on the phone for me to get my shit together, which becomes even more apparent when she prompts, “Hello?
“Ah…yes,” I force through my saliva-filled throat. “I’m Holley Fields with the Tribune. I’m just…” I glance down at my notes, and in all of two seconds, I try to soak up as many bullet points as I can. “I’m…uh…calling regarding his entry into the Bachelor Anonymous Contest. He’s been selected, and I need to go over the details. Can you tell me when might be a better time to reach him?”
There’s a muffled shuffle and a muted yell on the other end of the line, and I draw my eyebrows together slightly. When a thud sounds in my ear, I pull my desk phone away from my face to look at it—as if the clunky plastic handset will tell me anything—and then put it back. I still hear a small scream in the background. What is happening over there? I swear to Jesus, this guy better not have a secret wife. I cannot redo this contest! The voting already took six weeks to process. Not to mention, the additional seventy hours of work I had to suffer through last week, just to choose the damn women!
“Did you say Holley Fields?” the woman asks, an edge to her voice that I can’t exactly place. All I know is she no longer sounds easy like Sunday morning.
“I did.” I said it quite well, actually, thank you very much, I congratulate myself. Eloquently, even. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
I smack my forehead. Now I sound like the Queen of England.
“Chloe,” she says simply before adding, “Chloe Brent. Jake’s daughter.”
His daughter?
Of course, it’s his daughter, you moron! His personal ad is titled Single Dad Seeks Juliet!
Oh hell. Suddenly, the reason I gave for calling seems a little too detailed. I sure hope she knew her dad was signing up to be part of an all-out dating meat market since I just outed him. Yikes. You’d think nearly ten years of journalism experience would’ve prevented that horrible mistake, but here I am, fumbling and bumbling my way through this call.
Oh well, at least it’s not a secret wife, right? Now, that would be bad.
“Ah, okay. Well…hmm…okay.” I pause, tripping over my own words. On a quiet breath, I sink my head into my hands and find the strength to try again. “Do you know when a better time would be to reach your dad?”
“He’s, uh…” She pauses almost long enough to confuse me before continuing. “Pretty hard to get ahold of on the phone.”
Sooo…how am I supposed to get ahold of this guy? Literally all other forms of communication are escaping me right now. How can someone be hard to get ahold of by phone? Isn’t it surgically attached to his hand like the rest of us?
“All right. Hard to get on the phone…” Holy hell, this conversation has turned remarkably uncomfortable. “Should I…email?
“He doesn’t really do that either,” she says, and I internally snort. What’s left? A carrier pigeon? Are they even still working, or did some union put a stop to that?
“Is he of this world? Or a goblin of some sort?” I find myself asking sarcastically before I realize I’m shit-talking to a stranger. A stranger who just so happens to be the daughter of this year’s Bachelor Anonymous, mind you. I slap a hand over my mouth and bang my head against the desk.
Thankfully, she laughs.
“My dad isn’t a goblin,” she says through a final snort. “He’s one hundred percent a human man, and he’ll be at Coronado Beach tomorrow morning. He’s literally there every morning, just after sunrise. A bit of a creature of a habit, I guess you could say.”
“Coronado Beach?” I repeat and mentally calculate that it’s only a short drive from my house. Ten, fifteen minutes tops.
“Yep. You can find him there.”
And, what? I’m just supposed to stumble around the beach for a couple hours until I find him? Pretty sure I’m going to need a meet point that’s a little more detailed than an entire freaking beach…
“Maybe I should just give him another call ton—”
“No!” she says quickly, and I squint, curious as to her intensity. “He won’t be home. But I’ll let him know that you called, and he’ll be expecting to see you tomorrow at Coronado Beach. Right across from the Hotel Del.”
“But he doesn’t even—”
The line goes dead before I finish the rest of my thought, “know what I