7

Call him, you stubborn jackass.

Slumping against the side of the torn up sofa, Miguel looked around at the puppies, who were playing with the fluffy down they’d pulled out of it. Then at the toddlers who had their hands behind their backs, trying to hide the permanent markers they’d found and drawn all over the walls with. And each other.

For the past week he’d been calling different places and schedule interviews with dog trainers, but very few would work with the triplets, and the two who’d said they would…he didn’t feel comfortable with. One had hedged on providing references. The other snapped at Theo within the first five minutes of meeting the boys, simply because the child was playing with his Legos rather than paying attention to his ‘initial assessment’.

Hiring people at his sister’s company—his company now, but he still couldn’t think of it that way—was simple. He had the management she’d established to present him with the best candidates. Assuming that experience would help him find someone for the boys and the puppies had been arrogant of him.

He hadn’t even hired the household staff. Or the nanny. This was more difficult than looking at what kind of degrees a person had or whether they’d been a competent intern. He’d have to deal with whoever he hired when he wasn’t at the office. In his home.

So would his nephews, which made the decision even harder.

Every time he thought back on the night he’d met Ward he cursed himself, because the man had been perfect. Too perfect. As in, Miguel wasn’t sure he could remain detached and interview him like he would anyone else. He’d been trying to get up the nerve to call the man. Apologize for going into his disgusting ‘upper class’ defensive mode.

Using that when he was dealing with the rich, cis-het boys at school was one thing. It had gotten him through the worst after he’d come out as gay. His family was old money, had a lot of connections, and reminding his peers of that shut down the cutting whispers and blatant ignorance fast. Others weren’t so lucky, but he’d tried to use his influence to make the whole campus more accepting, even if only on the surface.

After what Ward had done for him and the boys in bringing Boots home, he’d deserved better.

But how the hell could Miguel deliver his apology and also say ‘You were right. I need your help,’?

There was no way he could pull it off. But he couldn’t delay the call any longer. He just had to hope he somehow found the right way to express how sorry he was. That he could be humble, no matter how Ward responded.

And pray he hadn’t fucked up too bad.

How attractive Ward was didn’t matter. If the man still wanted to work with him, he’d be professional. Ignore the way his deep voice made his stomach clench. The way his strong jaw and muscular body and intense presence made him feel. How looking into those intriguing, dual colored eyes made it difficult to maintain his composure, because losing himself in them would be so easy. Each eye was part blueish green, and part golden-brown. Miguel had never known anyone with central heterochromia, but he imagined those eyes would have the same impact, no matter what color they were.

Across the room, Alvin dropped to his knees then crawled up to Miguel, big brown eyes full of remorse. He leaned against Miguel’s thigh and let out a soft, teary sound.

Miguel pet his soft, red curls. “Shh, it’s okay, buddy. I know you didn’t mean to make such a big mess. I should’ve been here.” He pressed his eyes shut. He’d gotten wrapped up in research for a term paper during their nap and hadn’t heard the boys slipping out of their room. “Let’s finish picking up the fluff so the puppies don’t eat it. Then I’ll figure out how to get you clean.”

Big tearful eyes gazed up at him and he pressed a kiss to his nephew’s forehead.

I can do this. I have to.

But he couldn’t do it alone. He had to swallow his pride.

Which wasn’t that hard by the time he’d finally gotten the puppies’ room tidied up and the boys as clean as possible.

Sitting on the sofa in the big living room, with all three boys asleep around him and the puppies at his feet, he finally got up the nerve to dial the number from the card Ward had left.

The voice that answered was just as rough and low and heart-stopping as Miguel remembered. With a hint of amusement he hadn’t expected.

“Hello?”

One word and Miguel was fifteen again, talking to his first crush and snatching his baseball cap to slip a note inside before tossing it back and running away. He was the boy who stuttered when his crush called him and gently said he was straight, but he hoped Miguel tried that clever move again because it was cute and he’d been flattered.

His neck heated as he remembered the black ball cap Ward had stuffed in his back jean pocket when he’d been here. Not that he’d do that again, but…well, technically he could.

“Miguel?” This time Ward’s deep voice held a question. No irritation, but enough of a nudge to get Miguel talking.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, sorry. I…I should have planned this better before calling.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. I don’t want a script.”

“I don’t have one, but that would be easier.” Miguel smiled when Ward responded with a soft laugh. Then he inhaled slowly. “I’ve been wanting to call you for days. You rescued Boots, helped with the boys, then stuck around and offered me support. The way I treated you was unacceptable. I’m sorry.”