I Told My Kids to Stop Hiring Me a Boyfriend, Then My CEO Asked for a Second Interview

POV: Lena

I caught up with Adrian by the edge of the school parking lot, just before he reached his sedan.

The kids were waiting in our beat-up station wagon twenty yards away, Benji's face pressed flat against the glass as he watched us.

"Mr. Vale," I said, stepping between him and the driver's door. "Stop."

He paused, turning to face me. The morning wind tugged at his collar, but he looked as calm as if we were standing in an empty boardroom after hours.

"Ms. Bennett."

"This game ends right here," I said, keeping my voice low and firm. "Today was a massive misunderstanding. Owen and Chloe are five years old. They do not have the right to set up dates for me, and they certainly don't have the authority to schedule job interviews for a stepfather."

Adrian didn't argue. He didn't offer a patronizing smile or brush off my concern. He simply listened, his dark eyes steady on mine.

"I know what you're doing," I continued, crossing my arms against the chill. "You're humoring them because you think it's amusing, or because you're curious about the woman who runs community initiatives for your firm. But this is my real life. My children are vulnerable, and I will not let them get attached to someone who is treating this like a weekend novelty."

"I don't treat anything I do as a novelty," Adrian said evenly.

"Then walk away."

He held my gaze for a quiet, heavy beat. There was no defiance in his posture, just absolute clarity.

"If you tell me you want me gone, Ms. Bennett, I am gone," he said, his voice deep and completely steady. "I won't call your cell. I won't accept another invitation from your children. You will never see me outside the forty-second floor of Vale Tower again. The choice is entirely yours."

He waited for me to answer.

The harsh wind whipped a strand of hair across my cheek. I had the opening to shut it down forever. All I had to do was say the word.

"Tomorrow morning is canceled," I said. "Goodbye, Mr. Vale."

He gave a single, respectful nod. "Have a good weekend, Ms. Bennett."

He got into his car, closed the door, and drove away without looking back.

***

At seven-fifteen on Sunday morning, three sharp buzzes of our apartment intercom shattered the silence.

I jolted upright in bed, my heart hammering.

The kids were supposed to be asleep until eight. I threw on an oversized gray cardigan over my flannel pajama pants, shoved my feet into worn slippers, and rushed into the hallway.

Before I could reach the front door, the intercom buzzed again.

Chloe was already standing on her tiptoes near the lock, her hand reaching toward the brass latch.

"Chloe!" I hissed. "Step back from that door!"

She froze, looking at me with wide, innocent brown eyes. "It's the breakfast applicant, Mommy."

"What?" I stopped dead in the hallway. "What did you do?"

"I sent him the address," she whispered, twisting the hem of her nightgown. "From the teacher's emergency phone list on your phone while you were taking a bath last night."

My jaw dropped. "Chloe Bennett!"

I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open, fully intending to scream at the building's delivery courier.

Adrian Vale stood on our welcome mat.

He wasn't wearing a tailored Italian suit. He had on a charcoal crewneck sweater, dark denim, and clean gray sneakers. He looked taller in our narrow, dimly lit hallway, his broad frame nearly filling the doorframe.

In his left hand, he held two large brown paper grocery bags stamped with the logo of an upscale organic market.

He didn't make a move to step across the threshold. His feet remained firmly planted in the hall, respecting the boundary between the public hallway and my home.

"Good morning," he said.

I stared at him, my brain struggling to process the reality in front of me. "Are you out of your mind? I told you in the parking lot—"

"You told me that if you wanted me gone, you would tell me," Adrian replied calmly. "Then your daughter sent a message from your portal at eight-forty last night stating that the culinary evaluation was confirmed for seven-thirty sharp."

"She is five!"

"She provided an exact apartment number and a gate code," Adrian noted. He held out the two grocery bags, offering them forward without crossing the line. "However, the rule I gave you on Friday still stands. You have complete authority."

He looked directly into my eyes, unblinking.

"You can take the groceries and close the door," Adrian said quietly. "You can tell me to leave right now, and I will walk down the stairs. You can send me away."

I looked at the bags of food. Fresh milk, farm eggs, unbleached flour, fresh strawberries, and pure maple syrup peeked out from the top.

Behind me, soft footsteps padded across the floor. Owen and Benji appeared beside Chloe. Benji was clutching his stuffed dinosaur by one leg, his small tummy rumbling loudly in the quiet room.

"Is that the pancake man?" Benji whispered loudly.

Owen looked up at me, his eyes full of cautious, fragile hope. "Did he fail because he's early, Mommy?"

I closed my eyes, letting out a long, ragged exhale. If I slammed the door in his face, I would spend the rest of the day comforting three heartbroken toddlers who thought their mother was impossible to please.

"Take your shoes off at the mat," I muttered, stepping aside. "And do not make a mess in my kitchen."

Adrian’s expression didn't change, but something softened around his eyes. "Understood."

He stepped out of his sneakers, leaving them neatly aligned against the baseboard, and walked into our small galley kitchen in his black socks.

Within five minutes, the kitchen had turned into an interrogation chamber.

Adrian unpacked the groceries with crisp efficiency, placing butter, milk, and bowls on the laminate counter. He folded his sweater sleeves up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms and a simple titanium watch.

Owen pulled a stool up to the counter, armed with his notepad and a red plastic timer.

"Pancake batter must rest for five minutes," Owen announced, watching Adrian whisk flour and buttermilk in a stainless steel bowl. "That is standard procedure."

"Agreed," Adrian said, setting the whisk down. "Resting allows the gluten to relax and gives the baking powder time to activate."

Owen narrowed his eyes, jotting down a note. "Acceptable answer."

Chloe, meanwhile, leaned her elbows on the opposite counter, staring unblinkingly at Adrian's face.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked point-blank.

I almost choked on the glass of tap water I was pouring. "Chloe, stop."

Adrian didn't seem flustered in the slightest. "No," he replied, turning on the stove burner. "I do not."

"Why not?" Chloe pressed, tilting her head. "Are you mean to girls?"

"No," Adrian said evenly. "I work eighty hours a week building infrastructure and managing investments. It leaves very little room for personal companionship."

"Do you buy flowers?" Chloe asked.

"Only on appropriate holidays and significant milestones," he answered.

"Wrong," Chloe declared firmly. "You have to buy flowers just because. Even ugly ones from the sidewalk."

Adrian paused, considering her statement for two seconds before nodding once. "Noted. I will adjust the purchasing strategy."

Suddenly, a loud thump echoed from the corner of the counter.

Benji had climbed onto a dining chair and dragged the open carton of blueberries toward himself. Before anyone could stop him, he shoved a massive handful into his mouth, lost his balance, and slammed the entire plastic container directly into the hot, buttered skillet.

Dozens of blueberries burst on contact with the heated metal, sending purple juice and burnt butter splattering across the stovetop in a sizzling, smoking mess.

"Oh, no!" Benji wailed, freezing with blue juice smeared all over his lips and chin. "I broke breakfast!"

I lunged forward with a dish towel, my heart spiking with mortification. "Benji, step down right now! Mr. Vale, I am so sorry, he didn't mean—"

"Ms. Bennett," Adrian said smoothly.

He didn't flinch. He didn't look annoyed, disgusted, or overwhelmed by the chaos.

He calmly turned off the burner, slid the smoking skillet onto a cool back grate, and reached down. With one smooth, effortless motion, he lifted Benji off the chair by his armpits and set him safely on the linoleum floor.

"The breakfast isn't broken," Adrian said, crouching down so he was level with Benji's tearful face. "It's just an operational setback. We have another carton of fruit."

Benji sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Really?"

"Really," Adrian replied. He grabbed a paper towel from the roll and gently wiped the blue smear off Benji's cheek. "Go wash your hands. I'm restarting the griddle."

He stood back up, unbuttoned his cuffs to roll them higher, grabbed a sponge from the sink, and began scrubbing down my greasy stove without a single word of complaint.

I stood there by the refrigerator, the dish towel frozen in my hands, unable to tear my gaze away from him.

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen smelled like warm vanilla, melted butter, and sweet syrup.

Adrian served three perfect stacks of golden-brown pancakes, studded with fresh fruit and topped with butter. The children tore into them like little wolves, completely silent except for the scraping of forks against ceramic plates.

I sat at the end of the small wooden table, taking a bite of my own plate. The edges were crisp, the centers were light and tender, and the balance of sweetness was flawless.

It was, infuriatingly, the best pancake I had ever eaten.

When the plates were wiped clean, Owen set his fork down, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and pulled his notepad back into his lap.

"The panel has reached a conclusion," Owen said, tapping his pencil against the paper.

Adrian sat across from him, sipping black coffee from my chipped ceramic mug. "I'm listening."

"You get eighty-eight points out of one hundred," Owen announced solemnly.

Adrian raised an eyebrow. "May I ask where the twelve-point deduction occurred?"

"The application clearly stated there must be ice cream," Owen said, pointing a small, serious finger at him. "You brought strawberries. You brought organic milk. You did not bring chocolate chip ice cream."

Adrian held back the slightest hint of a smirk. "A valid critique. I prioritized nutritional value over contractual terms. That was an error in judgment."

Owen nodded, satisfied with the concession. "You still pass the round."

Adrian set his coffee mug down on the table. He turned his head slowly, letting his dark eyes lock onto mine from across the narrow table.

There was a faint, teasing spark in his gaze that sent an unexpected jolt through my stomach.

"So," Adrian said, his voice dropping into a low, smooth cadence. "I'm still in?"

A startled laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it—the first genuine laugh I had let out in front of him.

The sound seemed to hang warmly in the crowded kitchen, catching even me off guard.

I caught myself immediately, clearing my throat and pulling my defensive wall back into place as I picked up my coffee cup.

"Don't get cocky, Mr. Vale," I replied, meeting his gaze with cool defiance. "You were never actually in."