Chapter Twelve
Corbin
This meeting is mind-numbing.
I don’t know why my dad insists on dragging us all in every Friday like we don’t have a thousand better things to do. Most of the team is already half-checked out, eyes glazing over, mentally punching out for the weekend.
I should be paying attention. I should be reviewing the numbers or nodding along like a good little employee. Instead, I’m staring at the PowerPoint from hell while my mind is miles away back at the park yesterday, back with Jules.
Susan sits across from me, arms crossed, a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
I don’t acknowledge it. I don’t have time for whatever it is she’s trying to do.
Because the truth is? I’m in too deep.
I’ve been in too deep for years, even after the divorce, even after we signed the papers, even after I told myself it was over.
I didn’t date. Not really. I had drinks with women, let them flirt, let them think they had a shot. But I never took it further. Never wanted to.
Not because I was being noble. Not because I didn’t have opportunities.
But because it always felt wrong.
Because I didn’t want them . I wanted her.
Hell, I still do.
When I held Jules’ hand yesterday, even just for those few minutes, I wanted to hold on and never let go.
But she can barely admit to herself that she kissed me first. And she climbed into my lap, tangled her fingers in my hair, pressed her lips to mine like she needed me just as much as I needed her.
And if she can’t even admit that, then I have no right to push her toward something she isn’t ready for.
I shouldn’t have even helped her into her coat. Shouldn’t have let my hands linger.
But there’s this constant, driving need to touch her. Even if it’s just for a second.
Never thought I’d see the day I’d live for innocent touches.
The brush of her curls against my fingers. The curve of her back beneath my palm. The way her body tilts toward mine, like muscle memory, like home.
I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the conference table.
I’ve got it bad.
So bad.
“Any big wins this week?” Dad kicks off the conversation, his voice carrying that sharp, impatient edge it always does.
I don’t bother looking up. My phone sits in my palm, the screen dark, but I keep checking it anyway, like somehow that’ll make a message from Jules appear. She had Tate last night. Dropped him off at school this morning. I’m picking him up this afternoon. There’s no reason for her to text me.
But damn, I wish she would.
“Earth to Corbin.” My dad’s voice cuts through the room.
I glance up to find him staring at me, arms crossed, ruddy face tight with irritation.
“You got somewhere better to be?” he snaps.
I clear my throat. “Just checking the time. I’m volunteering in Tate’s class this afternoon. Don’t want to be late.”
His mouth twists like I just admitted to something shameful.
“Since when is that a man’s job?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Volunteering in a classroom?”
Susan smirks across the table, arms folded like she’s just waiting for me to bite back.
And maybe I should. Maybe I should tell him he’s the last person who should be talking about parenting roles, considering he never filled his.
Instead, I lean back, my voice smooth. “Wouldn’t know. My mom wasn’t around, so I never really got to see how the roles were supposed to shake out.”
That lands. His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t respond.
“Anything new to report?” he grumbles instead, changing the subject.
I exhale slowly. “Gourmet Fresh Foods has a TV ad campaign starting Sunday.”
Dad nods once. “Good.” But there’s nothing good about the way he says it.
“I have a new campaign,” Susan announces, her voice dripping with satisfaction.
I don’t look at her. I already know what’s coming.
“Go on,” Dad says, barely interested.
“Pendosa Pharmaceuticals,” she continues. “They’re looking to launch a social media campaign.”
“Corbin can help you with that,” Dad replies instantly, like it’s not even up for discussion. “He’s handled a few pharma accounts before.”
Kill. Me. Now.
I finally glance across the table at Susan. She’s already looking at me, one brow arched in triumph, and before I can even think of an excuse, she winks.
I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the table.
I need to get the hell out of here.
Maybe it’s time to stop working for someone who sees me as nothing more than a convenient cog in the machine. Maybe it’s time to build something of my own.
Something to consider.
***
The drive to Tate’s school is slow, clogged with the midday lunch rush heading back to work. I don’t mind. The quiet is a rare commodity these days. I get plenty of it when Tate’s with Jules, but lately, work has been gnawing at me.
I like what I do. I’m good at it. But working for my dad? That’s been the most unfulfilling experience of my life.
It’s also cost me my marriage.
Not entirely—no, that was on me—but he sure as hell didn’t make it easier.
I pull into the school parking lot, slide into a visitor space, and go through the motions. Walk to the front office. Sign in. Slap a name tag onto my chest. Make the short trek to Miss Greta’s room.
The second I step inside, Tate’s voice rings through the room. “Dad!”
Before I can brace myself, he launches out of his seat, sprinting full-speed across the classroom. I barely have time to catch him before he crashes into my arms.
I let out a small grunt as I scoop him up. “Hey, buddy.”
Miss Greta, a redhead with a warm smile, stands from her desk in the corner and heads my way. “Mr. Banks! So glad you could join us today. We’re just wrapping up free time, but we’re about to head out for our daily nature walk.”
“Miss Greta takes us outside every day,” Tate explains, still clinging to me. “She says it’s good for our soils.”
Miss Greta chuckles. “Souls, Tate. It’s good for our souls.”
I smirk and ruffle his hair. “I don’t know, bud. After the week I’ve had, my soil could probably use a walk too.”
Tate laughs, and Miss Greta shakes her head fondly before turning to me. “Miss Pearla is also volunteering today. She’s in the office making copies, but once she’s back, we’ll head out for our walk. But there’s a special surprise today. We’re going on a scavenger hunt.”
The classroom erupts in cheers, and I nod along, still not sure what I’ve signed myself up for. But the moment Tate grins up at me, bouncing on the balls of his feet, I know one thing for sure.
I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Pearla returns about five minutes later, a petite woman with sandy-blonde hair and pink-rimmed glasses. She smiles politely as she hands the stack of copies to Miss Greta before turning to me.
“Pearla,” she introduces herself, offering a small but firm handshake.
“Corbin Banks.” I shake her hand, noting the way she studies me for half a second before nodding in recognition.
“You’re Tate’s dad?” she asks, a touch of warmth in her voice. “He’s such a sweet kid. I was really sorry to hear about what happened with Lance.”
I glance around before lowering my voice. “Where is he now?”
Pearla sighs. “He punched another kid today. Got sent to another classroom.”
I let out a humorless chuckle. “Not surprising.”
She nods, crossing her arms. “Yeah. My son, Leo,” she tilts her head toward the sandy-haired boy sitting next to Tate, “had trouble with him, too. Kept getting phone calls about ‘outbursts in class.’ So, I started volunteering once a week. Turns out, Lance was the real problem all along.”
“I knew it,” I mutter, shaking my head.
Pearla smiles knowingly. “Leo looks up to Tate, you know. Says he’s the only kid in class who actually listens to him.”
I glance over at Tate, who’s animatedly talking to Leo, probably about some ridiculous animal fact. It makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t expect.
“Tate looks like you,” Pearla notes after a beat. “Leo looks just like his dad, too. But…” She hesitates, then lets out a small breath. “Roger passed away three years ago.”
The shift in conversation is jarring, but I manage a quiet, “I’m really sorry for your loss.”
Pearla waves it off, though there’s something in her expression that suggests it’s not as easy as she makes it sound.
“It’s okay. I just like to get it out there early.
That way, when we inevitably get to the whole ‘What does Leo’s dad do for a living?
’ conversation, you already know he’s… well, not living. ”
Her bluntness catches me off guard, but there’s no bitterness behind it. Just a quiet, resigned honesty.
I nod. “That’s fair.”
Miss Greta claps her hands together. “Alright, class! Let’s line up for our nature walk.”
The kids eagerly jump up from their seats, Leo and Tate leading the pack. Pearla watches her son with something like quiet pride before turning back to me.
“So, Corbin,” she says with a teasing glint in her eye. “You ready for the chaos that is twenty first graders on a scavenger hunt?”
I chuckle, glancing at Tate, then back at her. “Guess we’re about to find out.”
The class splits into five groups, each clutching a list: leaf, flower, rock, and stick. I glance around the large play area in front of us and scoff. A flower? In October? When everything’s been dead for the past two weeks? Yeah, good luck with that.
“Think this is just a way to keep them extra busy?” Pearla whispers, amusement lacing her tone.
I smirk. “Definitely. A flower right now? Impossible.”
Pearla laughs softly. “Agreed.”
“Let’s get started!” Miss Greta calls, and the kids scatter across the field, little legs kicking up tufts of dried grass.
Miss Greta falls into step beside Pearla and me. “How’s volunteering going so far, Corbin?”
“Good,” I reply, watching Tate dart toward a pile of leaves.
“Everything you expected and more?” she presses.
I shrug. “Not really sure what I expected.”
Miss Greta nods, seemingly satisfied with that answer. “It’s great that you’re here for Tate. He talks about you and his mom all the time.”
I swallow hard as Pearla adds, “I’ve heard that Jules is a godsend. And that woman not only makes the best cup of coffee, but she also does all those crafts for the holiday parties. I’m in awe.”
Miss Greta hums in agreement. “I can’t wait to see what she makes for Halloween. The teachers still talk about her decorations from last year—vampires, ghosts, ghouls, pumpkins. Everything was hand-drawn, so detailed. You can tell she’s an artist.”
Pearla tilts her head. “Does she paint a lot at home?”
I shake my head. “Jules and I are divorced, so if she still does, I wouldn’t know.”
Pearla’s expression shifts instantly. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I—Tate talks like you two are together.”
My eyes find Tate in the sea of kids, laughing as he digs around for something on his list. He’s always happiest when Jules and I are in the same space.
“We get along great,” I tell her, the words coming out too easily. Too practiced. “Just didn’t have the best luck living together.”
Pearla and Miss Greta exchange small, sympathetic smiles.
I force a smile back, but the weight in my chest lingers.
It’s funny how it feels like the whole damn world is rooting for Jules and me.
Everyone… except for Jules.