I nod softly.
“Yeah, it makes a lot of sense.”
Our gazes mingle for a few seconds, long enough for the crackle in the air to become palpable. And before I can stop myself, I say something stupid.
“Maybe you should move in.”
The way her eyebrows raise is my first indicator that I’ve uttered an impulse aloud. The next clue is the way she drops her chin, then fidgets with her book, then her lap, then adjusts her legs, and the way she’s sitting on the floor.
“Sorry, that was . . . that’s probably a bad idea. I was just thinking about how early I get started, and how my schedule is going to be all over the place. And, I don’t know. Maybe if you were here?—”
“I have twins, Brooks. You’d be living with a whole damn household.” She mashes her lips into a relenting smile, which I’m sure she means as a sign for me to drop the bad idea, but somehow only makes me dig in harder.
“I know. Youandthe boys could be here. Well, not here. I’d get a bigger place, which I was thinking of doing anyhow. I could get a rental near Roddy’s house. There are a lot available on his street, and some of the guys with families live in that neighborhood. They’re used to contracts with players around here. You and the boys could have your own rooms, and if you needed a hand with something, I’d be around. You could start school, and I wouldn’t have to worry about travel games so much. It sort of makes sense.”
On the surface, I’m right. And live-in nannies are definitely a thing. I researched them before Hunter hooked me up with Lindsey. There’s no reason we couldn’t make this a business arrangement. Except there’s this nagging feeling that maybe things are good as they are. Like I’m teetering on a slope covered in ice. And I’m hanging on to a damn sled while I’m at it.
“I think it’s better we?—”
“You know, maybe that’s too much?—”
We talk over one another and settle into a soft laugh. My cheeks burn, and Lindsey’s are a rosy pink. I try to hold her gaze, but neither of us seems able to stick to one another for long. I’ve ditched the sled at this point and simply heaved myself over the slope into the world’s most uncomfortable abyss.
“I’m gonna?—”
“Maybe, just?—”
We both gesture to the door and freeze when our eyes meet, breaking into a harder laugh this time. It seems to cut the tension, though, and after a few seconds, Holly begins to fuss, taking over Lindsey’s attention.
It’s difficult to leave like this. I want to jump in and take care of my daughter, to right her wrongs, however trivial they are. This one seems to be chalked up to gas. But for the first time since she showed up in my life, I’m able to step back and breathe. She’s in good hands, even if they aren’t mine. Which makes the crazy idea of moving Lindsey and her boys in with me circle my mind some more. This time, though, I leave before I say another word.
FOUR
LINDSEY
It’s been a while since I stepped foot in a classroom, not counting the preschool that the boys go to. There aren’t any fingerpaints or foam blocks in this place. Therearelots of students four years younger than me with portfolios that put mine to shame. The university’s advertising program is part of the business college, and it’s hard not to look at everyone in this building and see my ex.
“Ms. Blackwood?” I lift my head and catch the gaze of the kind administrative assistant who checked me in for my meeting this morning. “The dean will be right with you.”
“Thank you,” I say with a smile that buzzes my lips. I’m so nervous. Her soft nod is comforting, but the moment she leaves me, my pulse races again.
I cross my ankles as I tuck my feet under my chair and shift the leather-bound portfolio propped in my lap. I wore a long dress, aiming for modest, but all of the women who have passed through the lobby while I’ve been waiting have been dressed in hip clothes. Short skirts, bright power suits, a few baggy overalls with what looks like lingerie underneath. The blend of art-school chic with business elite in this place is mind-boggling. The one thing that’s apparent is how little I fit in.
“Ms. Blackwood?—”
I leap to my feet, dropping my portfolio in my fit of nerves.
“Here, let me help,” the assistant says as she rushes to help me scoop my sketches and writing samples into a neat pile.
“You’re going to do great,” she says after handing me the notecard I scribbled my questions on. She covers my hand with hers and gives it a much-needed squeeze.
“So far so good, huh?” I joke. We both chuckle as we stand.
I give her a nod and muster the tiny bit of lingering confidence, willing it to flex and give me a boost for the next twenty minutes. Rolling my shoulders back, I step into the dean’s office, and Dean William Stratford steps around a massive desk to greet me in the middle of the room.
“Lindsey, it’s nice to meet you. You can call me Will.” His gray beard clashes with the bright yellow rims of his glasses, and I instantly relax. He falls more on the artsy side of this place.
“Nice to meet you, Will.” He gestures to the open chair by his desk, then takes his seat on the other side. I hand my portfolio to him as I sit, and he instantly leafs through my out-of-order materials.
