Uppercut {a pedro pascal au}

two

Maisy

From the gym, I head home to pack up my wardrobe and essentials.

I try not to overthink this whole situation. I'm just helping this handsome-looking man, nothing else. And besides, this is my opportunity to be spontaneous for once in my life.

I fill two suitcases then take an Uber over to Pedro's.

The car pulls up by the curb of a three-story renovated brownstone in Tribeca. I pay the driver and climb out, spotting Pedro sitting on the steps holding what I presume is a baby monitor.

When he sees me, he leaps to his feet. I struggle with my suitcases and he comes over to help. "Thanks," I mumble sheepishly.

"No worries." He shoots me a warm smile over his shoulder as he leads the way inside. He holds the heavy mahogany door open and ushers me inside. "Go ahead."

I enter and notice how tidy everything is. Peeking past the foyer, his home is spacious but not empty. Sure, there are telltale signs of a toddler living here—a play mat here and a stack of building blocks there—but for the most part, he keeps his space neat.

I take off my shoes and place them by the end of the row of sneakers, mostly New Balances. Footwear he can easily put on. Dad shoes. A smile lifts on my lips at my conclusion.

"Thank you, Maisy. You're really saving my ass by watching my son," he says, and he sounds genuinely grateful. "As soon as the agency finds a replacement, you can go back to your big plans," he promises.

My big plans of wallowing in bed and regretting my life choices? I'd rather not.

"That's okay," I give him a smile. "Think this will be better for me than doom-scrolling and bed-rotting all summer."

"One piece of advice; enjoy those summers while you still can," he tells me, winking. "Let me show you around."

I hum and he rounds me and leads me further into his apartment. He faces me, walking backwards. "Malakai's room is on the second floor. I'll let you explore on your own when he wakes from his nap, but the main part of the house is this way." Hands in the pockets of his jeans—he changed out of his workout clothes, he nods towards the opposite side of the house.

I trail after him as he gives me a tour of the first floor. We pad barefoot across the hardwood flooring. "Living room, dining room, kitchen," he rattles off the open spaces as we pass them. The interior follows the same colour scheme—white, charcoal grey, navy blue and a pop of burnt orange on textiles. His kitchen is pine green with stainless steel appliances. The living room has a pillowy L-shaped couch and a nook for Malakai to play with a playpen and a basket of toys. A monstrous flatscreen television is built into a custom-made bookshelf system that takes up the entire wall.

"Why the big screen?" I tease him.

A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. "I like to make it an occasion when I watch a movie."

I scoff. "What movie do you watch that requires this many pixels?"

"Nothing mature-themed, if that's what you're getting at. More like The Big Lebowski. Blade Runner. The Gladiator, to name a few," he shrugs.

"Never seen them."

"Well, I have them on DVD so you can give them a watch when Malakai's sleeping." A beat of silence mushrooms us, and I use it to scan his book collection. He has a vast array, spanning from Dostoevsky to Daphne du Maurier.

"Let's go upstairs." We take the stairs to the third floor. "My room's up here," he motions to a closed door. "As is the guest bedroom. I got it all set up for you."