Page 17

K ENDALL

Since last night’s game was a late one, I’m guessing Nash doesn’t have to go to the stadium today. Or maybe not until later like he did a few weeks ago after a Monday night game. I hope this means he’ll be picking up Paisley this afternoon.

The day slogs on, as most Mondays do, and I ignore the teasing from my colleagues when no fruit or floral displays arrive. I settle in my rocking chair with the book Parker picked for me to read while we wait for the final bell to ring.

As soon as it does, Oliver, Daisy, and Bryce hurry to their cubbies to gather their things. They’re always the first to be picked up, and their nannies are never late. I wave them off and continue with the book.

Weston’s mom, Val Cummings, shows up next. In the three months of school, she’s only come by twice. I shouldn’t judge since Nash rarely picks up Paisley, but that’s because he works. Val works twenty-four seven spending her ex-husband’s money.

At least, that’s the gossip I pretend to ignore in the staff room. Weston slogs his way to gather his things, and I continue reading. When Val’s seductive voice fills the room, I pause and look up.

“My oh my.” She covers her chest—which has to be store bought—with her long acrylic nails and bats her long—also fake—lashes at Nash.

No judgment to those who like to enhance themselves, but Val is fake from head to toe.

“You’re Nash Humphries. I had no idea our lovely children attended school together. ”

She curls her bony fingers around his forearm, and even from across the room, I can read the discomfort in his face.

“Who is your precious child?”

The panic in his eyes may go unnoticed to the viper, but I can see it. Hell, I can feel it. He guards his privacy, mostly Paisley’s privacy, with his life. Seeing he needs help, I set the book down in the middle of the circle.

“We’ll finish tomorrow. The rest of you can get your things so you’re ready when your family comes.”

I make my way across the room to Val, ignoring Nash. “Hi, Mrs. Cummings. I haven’t seen you in a while. Weston must be excited you’re here to pick him up.”

Lies. In fact, Weston seemed like he couldn’t care less. Like the little adorable sloth he is, he drags his coat on the floor until he reaches us.

Val doesn’t pay him or me any attention, her heavily made up eyes are still batting away at Nash. He hasn’t spoken, and Paisley hasn’t noticed him yet. The protective mama bear in me is ready to show her claws.

Wait. Not mama. Protective teacher. And part-time babysitter.

“Weston, why don’t you hand your mother your backpack while I help you with your coat.”

Still, Val ignores us. I see why little Wes is in no hurry to get home and be ignored.

“I watched you on TV last night,” Val says, moving closer to Nash. “You’re so good at what you do.”

Oh. My. God. The woman is pathetic. I’m sure she recognizes Nash’s face because, well, he’s gorgeous, and the media has it splashed all over the place, especially in season, but I highly doubt the woman knows a single thing about the game.

“Uh, thanks.” Nash shifts on his feet and avoids making eye contact with her. He has a bag squished under his arm and his body is tense.

I’m not sure how else to bail him out. I zip up Weston and ruffle his hair, then take his backpack from him and shove it at Val. She stumbles at the impact and finally notices her son and me standing less than a foot away.

“Oh. Excuse you.”

“Hi, Mrs. Cummings,” I say again with a grin as fake as, well, everything about her. “Weston is packed up and ready to head home. Have a wonderful afternoon. Bye, sweetie,” I say to Weston, giving him a hug since I imagine he won’t get many at home.

Val opens her mouth to berate me, no doubt, when two other parents show up, clogging up the small entrance to my room.

“Gotta keep the line moving. See you in the morning, Wes.” I greet Mrs. Newton and Freya, Ginger’s nanny. “Paisley, Ginger, and Gabe, gather your things.”

It’s then that Paisley looks up and the smile on her face stretches from ear to ear. She runs to her daddy and he scoops her up, lifting her above his head before resting her on his hip. She smacks her palms on either side of his face and covers him with kisses.

“Hi, Daddy.” She giggles when he tickles her.

Hell, the two of them do things to my insides that I really don’t need stirring up.

“Miss Wentworth, I can’t find my sweatshirt,” Gabe calls from the other side of the room.

I glance at Nash before helping Gabe. By the time the kids have their things and are leaving with their parents, Nash and Paisley are gone. Shit. I didn’t even get to talk to him.

A few minutes later, the last child is picked up and I return to my desk. The bag that was squished under Nash’s arm sits on the edge of it. He wouldn’t have accidentally dropped it over here since my desk isn’t by the door.

I could text him and ask him if he dropped it, or I could take a peek. Like there’s an option. I open the bag and take out a Revolutions jersey with a big 56 on the front and Humphries stretched across the back.

The dirty look at last night’s game had to be because I wore Miles Buckingham’s jersey.

This is either a thoughtful gift since I told him I only owned one jersey, or it’s a sign of possession.

I’d much rather the latter, but Nash doesn’t own me.

Do I want him to possess me? Hell yeah. In every sexual way imaginable.

If he picked up Paisley today, that means he’s off from work. I don’t want to infringe on his sacred time with his daughter, so I wait to text him. I ponder all night on what to say. Last night when Rowan dropped me off, my plan was perfect.

Now, I’m second guessing myself. Nash didn’t stick around to talk with me. He didn’t even include a note with the jersey. I could be reading into the gifts as thoughtful gestures, as more apologies, or as him wooing me.

I’m totally okay with a nice blend of the three.

Once I’m finally settled into my bed, I pick up my phone and finally text him.

ME: Thank you for the chocolates, flowers, fruit, and jersey. That was very nice of you.

I wait a few minutes for his response. When ten minutes have gone by, I plug in my phone and set it on my nightstand. I toss and turn, get up to pee, then check my phone again. Nothing. Maybe he’s already asleep. It’s ten o’clock and he probably didn’t get home until close to one in the morning.

Or maybe he’s ignoring me. I finally fall asleep, and my alarm wakes me hours before I’m ready to get up. The first thing I do is check my phone. When I see a notification from Nash, I bite my lower lip and open it.

NASH POTATO: Sure.

Fucking sure? Sure? What the hell does that mean? Sure. Sure it was my pleasure to spoil you with gifts and treat you like you matter? Or sure thing, just doing my duty to cover my ass after being a dickwad?

Fucking hell. I stomp across the hall to the bathroom and scrub a little too vigorously at my scalp.

I have two options when getting dressed.

Throw up my hands and say fuck it and slick my hair back in a ponytail, skip the makeup, and dress as comfortably and slovenly as professionally acceptable.

Or I say fuck you and go all out with my hair and makeup and dress in something that will make me feel wanted, yet still professional for a kindergarten class.

I decide on fuck you and blow dry my hair and add soft curls.

I don’t apply my clubbing makeup, but I don’t skimp either.

Tight skirts, low-cut tops, and pointy heels aren’t conducive for teaching kindergartners, and I have recess duty today, so I tug on my electric-blue tight pants that make my ass look like a ripe peach.

I top it with a cream-colored sweater and slide into my tall beige boots.

I’m almost Instagram worthy. Figuring I’ll need to work out my frustration at the end of the day, I pack my Pilates things in a duffel and text Rowan, asking if she wants to join me in the four o’clock class.

I used to teach at Boston Strong, Riley’s sports performance center, but with all the donations coming in, she’s been able to expand and offer more services and support—free of charge—to low-income kids.

The room where I used to teach is now used for physical therapy for kids. I’m proud of my girl and the difference she’s making in kids’ lives.

It’s funny how Rowan, Riley, and I formed our friendship one day over Pilates.

It was then we learned we each had a passion for helping kids.

I teach, Rowan gives athletic training and support through her foundation, and Rowan’s about to be a pediatric nurse.

Yet, we’ve never talked about the desire to have kids.

It’s not that we don’t want them either, but our conversations have never been about finding Mr. Right, settling down, and popping out kids.

I can totally see Riley and Rowan wanting a dozen or so of their own. They have a gentle, nurturing touch.

I mean, I guess in some way I do as well since I haven’t gotten fired after ten years of teaching littles, but I’ve never thought about having my own family because I spend so much time helping my mom take care of Dani.

I poke my head in her room before leaving, and seeing she still asleep, curled into her stuffed pink horse, I make myself a coffee to go and head to work.

There are no more gifts this week, and I’m surprised how sad I am about it. Nash doesn’t owe me anything else. He was raw and honest with me. And I blew him off.

Hell. The plan I came up with Sunday night is still sitting in the back of my head, but now I think it’s the stupidest thing to offer. I’ll keep it on the backburner unless he gives me a sign that we could possibly be on the same page.