with in the past. Kris’s extravagant five-figure offer didn’t hurt, either. Nate may not like spoiled rich girls, but he had no problem taking their money, and God knew his family needed the green. However, the idea of selling his body for cash—even if he was only pretending to do so—caused his stomach to churn with nausea.
Nate had forty-eight hours to decide whether his values were worth the roof over his head.
I’ll deal with it later.
He had more pressing issues at hand—namely, getting his father up to his room and airing out the sickly smell of whiskey before Skylar returned home.
Michael Reynolds grunted and shifted in his sleep. He’d been a handsome man once, with the same sharp bone structure and olive complexion as his son, but age, grief, and alcohol had transformed him into a shell of the person he used to be.
A familiar cocktail of resentment, resignation, and weariness bubbled in Nate’s veins as he opened all the windows and spritzed the air with a lemony-smelling spray Skylar had bought on their last Walmart run. He tidied up the things Michael had knocked over—the umbrella stand in the tiny entry hall, the framed picture of a ten-year-old Nate and four-year-old Skylar on the side table—before attempting to pry good ol’ Jack from his father’s hands.
Michael stirred. Nothing kicked his ass into gear like the threat of being separated from his precious alcohol.
“Nate?” His bleary, bloodshot eyes blinked up at his son. “Whaddaya doing here?”
“I live here,” Nate said, voice clipped. “Is this what you’ve been doing all day?”
Michael was supposed to be job hunting. He’d gotten laid off from his construction gig for showing up to work late and drunk, and he’d said he would find another job soon.
That had been two months ago.
“I sent out a few resumes,” Michael mumbled. “Don’t know what happened after that. Must’ve fallen asleep.”
Nate exhaled a controlled breath. His patience with his father had run out a long time ago. He understood Michael’s heartbreak—he and Skylar battled the same grief. No matter how many years passed, the sadness lingered in their household like a dark fog that wouldn’t go away.
But life didn’t stop moving because you were sad, and Michael had two children to take care of. Since he’d traded in his responsibilities for the oblivion only found in a bottle, Nate had taken over as de facto head of the household.
He was twenty-three, but he acted more like a father to Michael than Michael did to him.
“Shower and get dressed. Skylar will be home soon,” Nate ordered.
He knew when to pick his battles. There was no use pushing Michael on the job hunt when he was like this—he’d just stare at Nate with that empty look in his