“Because of the potassium. Yeah.”
Callie leans in and whispers, “Looks and smarts? Damn, Pres. Make a move soon, or you’ll have competition.” She lifts one brow in challenge.
Message received, Callie.Loud and clear.
She kisses us goodnight, and I walk her to the car. The driver is already waiting, and I open the door for her, but she just leans against it, arms folded on top, smirking up at me.
“Pres, wait.”
Oh, no. Nothing good will come of that.
I press a hand to the top of her head and guide her down into the seat—gentle, firm, and just patronizing enough to make my point. The night’s over.
“You never answered me before.”
I sigh. “About what?”
She raises her brows. Oh, great. I just failed the world’s easiest test.
“Did you thank April?”
She’s grinning now, snorting like a piglet, delighted with herself.
I nudge her leg next, still hanging out of the car. With my foot now and less patience. She finally sinks into her seat, but keeps the door open and the needling going.
“Seriously,” she says. “April really outdid herself, huh? Mia’s the total opposite of Blake. Just what you need in a rebound.”
My jaw locks. I try to stay neutral, but the flinch at my ex’s name gives me away.
I push through. “Mia’s not my rebound. She’s my daughter’s nanny.”
Why do I even bother? That reasoning would never be enough for Callie.
Her eyes glint with wicked delight. “Women are great multitaskers; I’ll have you know.”
I’m too tired for this. Whatever this is.
“Calista, the clock’s ticking. Driver’s waiting. Go home.”
She winks as she shuts the door. “Avoidance. That’s confirmation in my books, Pres. But that’s okay. You’ll spill it when you’re ready. I’ll be here.”
The car pulls away, and I can finally breathe. Even if the air tastes like exhaust and bad decisions.
I step back inside and I’m greeted with silence.
Which means Mia’s gone to bed.
Which also means I won’t be asking where I can drop my application to become her personal tutor slash man-whore.
Saved by the clock; damned for the rest of her stay.
CHAPTER TWELVE
preston
I don’t sleep well backin my bedroom. I stayed in what’s now Mia’s room for weeks, and my own bed feels… wrong.
I’m not sure if it’s this room and the sour memories of my ex in it, or the dream I had last night—me at the front of a classroom and Mia being a very, very naughty student—yanking me awake. Either way, instead of lying here overanalyzing it and drowning in guilt about where my subconscious insisted on taking me, I blame the pillow and punch it, trying to knock some of the tension out of my body.
