I tear my attention away from the lake. “Hmm?”
“Do you want the job?”
I nearly choke on a potato chip. “Wait. I thought this was an interview.”
He flicks his wrist. “Just a formality. Millie and Joeythink highly of you, and that’s enough for me. I also realized we’ve never officially met. How is that?”
“Probably because you don’t live in the city and I’m basically a workaholic.” A nervous laugh bubbles out of me.
He presses his lips together, as if he’s holding back a frown. “So, do you want the job?”
I scan our surroundings again, and when I turn back to him, his expression has brightened.
With one look at those dimples, I’m sold. Hook, line, and sinker.
After lunch, Asher drives back to the welcome center, where he proudly announces to Brenner that I’ll be coming on board. I scribble my email address on a sticky note Brenner scrounges up for us so he can send over the paperwork.
As we exit the building, Asher squints and shields his eyes from the sun. “Looks like the asshole’s still in my spot,” he huffs, tapping the top of the white vehicle in front of us before scanning the parking lot. “Where’d you park?”
With my key fob, I unlock said white vehicle.
“Looks like I’m the asshole.”
5
Asher
“If we don’t leave now,we’re going to be late,” I call to my daughter while rinsing my coffee mug in the sink.
No answer.
I cringe.That can’t be good.
Five-year-olds and silence are rarely a good sign.
“Bea?” I turn around and listen. When I still don’t hear her, I stride down the hall to her bedroom where I sent her to get dressed after breakfast.
That’s where I find her. And while she is dressed, it’s not what I picked out for her. “Um, Dolly, why are you wearing a tutu?”
“Because it’s my birthday,” she states, then ducks her head and returns to painting her nails.
Painting her nails!
My instinct is to snatch the bottle from her, but I take a deep breath and compose myself. I’m going to kill my sister for sending her nail polish for Chanukah last year.
My daughter, who turned five a few hours ago, is sitting on a wooden stool with two bottles of open polish on a kid-size table.She’s deep in concentration as she coats a nail in light blue, her tongue stuck out to one side.
Squatting down to her level, I scoot the bottle over.
“Daddy, I wasn’t done.” She holds up her hand and wiggles her petite fingers in my face.
“I can see that,” I say quietly. “But we don’t have time for this right now. We’ll be late to your party. And I need you to change. A tutu isn’t exactly horseback riding attire.”
“Why?”
“Because—”
The front door swings open, cutting me off.
