“That. And then she made Tommy write an apology note to Lily. But she didn’t punish him, just explained why what he did was wrong.”
“What about you?” Remy winks at me. “Did she paddle you? Ruler to the ass?” He’s laughing now, the bastard. “Did you like it?”
I flip him the bird behind my son’s back.
“Dad!” Rhys catches me anyway. “That’s a bad word with your fingers!”
I sigh and pull out my wallet again, handing over another dollar. At this rate, Faye Rose will cost me a fortune in swear jar contributions.
Mom sets down her tea glass with a gentle clink. “I hope you were polite to Miss Rose. She’s a lovely young woman, and I didn’t raise you to be anything less than a gentleman.”
Guilt simmers up to a full boil. With all the occasions she had to go in my place, Mom has interacted with Rhys’s teacher plenty, probably seen that warm smile and easy laugh that I glimpsed on the playground.
“Please, please, please tell us what happened,” Rebecca begs, clasping her hands together in mock prayer. “I need to know what you did to make the nicest teacher at Harbor Point ice you out like you were worth less than the muck stuck to her boots.”
All eyes turn to me. Even Remy has stopped eating, which is saying something.
I shove a massive forkful of cake into my mouth—so much cake that my cheeks puff out and crumbs spill over my bottom lip. I chew slowly, making an entire production of it.
“Sorry,” I mumble through the mouthful, spraying more crumbs. “Can’t talk with my mouth full. My mama raised me better.”
The table erupts in laughter. Even Mom cracks a smile, shaking her head.
“Real mature,” Rebecca says, but she’s grinning.
I swallow the too-large bite, the heavy sweetness sliding down my throat, take a long drink of tea, and cut another piece. The laughter dies down, conversation drifts to other things: the heifers getting close to calving in the south pasture, Rebecca’s plans for the summer flower fields, Remy’s ongoing battle with a fence line that keeps sagging near the creek.
But my mind isn’t on any of it.
My thoughts are lost on a smile that died the second it landed on me. Wrapped up in honey-colored eyes that went from warm to cold in a heartbeat. Swirling over the way Faye Rose crouched down to hug my son with more love than his mother ever showed, and the way she straightened up and looked at me like I was an afterthought she’d already dismissed.
Will I ever be able to reverse the terrible first impression I made?
And why the hell has that become the single most insistent thought drilling through my head?
4
FAYE
I realize I’m brushing my hair too aggressively when a tuft comes loose in the bristles. I’m taking out my frustration on my poor scalp. I force myself to slow down, to breathe. I won’t let that man—that insufferable, arrogant, dust-covered mansplainer—ruin my favorite night of the week.
Tonight is my book club meeting. It’s the one time I get social and don’t live like a recluse.
And okay, yes, I moved to Blue Crescent Harbor to disappear off the face of the earth. The isolation was what I wanted when I arrived. What I needed. But lately, the silence has grown teeth. It gnaws at me during the long evenings when the sun sets over the lake and I’m alone on my deck with only a book for company.
I need to break out. Need the comfort of sitting in a circle of other women, pretending I’m a normal person who has friends. Thank goodness for book club and for my students. Sweet, adorable, tiny humans who are not arrogant, entitled pricks like their asshole of a father.
Ryder I’ve-Built-This-Town Evans.
The sheer entitlement of that guy. How dare he show his ugly face—okay, fine, his handsomely rugged face and totally made-for-sex body—after eight months on hiatus and accuse me of being careless with my students. They are my priority. I spend my days planning lessons that meet them where they are. Worrying about who struggles, celebrating the ones who break through. I have poured everything I have into being the best teacher I can be for them.
And no. No! I’m doing it again. I’m not wasting brain power on him.
I set down the brush and study my reflection. My hair falls past my navel in unstyled waves. It’s my one vanity, this hair. I keep it long even though it’s impractical and takes forever to dry, because I love it this way. I’m channeling my inner Rapunzel, brushing my hair in my high, lone tower. But I’m not waiting for anyone to come rescue me. The hair is for me, not for a prince. Definitely not for a cowboy.
Grrrr. There I go again, thinking about him.
I’ve dealt with difficult parents before. Entitled ones, absent ones, helicopter ones. Ryder Evans is just another name on the list.
