Chapter 6 #3
“I thought you didn’t need a nanny?” Summer teases.
Says the woman who made up the fake title. Was I supposed to agree to it? And what kind of guy would let their beautiful wife nanny for a single man’s kid? She’s still wearing the ring.
“I don’t,” I’m quick to reply. The whole thing is a bad idea.
“Right.” She laughs and nods. “You have everything under control. How could I forget?”
Hearing her throw my words back in my face annoys me. Everyone thinks I can’t do this on my own, but they’re wrong. I’m going to be fine.
I speed up my pace.
“In a hurry?” she quips.
“If you hadn’t noticed, the tardy bell rang.”
Summer and Henry are ambling toward the glass door that says Miss Amy on the outside.
“Did it?” She looks around.
“Hen-wee?” Quinn lifts her head from my chest. She smiles when she sees him, and it’s the one thing that makes running into the two of them the best thing to happen to me this morning. She might not need another it’s-going-to-be-okay pep talk with a friend by her side.
My best guess, Henry is slightly older than Quinn. A year at most if he’s still in preschool. I’m grateful he’s willing to be her friend despite the age gap. Having someone she recognizes seems to calm her.
Miss Amy greets us at the back door, and I set Quinn down, giving her a hug. She reaches for Henry’s hand. He bats hers away.
“Look at how cute they are,” Summer gushes to their teacher.
“Right?” she replies.
I’m too focused on hoping Quinn has a good day to join in on their conversation. She seems okay as she hangs her backpack up at her assigned cubby while I wait outside the door.
“See you after school, Quinn.” I holler my goodbye, but she doesn’t even look back at me.
“It’s so wonderful when they’re excited for school, isn’t it?” Miss Amy says.
I wipe a drop of sweat that cascades from my hairline down the back of my neck.
“Yep.” I force a closed-mouth smile like I didn’t just survive a wrestling match with a rogue raccoon and turn to walk away.
“Uh, Mr. Dawson.” Miss Amy stops me. “Are you available to meet on Friday at three thirty? I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Does this have to do with the school play? I already told another teacher I’d consider it.”
“No, Mr. Dawson. This is about Quinn.” Her expression turns somber, and it sets off my nerves. Forces me to come up with an excuse to get out of this.
“We build a fort on Fridays for movie night,” I say, hoping she’ll appreciate a father trying to bond with his daughter.
“It’s important,” she pushes.
“I’m excellent at forts,” Summer butts in. “Won a contest for it once at the county fair.”
She’s grinning at me with that smile that sets off a buzzing sensation beneath my skin. This is now the third time I’ve been in Summer’s presence, and it still catches me off guard when I feel my body come alive like it is. I silently scold myself for being attracted to her at all.
“I got a free Pronto Pup for it,” she adds when neither of us responds.
I’m sure, based on this story, that her son thinks she’s the most fun mom, but I don’t have time for this.
In fact, my timeline is rapidly decreasing the longer I stand here with them.
I have three songs that need to be written, and every minute I spend avoiding this meeting with Miss Amy is one more minute I’m losing in the studio.
“I’ll figure it out. See you on Friday,” I say to the teacher. “Summer.” I acknowledge her with a nod and walk away.
What could Quinn’s teacher possibly have to say? I’m not given the chance to ponder that question very long because the sound of flip-flops clomping behind me registers a moment later.
“Okay, no forts, heard you loud and clear back there. But I can give her a ride to or from school if you ever need it. I have to bring Henry anyway,” Summer shouts.
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Says the woman who was late.”
“We got donuts!” She could have sung it and it would have sounded the same. She’s acting as if a donut run is a perfectly acceptable excuse for not being on time for her child’s education.
She opens the front door of her white sedan and fiddles with something in the front seat as I keep walking toward my Bronco. I need to get out of here.
I climb in, start the ignition, and get a knock on my window. When I look up, she’s holding a lime green box against the glass. I can’t very well drive off with her standing this close.
She knocks again, forcing me to roll it down.
“I have work to do,” I tell her, which is true.
If I was a resourceful man, I’d take her up on her offer, let her drive Quinn home, and give myself that much more time in the studio.
But that would mean I’d need to spend more time in her presence, and it’s already proved to be nothing but a distraction.
“I know you clearly don’t take handouts…
but the sugar might do you some good.” She leans her head in through the window, her hair falling across my chest, and sets the box on my cup holder.
A draft of lemon wafts from her silky strands, and I do my best not to let it affect me.
It’s one of the many things I seem to have committed to memory about this woman.
She smells like a bakery, and now I know why. She frequents them.
She doesn’t wait for me to say anything more, just turns and heads for her car. So I peel out of the parking lot before someone else stops me.
I wait until I’m back in my driveway before I let myself look at the box again. It’s my favorite kind of donut—a maple fritter—with her phone number scrawled across the cardboard.