I get the sense that what he wanted to say is, Why are you wasting my time if my kid’s doing fine?
“Mr. Evans, I wanted to discuss an upcoming event.” I’m sweating under a cardigan that’s doing its best to become a wearable oven. “The school is planning a Mother’s Day celebration for next month.”
The change is immediate. His spine stiffens, and those remarkable eyes darken like storm clouds rolling in over the lake. The drumming fingers still.
I plow forward, even if every instinct tells me I’m walking into a minefield. “The mothers of all students are invited to spend the morning in class with their children. There will be activities, crafts, and a small presentation the students have been preparing.
“When I reviewed Rhys’s file, I noticed no one is listed in the mother field on his enrollment forms.”
His mouth flattens into a line, muscle jaw flexing.
“And having never met either parent?—”
“Rhys’s mother isn’t around, but he has a father who’s more than enough.” His voice has dropped another octave, gravel grinding to dust.
“Mr. Evans, I didn’t mean to imply?—”
“My son lacks for nothing.” He doesn’t let me finish; he doubles down, leaning forward in the chair. “I raised that boy from day one with no gaps or shortcomings. I don’t care what a piece of paperwork says.”
“Of course, I wasn’t?—”
“Rhys has plenty of support,” he barrels on. His voice doesn’t rise, but it hardens. “He’s got me, his grandmother, his aunt, his uncle. He’s surrounded by people who love him and show up for him every day.”
A pang of sympathy sweeps across my chest. I’ve clearly hit a nerve, opened a wound that hasn’t healed. I want to apologize, to explain that my intention is to help, not hurt, but Ryder Evans isn’t done.
“The Evans name carries weight in Blue Crescent Harbor.” His tone takes on an entitled edge that grates away my sympathy instantly. “We’ve been here for generations. Our ancestors have built this town, supported it, kept it going when others left. My son is growing up in a good home, with good people, on good land. And I don’t need some out-of-towner teacher questioning what makes a proper family.”
That does it. My tolerance evaporates. I understand being defensive about parenting; I really do. But the condescension in his tone, the dismissiveness, the way he’s bulldozing over me and not letting me speak? No, I’m done. No more drool hazard. Nothing turns me off faster than misplaced male arrogance.
“He’s doing fine even without his mother, and he doesn’t need some manufactured holiday celebration to remind him of what he doesn’t have. He knows he’s loved and valued. We don’t need anybody’s pity.”
He’s on a roll now. I see where Rhys gets his stubborn streak, but the son wears it with far more charm than the father. I consider interrupting, but the set of Ryder’s shoulders and the clipped cadence of his words tell me he won’t pause long enough to let me correct him. Instead, I endure the monologue with a calm that I know will irritate him more than any argument.
“You think because you’ve got a teaching certificate and ideas from whatever city you came from that you know better?”
I lean back against my chair and cross my arms, letting him wear himself out. He’s like one of those summer storms that blow through the Ozarks—thunder and lightning and fury, but ultimately just water. His dismissive, pompous declarations wash over me. Ryder Evans is a bullheaded brute. Full of himself. Insufferable. How does sweet, clever Rhys come from this man? The kid must spend most of his time with Becky and his grandmother.
“The last thing my son needs is to be singled out, made to feel different because his family doesn’t fit into your neat little checkbox on a form. Whatever accommodation or special treatment you’re planning to offer, you can keep it.”
By the time he runs out of steam, the room has fallen into a hush so absolute I can hear the tick of the clock on the wall.
I wait another beat, making sure he’s truly finished, that the storm has passed. Then I uncross my arms with measured calm.
“Are you done?” I keep my tone civil, even while I’m seething. “Because if you are finished, Mr. Evans, I’d like the chance to explain why I called you in.”
2
RYDER
Miss Oh-So-Prim whips the question at me all silky steel and flawless composure. She’s sitting with her spine stiff, looking down on me with eyes—a shade between honey and whiskey that the afternoon light turns to amber—that size me up as if she’s already marked me a few acres short of respectable. A person’s worth, in her world, probably comes down to polish and price tags.
Everything about her screams expensive. Her clothes, jewelry, even the way she’s got her dark blonde hair twisted into some complicated low knot that makes her neck look elegant and long. Not a strand out of place.
How can Rhys stay in a room with her for seven hours a day without getting frostbite?
And how the hell is this the same teacher my son hasn’t shut up about since August? Miss Rose said this, Miss Rose did that, Miss Rose is the best teacher in the entire world, Dad. He talks about her like she hung the moon, but the woman in front of me looks like a stuck-up high society doll who’d faint if she got dirt under her manicured nails.
Sweet mercy, is my seven-year-old crushing on his teacher? Maybe my son inherited my terrible taste in women. At least he has the excuse of being young. What’s mine? Because yeah, I’m not blind to the fact that underneath the city-princess polish, Faye Rose is a knockout. The kind of beautiful that makes men—apparently of all ages—do stupid things.
