Chapter 13
Carly
By the time I leave work, my nerves are shot and my brain is exhausted.
The lunch from hell is over. Aaron and Sarah are still, unfortunately, alive and engaged.
Grayson is also still alive, which is impressive considering he decided on a whim to be a fictitious boyfriend I never should have pretended to have, kissed the side of my head, accepted the invitation to the wedding for me, and then somehow returned to the table to talk business like none of that had happened.
I, meanwhile, have spent the rest of the afternoon trying to function like a normal employee while feeling like my skeleton has been replaced with live electrical wire, so when it’s time to pick Penelope up from school for the first time, I am deeply grateful for the excuse to leave early.
I collect my bag, shut down my computer, and head out before I can overthink whether Grayson looked at me oddly in the last meeting or whether I imagined the whole thing because I was too busy reliving the feel of his mouth against the side of my head.
Halfway there, I call him on Bluetooth just to make sure he remembered to handle the school pickup list.
He answers on the second ring. “Everything okay?”
“Yep,” I say, trying very hard to sound normal and not like a woman currently fake-dating her boss in at least one social circle. “I just wanted to double-check that you called the school earlier to add my name. And, uh, my car.”
“I did.” His voice is calm, even, infuriatingly steady. “You’re approved. They have your name, the make and model, and your plate number.”
“Okay. Good. Great.”
Silence hums for half a second, awkward and thick, before he speaks again. “Carly?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for picking her up.”
The words are simple, but there’s something inherently warm to them. I tighten my grip on the wheel. “Of course. And don’t worry, I double checked the booster seat is installed properly before I left.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you at home?”
God, that sounds weird. “Yep.”
I hang up and immediately wish my car had an eject button.
The pickup line at Penelope’s school is a slow crawl of luxury SUVs, glossy imported sedans, and parents in expensive coats wearing the specific expression of people who have already done one full day and are somehow expected to start a second one.
Even the school itself looks rich — stone facade, immaculate landscaping, discreet little crest by the entrance, the kind of place where kindergarten probably has a waiting list and a tuition price that would make an ordinary parent shrivel up and cry.
I pull forward when directed, hands light on the wheel, trying not to look like an imposter.
I’m not her parent. I’m barely her nanny. I have exactly one full night of living in Grayson’s house under my belt, one traumatic business lunch, and one fake relationship currently active in at least two people’s minds.
Totally qualified.
Then Penelope appears through the school doors in a little coat and backpack, scanning the line until she spots my car.
Her whole face lights up, and it’s ridiculous how fast that tiny expression brightens my day like nothing stressful has happened.
“Carly!” she squeals as soon as the teacher helps her into the back seat.
“Hi, Pen.” I twist around long enough to grin at her. “How was school?”
“Good! We did numbers and I got a green smiley face and Ellie cried because she wanted the purple marker but Mrs. Jensen said she had to wait and then we had crackers and I only dropped one.”
“That is an excellent school report. Very thorough.”
She beams as if I’ve just awarded her a gold star.
By the time I get us out of the pickup line and onto the road, she’s already moved on to describing a worm someone found on the playground and the ongoing scandal of who gets to be line leader on Wednesdays.
She talks the entire drive home without needing so much as a running start, and I mostly just listen and laugh in the right places, asking questions when I can.
It’s… shockingly easy with Penelope. That might be the most dangerous thing of all, because the more I like her, the more I feel the edges of this arrangement digging in.
The house somehow looks even bigger when I pull into the driveway alone.
Penelope unbuckles in a burst of motion the second I park, and the moment we’re inside she decides, apparently, that I need a second tour hosted by her.
“Come on,” she says, grabbing my hand with absolute authority. “I have to show you stuff!”
“You have to?”
“Yes!”
She drags me through the kitchen first even though I have, in fact, seen the kitchen.
“This is where the lady who drops off groceries puts the fruit sometimes,” she says importantly, pointing to the island. “And this drawer has band-aids but Daddy says not to touch the scissors in there because they’re not like the safety ones. And that pantry has the cookies.”
From there, I get the Penelope version of the downstairs, which is better than Grayson’s because hers includes crucial details like where the best blanket for movie night lives and which couch cushion is the bounciest, even though she’s not supposed to jump on it.
Then she takes me to the back doors.
“And this is the pool. Or kind of. Under the big cover thing.”
I glance out at it, the steel cover reflecting the sunlight. “Very fancy,” I say, nodding, as if Grayson hadn’t already shown me.
“I’m not allowed out there alone when the cover is off because I can’t swim,” she adds, bouncing on her feet. "But I get to take swimming classes next summer!"
“Ooh, are you excited for that?” I ask.
She nods emphatically. “I want to get really good. Daddy says water can be sneaky.”
“Mmm, he’s right. Your dad is smart.”
“He is.” She says it with total certainty, then lowers her voice. “But he says bad words when he drops things.”
I press my lips together. “A tragic flaw.”
She giggles and tugs me onward.
Her room gets its own second tour too, this one featuring a detailed introduction to every stuffed animal on the bed. I meet Mr. Pickles, who is a rabbit despite the name; Princess Banana, who is some kind of yellow plush cat; and a bear wearing a tiny football jersey.
“This one is Daddy Bear,” Penelope says, handing him to me. “Because he likes football.”
“Seems accurate.”
“And this one is Penelope.” She shoves the stuffed cat she’s named after herself into her own chest. “Because I sleep here!”
“You’re so good at naming stuffed animals.”
We end up on the floor coloring for a while at her little table in the playroom. She chatters. I draw a deeply mediocre dinosaur at her request. She informs me it looks like a lizard with lips. I tell her that’s hurtful but fair.
By the time the front door opens, I’ve almost managed not to think about the restaurant hallway for a full six minutes.
Penelope is off the floor and sprinting before I can even get up.
“Daddy!”
I hear his laugh before I see him.
It rolls down the hall and up the stairs, low and easy, stripped of all the tension he wears at work, and something in me betrays itself instantly by moving toward the sound, following Penny down to say hello.
Grayson loosens his tie with one hand as he walks in like he’s been holding himself together by sheer force and is only now allowing the first sign of wear to show.
His hair is a little mussed from the day, his jaw shadowed darker than it was this morning, and the whole effect is so unfair it feels like an assault.
Penelope launches herself at him from the second step, and he catches her automatically, lifting her against his side with the kind of practiced ease that does stupid things to my insides.
“Hey, bug.” He presses a kiss to her cheek. “Good day?”
“The best day!” she chirps. “Carly picked me up and I showed her where we keep the cookies and, and, and, and Daddy Bear and the pool and she drew a lizard with lips.”
His eyes find mine over Penelope’s head.
For one second, the room narrows, and it’s just him staring at me after he kissed me yesterday. But then his attention drops back to his daughter, and whatever passed over his face is gone.
“A lizard with lips?” he queries.
“It was supposed to be a dinosaur,” I correct.
He smiles. Like, actually smiles, as if that’s amusing to him or touches him in some way, and I’m stuck on the stairs not knowing how to react to that.
“Do you, uh, want me to start dinner?” I offer, trying to sound normal despite feeling anything but.
He sets Penelope down and slips off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair like even that somehow looks expensive. “No, but thank you. I’m ordering pizza.”
I blink. “Oh. Okay.”
His fingers go to his tie again, loosening it another inch, pulling in a way that makes my pulse spike. “I need to shower first. You two okay for twenty?”
“Yep,” I say. At least I can still produce one-syllable answers under duress.
Penelope nods vigorously. “We were coloring.”
“Perfect.” He glances at me once more, expression unreadable. “Pizza’s easier.”
* * *
Grayson reappears as Penny and I are sitting on the floor around the coffee table, crayons in hand, and the man is clearly trying to test my restraint.
He’s in grey joggers, a white T-shirt, forearms bare like that’s just a casual thing for him.
His salt-and-pepper hair is still damp from the shower, just messy enough to look touchable, and whatever body wash or shampoo or cologne he uses reaches me from six feet away, invading my nostrils, taunting me.
I struggle to focus on the hippo I was trying to sketch, and thankfully, Penelope has no ability to pick up on that and, instead, cuts the tension like a knife.
“Daddy, look!” she says, shoving one of our drawings into his hands.
He drops down onto the rug beside her with a grunt, one knee bent, expression soft and open in a way I almost never see at work. Even the creases by his eyes are smoother.
Total dad mode.