Page 41

That the risk is worth it.

That choosing him was the right decision.

Chapter Twelve

BROCK

The first time I see Megan at school after she agrees to try this, I keep my distance.

It's Monday morning. Three days since she came to my house and chose me without a mask between us.

I walk Kayla down the hallway, her small hand in mine, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders. When we reach the classroom door, Megan is standing just inside, greeting her students with that warm, steady grace that made me notice her in the first place.

She's wearing a cream sweater and a dark pencil skirt that follows every curve. Her long dark brown hair is twisted up, and her brown eyes light up as the children file past.

Our eyes meet for half a second. A flush blooms along her throat.

Then her professional composure clicks into place.

"Good morning, Kayla," she says, bending to meet my daughter at eye level. "Are you ready for reading groups today?"

"Good morning, Miss Hartley!" Kayla beams. "I practiced chapter three twice last night."

"I can't wait to hear it." Megan straightens, acknowledging me with a polite nod. "Good morning, Mr. Rhodes."

"Good morning, Miss Hartley."

I give Kayla's shoulder a squeeze and walk away.

That night, my phone buzzes at eleven-thirty.

Megan: I can't stop thinking about you.

I sit up against the headboard.

Me: Good. Because seeing you in that hallway derailed my entire afternoon.

Me: This is harder than I thought. Pretending I'm only Kayla's father when I see you at school.

Megan: I know. It's hard for me too. And I've been thinking about Lauren. She's known me since Kayla started first grade, and her reaction matters to me because she's Kayla's mother. I'm not asking for her permission or expecting a friendship beyond the friendly, professional connection we've always had, but I care about doing this right.

Me: I know you do. Lauren may have questions, but we'll handle them honestly and keep Kayla's wellbeing first.

Megan: When can I see you?

Me: This weekend. Kayla's with her mother Friday through Sunday. Come to my place Friday evening. Stay through Sunday.

Megan: All weekend?

Me: Every hour of it.

Megan: Okay. I'll be there.

Friday evening at seven, the doorbell rings.

The moment I open the door and see Megan standing on my porch—jeans, soft cardigan, a weekend bag over her shoulder—I pull her inside, kick the door shut, and back her against the wall.

Her bag drops. Her arms wrap around my neck. Her mouth opens beneath mine, hungry and eager.