The Bench

By Jess K. Hardy

~Editor's Pick~

Public defender James has been in self-imposed dating jail since his divorce, but Noah, the gorgeous dad he met at the playground, has him considering parole. Their kids are best friends, they have a lot in common, and they’re both single. It’s almost too perfect, except for one tiny detail: Noah is straight.

City planner Noah’s terrible year started when his wife left him for their twenty-year-old neighbor. Ever since he met James though, things have been looking up. James is smart and kind and now Noah—whose only romantic experience with men was a brain-scrambling spin-the-bottle kiss in high-school—is utterly confused because he can’t stop thinking about him.

During playdates, sleepovers, and steamy sexting sessions, these sensitive and loving dads will discover even broken, uncertain hearts can still find love. When a dark family secret threatens Noah’s daughter, they’ll learn two dads are better than one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Publishing
• Release date: Jul 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9780369501943

Book preview

Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2020 Jess K. Hardy

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0194-3

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Devin Govaere

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to brave people risking it all for love. To Jacob, for your kindness and excellence in anatomy. And to Heather, because you have all the best stories.

THE BENCH

Jess K. Hardy

Copyright © 2020

Week 1: The Touch

James

Noah is kneeling in front of his daughter, tugging gently on her braided pigtails while she gripes, Why does Max get the swing? He’s had it all morning.

Sophie, peanut, he replies calmly, there’s an open swing right next to Max.

She stomps her foot, loose laces flopping indignantly over the sides of her black Chucks. That one doesn’t go as high. It’s not fair!

I get to my feet, about to step in and ask my kid to give Sophie a turn on the swing, when Noah holds out his hand, fingers splayed and palm facing me—the universal parenting I got this stop sign. I sit back down on the bench while he ties Sophie’s laces, turns her around, and sends her off toward the monkey bars with a soft nudge.

Life is rarely fair, Soph. I love you. Figure it out.

She looks about an inch from losing it, but then Max hops off the swing and races for the sandbox. Evidently the swing wasn’t the be-all and end-all of the five-year-old’s existence, because, without another word about the swing, she runs to join my son. 

Next it’ll be Max’s turn when he decides Sophie has the better shovel, I say as Noah takes his seat beside me on the bench. The scent of whatever soap he uses, something mild but piney and delicious, rises over the earthy smell of sand and the iron tang of the monkey bars.

Noah shakes his head, laughing quietly. Kids are fucking weird.

Oh, I don’t know, I say. If the only thing I could control in my entire universe was getting the good swing at the park, I’d probably be screaming and pounding the sand if I were in her position.

His lips do that thing they do when I say something he finds amusing. It’s like a smile and a frown at the same time. I see. So, in your opinion, her response was actually restrained?

I laugh at this. You’ve raised her well.

The kids are laughing now, and Noah is smiling at them, this tiny little dimple sinking into his right cheek. I have to ask him something, but I’ve dreaded it the same way a person might dread a root canal. You know you’ve got to do it. You know you’ll feel better once it’s done. But the actual act is supremely uncomfortable. I really don’t want to sound like some desperate weirdo. But I pretty much am a desperate weirdo, desperate for his friendship, his company, and for Max to be able to continue hanging out with Sophie. That’s the main reason, of course. The kids.

So, I say, drawing out the word, what did Jennifer say? About switching weekends?

Noah and I met on this bench a few months ago. I’d been separated from my husband for a year, and Noah split from his wife, Jennifer, six months prior after finding out she’d been cheating on him with their neighbor. We’ve been meeting at this park every other Sunday morning since, watching our kids play. Talking.

Only now my ex wants to switch which weekends we have Max due to scheduling issues with his work, which would put me and Noah out of sync and make my presence on this bench, when Noah will be here from this day forward, odd at best, creepy at worst. Kidless men and parks just don’t mix.

But I like Noah. He’s the first male friend I’ve made since I crawled out of a deep post-divorce depression. We have a lot in common. And he’s nice to look at, very nice, not that I’d ever tell him that. My days of crushing on straight guys are well and truly over. Totally. Completely over.

Then again, I’ve never had the guts to once ask Noah to hang out without the kids present, and I might be holding my breath really hard right now waiting for his reply. 

His strong, clean-shaven jaw clenches. She wasn’t happy about it. But when I told her I wasn’t happy she’d been fucking the twenty-year-old next door, she backed off.

She said yes?

He nods. It was surprising, actually. She’s been so fucking angry lately, just hating me like it’s her life’s work. Like she’s training for an ‘I hate Noah’ marathon. Which is complete and utter bullshit since it’s really my time to be hating her. She’s the one who barely spoke to me those last few months. She’s the one who cheated. And now, you know what she’s doing? She’s stealing my hate.

Hmm. Hate stealer, I mutter in solidarity.

He huffs this exasperated kind of laugh. Exactly! But, yeah, she said yes.

Suddenly, the sun seems to shine little bit brighter, the birds in the trees singing just a touch more sweetly. That’s great. Max will be thrilled.

His hand runs over his close-cropped blond hair, green eyes glinting in the sunlight like emeralds at the bottom of a river, emeralds a person might dive headfirst into rushing rapids just to get a closer look at. But that’s just an objective fact. He has nice eyes, and I appreciate nice things.

Yeah, Soph too. And me, he says, me too. Who else would listen to me bitch about my dumpster fire of a life? Without you I’d turn into one of those sad divorced men who talks to their cats.

I shrug, trying to play it cool while I pretend that my heart didn’t just hurl itself excitedly into my ribs because "me too. He said me too."

I talk to my cat.

I actually don’t have a cat, but if I did, you know, same, he admits with a sigh. Then he angles his body on the bench, turning toward me. Can I ask you a question?

Depends entirely on the question, I tell him, going for a friendly, playful smile and feeling like I nailed it when he smiles back.

The question will be, have you dated anyone since Pierce? Is this a question that’s suitable to ask?

Oh, I say dumbly. Dating talk is relatively uncharted territory for us, so the question catches me off guard. I did, once. It didn’t go well. Haven’t bothered since. How come?

What happened? With the date?

"We went out for drinks. He was fine. Nice enough. Good job, fantastic hair. But there was just nothing there between us, no spark. Then he tried to kiss me in the parking lot, and I didn’t want to kiss him back, which, like,