I straighten up. “Uh. Can I help you?”
She looks me up and down like I’m gum on her sensible flats.
“Who exactly are you?”
“Ash,” I say, offering my hand. “I’m here with Olive Hart.”
She doesn’t take it. “And what, precisely, is your role here?”
“My… role?” I glance around. “I’m just visiting. Watching the talent show.”
She narrows her eyes. “And signing autographs? Taking selfies with the parents?”
“Only if asked,” I say. “I wasn’t handing out posters or anything.”
She doesn’t laugh. In fact, she looks like she might combust.
“Let me be very clear, Mr… Ash. This is a kindergarten, not a promotional event. I’d appreciate it if you stopped treating it like a backstage meet-and-greet.”
Okay. Wow.
I blink. “Right. I wasn’t trying to disrespect anything.”
“And for the record, this kind of behavior reflects directly on Miss Hart.”
My jaw tightens, a retort on the tip of my tongue—
But then Olive appears at my side, slightly breathless. “Oh! Mrs. Dinsmore!”
The woman turns stiffly. “Miss Hart. I have paperwork to attend to.” And just like that, she’s gone—spine straight, judgment trailing behind her like perfume.
The moment she’s out of earshot, I let out a breath. “Well. Your boss is a delight.”
“Oh, she’s just a traditionalist. She means well,” Olive says with a shrug. “So—are you ready?”
“Let’s go,” I reply. Because now I really want to see her in her world—to watch her in her element. This is where she spends her time. This is why she does craft projects on weekends. This is what she loves.
The moment Olive steps into the circle-time chaos, it’s like someone dropped a beam of sunshine in the room. She claps twice, and twenty tiny heads snap toward her, like she’s got magic in her palms.
I hang back for a beat, hovering near the door in my best not-scary rockstar mode—sleeves rolled, tattoos covered, sunglasses ditched. A few curious faces peer up at me. One whispers loudly, “Is that a daddy?”and I nearly choke.
Olive waves me forward. “Everyone, this is my friend Ash Ryder. He’s a musician and will help us with our performances today.”
Friend. Cute.
The second I crouch down, I’m mobbed.
“Are you famous?”
“Do you like princesses?”
“Can you play ‘Let It Go’ on the guitar?”
Someone tugs on my jeans and asks if my tattoos hurt. Another hands me a glittery drawing of what Ithinkis a dinosaur. Or a sandwich.
I grin. “Thanks, buddy. I love it.”
“He’s cool,” one kid announces.
