There’s a noticeable pause, during which I think Otto might be recalling our first meeting too. I should be flattered, I guess, that he remembers the details since he’s undoubtedly met lots of women since.
“I’m fine. Thanks for offering.”
Otto exhales, a muscle in his jaw protruding in an annoyed clench that’s new. “Caldwell, do not be?—”
“I have to pick up Tommy from preschool,” I say in a rush, nodding toward the booster seat propped against my calf. “I’ll take a?—”
“I will drive you, Claire.”
He’s no longer asking. He’s telling,andhe used my first name. Then grabs the booster seat and strides away with a purpose that makes it obvious he expects me to follow.
Nerves prickle my skin as I open the passenger door. His car is brand-new, by the smell of it, with a screen taking up most of the console. He starts the engine by pressing a button.
“Landslide” is playing from the speakers. I glance at him, startled, but Otto’s focused on reversing out of the parking spot.
He brakes at the Stop sign along the side of the lot, grabbing his phone out of the cupholder and passing it to me. “Put in the preschool address.”
His screen background is green. No picture. Just solid color.
I stare at it, then state, “It’s locked.”
“Same passcode.”
It doesn’t occur to me until I tap the numbers and the screen unlocks that I remember his passcode. It’s his birthday.
I open Maps, very tempted to snoop through his three hundred eighty-six unread messages, and enter Little Red Wagon’s address.
Otto doesn’t comment on the fact that I remembered his passcode.
Just like I pretend not to notice “Songbird” playing after “Landslide” ends. Or that the music is streaming from a playlist on his phone, not a random radio station.
I text Cassidy, letting her know that I found a ride, then stare out the window until we reach the preschool.
“You can just pull up…there,” I say, pointing toward the curb that runs parallel to the sidewalk in front of the brick facade.
It’s 3:02, according to the clock on the dash, so I’m only a couple of minutes late.
As soon as Otto stops, I’m out of the car, hurrying toward the front doors.
“Claire! Claire!”
I spin, tracking the shout to the playground. Tommy’s waving at me from the top of the slide, the boy beside him giggling and waving too.
I wave back, walking toward the wood chips. A little girl with matching pigtails joins the two boys, all three talking animatedly.
Tommy glances this way again, his expression lighting up, and he rushes down the slide before running over. I smile at his excitement, until he reaches me.
“Otto’s here?”
I spin toward the SUV. Rather than sitting in the driver’s seat, where I assumed he’d stay, Otto has one of the rear doors open and appears to be installing Tommy’s booster seat in the back.
He’s taking charge again. Annoyance and appreciation coalesce in my chest.
“My car wasn’t working,” I say.
Tommy isn’t listening to my explanation. He’s headed toward the SUV, leaving me to snag his backpack from the pile by the bench, wave a hasty goodbye to Mrs. Combs, and follow behind.
None of the well-dressed moms I pass are staring at me. They’re all focused on the eye candy that is Otto squatting down to talk to Tommy at eye level. His biceps flex as his elbows balance on muscular thighs, and the sight is practically pornographic.
