Page 15

N ASH

The silent treatment from Kendall Wentworth is worse than sparring with her.

Hell, I’ve come to enjoy sparring. Now that I’ve learned a little more about her, I feel like fucking horse shit.

If my mother ever learns how I spoke to Kendall, she’ll disown me and plead with a judge to take my daughter away.

And I can’t say I’d blame her. If ever a man ever treats Paisley the way I’ve behaved, I can’t say I’d handle it as well as Kendall has. The fact that she even agreed to give me the time of day to explain myself proves she’s way out of my league. A much better person than me.

Besides my parents and my sister, she’s the only one who’s ever interacted with Paisley like she cares about her. More than a teacher should. She nurtures and adores her, and the feeling is mutual.

Hell, it’s three-way. At least, I like her. I can’t say she feels the same about me. It’s time to start groveling. Women like flowers, right? Kendall’s scent has floral notes to it, but I know jack shit about flowers.

After dropping off Paisley at school, I stop by the nearest florist and start my sniff test.

“Good morning. Can I help you with anything in particular?” A sweet lady who reminds me of my mother asks from behind the counter.

“I hope so.”

“Let’s start with the occasion.” She takes out a pad of paper and holds a pen above it.

“I’m in the doghouse and I’m trying to get out.”

She smiles at me and passes no judgment. “I see. We do many floral arrangements for just the occasion.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Is there a particular flower or color you’re looking for?”

“That’s where I need the help. I haven’t a clue, but I’ll know it when I smell it. Her perfume is a blend of, I don’t know. It’s not crazy flowery like in here. No offense.”

“None taken.” She laughs.

“It’s sweet and maybe creamy. Does that sound stupid? Not peaches and coconut, but sometimes I pick up undertones.” Yeah, I’ve memorized her smell and her taste.

When I had my mouth plastered to hers, I inhaled so deep, trapping her scent in my veins.

“You’re quite close with her to give such a thorough assessment of her perfume.”

Oh, how wrong this nice woman is. “Any ideas?

“I don’t carry every flower in the shop but can have more variety tomorrow if you don’t find what you’re looking for.”

I follow her to a glass case and she opens the doors. Cool air washes over me, as does a blend of scents.

“I’ll take one out at a time for you to smell.” She hands me a stem with light purple flowers.

The strong scent is completely wrong. “Not even close.”

“Not lavender then.” She plucks an orange flower. “Try this one.”

I sniff it. “Closer, but not it.”

We go through a few more. Freesia, jasmine, and sweet pea. How perfect would it have been if her scent was the same nickname I have for Paisley? Although, that could be weird too.

“I can put in an order for some possibilities.”

I take out two hundred-dollar bills and place them on the counter. “Will this be enough to get you started?”

“More than enough.” She slides the money back to me. “There’s no need to pay in advance. If I find what you’re looking for, you can pay me then.”

“You’re an angel. Is tomorrow too soon?”

“It may be. Come back in two days and I’ll have an arrangement of sweet florals for you to inspect.”

“Can’t wait.” I tap the brim of my hat and head to practice.

Later that night, I work Kendall into conversation with Paisley, which isn’t hard because she’s a constant chatter box hellbent on detailing every second of kindergarten.

Steering her to a time when Kendall babysat, I ask, “Hey, Sweet Pea, do you remember when you and Miss Wentworth stopped for ice cream?”

“Yeah. We went to the park and she pushed me on the swings but not as high as you and then she watched me on the slide and the see-saw. She sat at the other end and isn’t as big as you, but she was more careful and didn’t make me fly in the air, but I like flying in the air with you.”

I should have known the simple question would turn into a series of run-on sentences. I let her ramble a little longer before I interrupt.

“What flavor ice cream did you and Miss Wentworth get?”

Paisley puckers her nose and mouth as she thinks deeply. “I got cotton candy on a cone. It dripped down my hand a lot and Miss Wentworth had a stack of napkins and kept wiping my hand for me.”

“That’s nice.” I rub my temples. “What flavor did she have?”

It’s a stretch, expecting a five-year-old to remember what flavor someone else had, but my daughter has a storage box of random details in that little skull of hers. She’s quite the observer. I’m sure it’s more so because she loves to get in everyone’s business, but I’ll use it to my advantage.

“She had chocolate with peanut butter chunks. Or maybe peanut butter candies. Like the peanut butter cups. She told us at school that chocolate peanut butter was her favorite. Remember when you made me a grilled peanut butter banana sandwich?”

Paisley drones on about peanut butter this and peanut butter that for another five minutes, but I’m not annoyed because she did me a solid.

Operation Grovel is now full-speed ahead.