Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Leif
At the start of week two, Quinn fills the car with excited chatter, her words tumbling out faster than I can track them.
“Jamie has a gecko,” she says, bouncing in her seat. “A real one. Her mom said I can come over to see it and meet Bagel the cat.”
I catch her eye in the rearview mirror. She’s smiling. Not the careful kind from last week, filled with nervous tension. This one is easy.
“That would be fun,” I say. “We can ask your Uncle Blake about it tonight.”
“She lets it sit on her shoulder.”
“That’s brave,” I reply, keeping my focus on the road.
The school comes into view ahead of us, the parking lot already filling with cars.
I wait in line to turn and park in the visitor section rather than joining the drop-off line. Quinn unbuckles herself, eager to get into the classroom.
“Sprinkles needs his vest,” she reminds me, reaching for the blue service vest that sits folded on the seat beside her.
I turn to help her secure it on the Newfoundland, whose tail thumps against the car seat. “All set for another day, buddy?”
The dog regards me with canine patience, and Quinn runs her hand along his glossy coat. “He likes school now. The other kids know not to pet him when he’s working.”
We walk together up the broad stone steps, Quinn keeping pace with me rather than racing ahead or dragging behind. Her purple backpack bounces between her shoulder blades, its weight fuller than last week with completed homework and the frog book we read together over the weekend.
“Uncle Holden put an extra cookie in my lunch,” she confides in a stage whisper as we reach the doors. “He said it’s for Jamie, but I can eat it if I want.”
I hold the door open for her and Sprinkles. “That was thoughtful of him.”
The school hallway hums with morning activity. Teachers stand outside classroom doors, greeting students by name, while children line up at lockers, comparing weekend adventures and trading stickers.
Quinn waves to a girl with strawberry-blond hair who waits near the water fountain. “That’s Bethany. She showed me how to mix colors to get purple.” Quinn leans closer to whisper, “I didn’t tell her that Aunt Chloe already taught me.”
“Morning, Quinn,” calls a fourth-grade teacher whose name I can’t recall. “Sprinkles looks very handsome today.”
Quiet satisfaction fills me at the normalcy of it all. Last week, heads turned when Quinn walked through these halls with her service dog. This week, they’ve become part of the school landscape.
We turn down the corridor toward the rooms for the second graders, and Quinn’s pace quickens with anticipation.
The door stands open, revealing walls now adorned with student artwork alongside the educational posters that were there before.
Leaf prints in autumn colors form a border around the reading corner, and a chart tracking the frog eggs dominates the science area.
Ms. Peterson spots us from her desk and rises to greet us. “Good morning, Quinn. And Mr. Hollis.”
The warmth in her voice couldn’t be more different from the wary caution of our first meeting. Her green eyes no longer flick to Sprinkles with concern but include him in her greeting with a small nod.
“We’re ready for another great day,” I tell her, placing Quinn’s completed reading log on the designated tray by the door.
“Quinn has been such a wonderful addition to our class,” Ms. Peterson tells me. “And Sprinkles has been a perfect gentleman.”
Quinn beams at the praise before she spots Jamie entering the classroom. “Can I go sit down now?”
“Of course.” I squeeze her shoulder. “Have a wonderful day.”
Quinn doesn’t linger for a hug today as she pats my hand before crossing to her desk. Jamie waves from her seat, already pulling out a notebook covered in shark stickers. Sprinkles settles beneath Quinn’s desk, his large body curling into the tight space as if it were custom-made for him.
I linger as Quinn unpacks her supplies, chatting animatedly with her friend. A boy with glasses leans across the aisle to show her a book, and she responds with enthusiastic interest. This easy social interaction would have been unimaginable even a handful of days ago.
“She’s adjusting well,” Ms. Peterson murmurs beside me. “The other children have really embraced her.”
“Thank you for making that possible,” I reply, meaning it.
Ms. Peterson shrugs. “Children are adaptable when given the chance.” She touches a stack of papers on her desk. “I should get started on morning work. Have a good day, Mr. Hollis.”
I turn to leave, cataloging the small victories as I walk back through the hallway.
Quinn is settling into her classroom routine.
Sprinkles is accepted without question. Friends are being made and conversations initiated.
All the small, precious triumphs that accumulate into a child’s sense of belonging.
And perhaps the most significant win is no sign of Carson since the first day of school. The knot of tension that had lived between my shoulder blades loosens another fraction.
I’m okay with whatever game he’s playing, as long as it means I don’t have to see him. Perhaps he’s decided to focus elsewhere. The school is large, with dozens of staff and hundreds of students. I’m a small target compared to other challenges a new dean might face.
I push through the front doors into the September morning and take a deep breath. The scent of cut grass and fallen leaves surrounds me, the first hint of autumn arriving on the breeze. My boots echo on the stone steps with a lightness I haven’t felt in weeks, and I pause to relish the feeling.
Little by little, I’m taking steps toward a fresh start at life, unexpected but increasingly real, just like the shelf Emily helped me build, and which will go in my future home.
The thought of the female Alpha sends a curl of warmth through me. The next time I see her again to continue our work, I’ll accept her invitation to stay for lunch afterward. The possibilities unfurl before me, unencumbered by fear for the first time in years.
I pull my car keys from my pocket, the ring jingling in my hand as I approach the parking lot.
“Leif Hollis! What perfect timing.”
The greeting cuts through the morning air, stopping me in my tracks, and ice water rolls down my spine before I turn around.
Carson stands at the top of the steps, his sandy hair catching the morning light, his gray-green eyes crinkling with practiced warmth.
He wears a tailored navy suit that emphasizes his trim physique, a briefcase held in one hand.
Beside him, a mother in a business suit gives her farewells as he excuses himself from their conversation.
“Dean Whitaker,” I manage, a fine tremor going through me. “Good morning.”
He walks down the front steps with easy confidence, closing the distance I desperately want to maintain. “Please, we’ve known each other too long for such formality. Carson will do fine.”
My stomach clenches at his familiarity, and as his pheromones reach me, they trigger memories I’ve spent months trying to bury.
“I was hoping to catch you,” he continues. “Quinn has been such a bright addition to our school community. Ms. Peterson mentioned how well she’s settling in.”
My throat tightens. “Yes, she’s adjusting wonderfully.”
“Children are remarkably resilient, aren’t they?” Carson replies, lingering on the last word. “Especially with the right support systems in place.”
A group of late-arriving students hurries past us, backpacks bouncing and voices loud in the morning air.
Carson waits until they disappear inside before continuing, his posture relaxed as if we’re old friends catching up. “Actually, I wanted to touch base with you about Sprinkles. Ms. Peterson has been accommodating, of course, but there have been some…concerns.”
My muscles tense. “Concerns? What kind of concerns?”
Carson lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Nothing to worry about, yet. But a few parents have mentioned the distraction factor. And Ms. Peterson noted that floor space is at a premium during certain activities.”
“Sprinkles stays under Quinn’s desk,” I counter, heat rising to my face. “He’s trained and certified. We have documentation—”
“Which I’ve reviewed,” Carson interrupts, gentle despite the steel beneath his words. “No one is suggesting removing accommodations, Leif. This is merely something worth discussing proactively. Before it becomes an issue.”
My fingers tighten around my car key until the metal edge digs into my palm. “I appreciate your concern, but Quinn needs Sprinkles for emotional regulation. The accommodation was approved—”
“By my predecessor, yes.” Carson shakes his head with a tsk. “And I have no intention of reversing that decision. Not at this time.”
The qualifier hangs in the air in silent threat.
Carson shifts his briefcase to his other hand, and he turns his head to survey the emptying parking lot. “How are you finding Pinecrest? Getting settled in your routines?”
The abrupt change of subject throws me off balance. “Fine. It’s convenient to live someplace where so much is within walking distance.”
“I imagine traveling to and from Misty Pines took some getting used to,” he muses. “It must be boring to have so much free time with Quinn in classes. You were never one to be idle.”
My pulse quickens. Did Carson speak to Blake and Nathaniel about my schedule? I don’t like him knowing I have free time after drop-off.
“I manage,” I reply, taking a half-step toward my car. “Speaking of which, I should—”
“I saw you in town last week,” Carson continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “At Stitch & Yarn, I believe? With Quinn and that Alpha woman from the construction crew. Emily Wilson, if I recall correctly.”
My blood runs cold. “Ms. Wilson is a friend of the Wright Pack. She was helping Quinn pick out yarn.”
Carson’s eyebrows lift. “Is that all? Interesting. You seemed quite comfortable together.”