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“I’m taking my own car.”
“Is it more comfortable than this, Miss Hayes?” the driver asks in a slightly frazzled tone. “Tell me what you’d like and I’ll exchange this vehicle for another tomorrow.”
“There will be no tomorrow.” I walk confidently over to a truck parked near the curb. It’s rusted and tinier than a clown car, but it’s mine free and clear. “I’m driving myself.”
“That… hideous thing is functional?” Amy blurts. And then she slaps a hand over her mouth.
I lift my lips in adon’t get me startedsmile. “Amy, forward the school’s address to me. Mr. Driver, have a good day.”
My fingers wrap around the steering wheel and warmth seeps into my bones.
Hell yeah. This is me. I run my own life. My choices will not be dictated by a handsome jerk who thinks he rules the universe.
Amy sends me the address and I blast rap all the way to the prissy, over-priced kindergarten that looks like it has more amenities than any of the public schools I attended growing up.
Why a bunch of four to six year olds need sprawling fountains, elaborate gates, and horses in paddocks just to learn their A-B-C’s, I don’t know. But I also don’t turn off my rap and smile at the gatekeeper who gives me a scowl when I pass by.
I park close to the front and wonder how I’m going to contact Regan when I hear a childish squeal.
“Island!”
I spin around and see an adorable little girl with dark skin, bright eyes, and neat braids sprinting toward me. She’s wearing a shirt with a giraffe on it and cut-off shorts.
The pure joy on her face blasts through my defenses and I start sinking to the ground before I even realize what I’m doing.
“Island!” Regan says again. A moment later, her little body collides with mine. She throws her arms around my neck and sinks her head into my shoulder.
My heart shudders and then explodes in a series of glitter and confetti.
I wrap my arms around her tiny body and hug her back, feeling utterly conflicted. This is bad.
Real bad.
I hate Clay Boltonsomuch.
But I really,reallylike his kid.
CHAPTER4
LOCKED GATES
CLAY
I brushRegan’s bed down, tugging the sheet until it’s crisp. Early morning sunshine creeps through the windows, marching over her bounty of stuffed animals.
Today, they’re giraffes, but only a few months before, it was a bunch of unicorns. Next week, it could be bobbleheads. I can’t predict anything when it comes to her.
My daughter crawls on top of the comforters and fluffs her pillows. “Island issocool, daddy. I watched her yesterday. Her hands movedsofast. Like this.” Regan criss-crosses her fingers to mimic Island’s hair braiding technique. “I tried, but I couldn’t move that fast and I got the hair all tangled.”
“That’s nice, sweet pea.” I go back over Regan’s pillows and tighten the corners, adjust the fold and ensure the pillows are spaced perfectly apart.
She still hasn’t captured the vision of what I want her bed to look like after she’s spread it. If she were a soldier, I would have tasked her to fix her bed over and over again until she was sharpening corners in her sleep.
Since she’s only six, I can’t expect perfection so I keep my thoughts to myself.
“Island says I can get better with practice.”
“Mm.”