Page 2 of Secret Love (The Single Dad Playbook #2)

CHAPTER TWO

NEW GIRL

TRU

I think about the hot guy—scratch that, he was all man —in the grocery store all the way to school. Henley . Unique name, but it fits him. He was so tall that even in my heels, he still stood a good five or six inches taller than me. His chest was so broad, I can only imagine how amazing a hug from him would feel. And those chocolate-brown eyes that crinkled when he smiled…I’m still feeling the warmth of those eyes and that smile.

My mom calls just as I’m pulling into the parking lot. I accept the call and her voice fills the car.

“Good morning! I can’t believe you’re still up. It’s past your bedtime.”

“Good morning! I was too excited to sleep. A kangaroo was in our yard earlier, and it was the cutest thing, but goodness, those things have a temper on them! It tried its best to kick me, but fortunately, I was fast. Anyway, I wanted to wish you a great first day of school!” She laughs and I smile, a wave of missing her hitting me in the gut. “You’re going to be running the place before we know it.”

I laugh. “Thanks, Mom. But I’m only the sub, remember?”

“It still counts! You’re doing what you’ve always wanted to do,” she says. “And they’ll love you so much, they’ll find a position for you if it’s not this one.”

“I love you. You’re always cheering me on, no matter what.”

“Always will, baby girl.”

I’m still smiling when I hang up the phone. I think my mom will be calling me her baby girl forever, but I don’t mind it when it’s coming from her. My ex-boyfriend, Chet, picked up on the nickname, and it grated on my nerves when he said it.

I was a substitute teacher in Boulder for a while, but when my parents moved to Sydney, I decided to find a place I love. I liked Boulder a lot, but it didn’t feel like home…especially after my mom left. My parents’ moves are always temporary, so unless I wanted to live in a new place constantly, I had to choose where I wanted to land. If they’d stayed in Guatemala, I would’ve lived there forever. We lived there for two years when I was ten and it felt like home to me. Once we moved from there, I never felt fully settled anywhere.

Passing through Silver Hills over the past few years, I’ve thought it seemed like a dream place to live, so I’m hoping to find a more permanent job here and find out.

As I’m getting out of the car, my phone buzzes and I turn the sound off while checking the text.

Mom

I meant to tell you that Dad sends his love.

I stare at the phone for a few seconds. I highly doubt my dad said anything of the sort, but my mom tries so hard to keep up the pretense that my dad and I have a great relationship. We don’t.

I’d like to believe that marriage is sacred, but when it comes to my parents, I wouldn’t shed a tear if they divorced. Mom’s given up several jobs she’s loved over the years to follow him. He’s moved her all over the world every few years with his job in engineering, and it’d be different if she wanted to move, but she’d love nothing more than to settle down somewhere at this point. It’d also be different if he treated her well, but he doesn’t. My mom is upbeat and bubbly and full of optimism with everyone but my dad; with him, she’s quiet and subservient and a shadow of herself.

It’s heartbreaking to watch.

I decide to not respond to my mom’s text. I need to get inside anyway. The hallways echo with the sound of my heels clicking against the floor. Students mill around here and there, but it’s not too busy yet. I make my way to the front office and smile when the receptionist looks up from behind her desk.

“Please tell me you’re our sub,” she says, sounding irritated.

“I am.” My grin widens, but it’s lost on…Mrs. Davenport, according to the nameplate on her desk. “I’m Tru Seymour,” I add.

I show her my district ID lanyard and she nods, handing me a form.

“I’ll get your key and you’ll be required to wear your lanyard and sign this log first thing each time you’re called back… if you’re ever called back,” she says. She looks me over and under her breath, she says, “Good luck in that getup.”

Well, that’s a pin stuck straight into my confidence balloon, but I think I hide the way I wilt inside very well.

“Let’s hope,” I say, crossing my fingers.

I sign the form and pay close attention when she tells me how to get to my class. Directions and I don’t go together very well.

By late morning, I’ve already had a sleepy class where the kids barely responded to anything I said, and a rowdy class where they were a little too caffeinated. The class before lunch is a nice balance. The kids are quiet but responsive. The assignment today involves the students reading their favorite passages from their favorite authors. It’s part of a project they’ve been working on. The huge poster boards with pictures, quotes, and facts about their favorite authors are set up around the room, and there are only a few left who haven’t done their reading passages.

My finger skims down the page for the next name and I see a red line. I look down the list to see if there are any other red lines, but there aren’t any. Those who went before today have already been graded by Mrs. Carboni and the ones who haven’t yet are blank. I’ve left notes on how I think they should be graded, but I’ll let Mrs. Carboni put it in her gradebook herself. That’s one of those boundaries I typically don’t cross as a substitute teacher unless given explicit direction to do so. I skip the name with the red line and we listen to the last two students read. There are still a few minutes left of class, so I circle back to the name with the red line.

“Cassidy Ward? Have you already had a turn?” I look around the room after glancing briefly at the seating chart. She’s sitting in the back and I could’ve guessed who she was without the chart due to her blooming red cheeks.

Her eyes flicker up to mine and I’m shocked to see tears in her eyes. She shakes her head.

“Did you complete the work?”

“Yes,” she says softly.

“Okay, let’s see it.” I smile encouragingly. I’m not sure how Mrs. Carboni feels about late work, but surely it counts for something that she finished the project.

Cassidy stands up and sets the folder on the desk next to where I’m standing.

“I put my poster back there before class,” she points to the far right in the back of the room, “and my folder was ready on time—the poster was too, but…I’d rather not do the reading if that’s okay.”

“Oh, I—” The bell rings, cutting us off, and everyone hurries to leave, including Cassidy.

I flip through her folder, smiling at the pictures Cassidy drew of Margaret Peterson Haddix. I’m a huge fan of MPH’s work, and Cassidy captured her perfectly. As I skim through the report, it’s also well done, and I walk back to look at the poster when I hear a phone ringing.

I search for the culprit and realize it’s the classroom phone too late. It stops ringing right before I get there, and I sit down at the desk, pulling out my lunch bag as I continue looking over Cassidy’s report. I wonder why she didn’t want to read the passages.

There’s a knock on the door and the sound of a throat clearing. When I glance up, the hot guy from the grocery store is the last person I expect to see standing there. Henley. He looks quite different from this morning. His thick black hair is not as unruly, and he’s wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, which does little to hide his muscular arms and chest. But the biggest difference is that his eyes are not warmly assessing me the way they were earlier. He’s scowling , his full lips curled in contempt.

I’m so flustered, I drop the folder on the desk and stare up at him.

“Well, well,” he says.

Well, well, indeed , my brain replies.

“I need to have a word with you, Mrs. Carboni,” he says sharply.

My mouth parts to jump in and correct him, but he doesn’t pause long enough.

“Did you really tell my daughter that she’s wasting your time?” He shakes his head. “I understand feeling that way sometimes, but that doesn’t mean you tell the child that. Do you know how sensitive kids this age are? Apparently, you don’t…which makes me question why you are even teaching middle school.”

I heat with the reprimand even though it has nothing to do with me.

“I don’t know why she didn’t turn in her project,” he goes on.

“Ah, you’re Cassidy Ward’s dad.”

His eyes narrow, and if anything, he looks angrier. “Yes, I’m Cassidy’s dad. Henley Ward.” His scowl deepens. “Did you tell more than one student that they were wasting your time?”

One hand goes to his hip and the other drags through his hair. I get distracted watching his thick hair fall back into place.

“She worked on it all last week and did a great job too. I looked it over myself. I encouraged her to turn it in and will talk with her more about it, but I just wanted to ask you to refrain from speaking to your students that way…EVER. AGAIN.”

Who the hell does he think he is? Way too many memories of watching my mom be berated by my dad flood through my mind, and I can’t tolerate it another second.

His jaw clenches and I jump in before he can say anything else.

“You’re one of those parents, I see.”

Two spots of color flood his cheeks and I lift an eyebrow.

“I’d probably be the same way if I were a parent,” I add. “But you needed to get your facts straight before you waltzed back here and gave me a piece of your mind.” I stand up and move around the front of the desk, folding my arms as I lean against it. “Cassidy turned her project in today. In fact, I was just looking it over when you stormed in.”

He swallows and those dark brown eyes that looked at me at the grocery store with such amusement and maybe even attraction now simmer with fury.

“I tend to agree—a student shouldn’t be told that she’s wasting the teacher’s time. However,” I hold up my hand when he starts to interrupt, “I don’t know the context of this statement…what Mrs. Carboni might’ve been referring to or what might’ve been said or done to provoke the statement… since I’m not Mrs. Carboni .”

His head rears back and he stands there for a few seconds, looking confused. I’d help him out further if my temper wasn’t a little spiky itself.

“You’re not Mrs. Carboni,” he states.

“No, I am not.”

A few seconds of silence follow.

“Well, now I feel like a true asshole,” he says.

I tilt my head like you said it, not me.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Tru…uh, Mrs.—” He lifts his eyebrows, waiting for me to fill in the rest.

“ Miss Seymour.” I look up at him, not bothering to smooth over this awkward moment.

“I…was out of line.”

“You were.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me.” He stares at me for a second and fiddles with the stapler on the desk. His tall, muscular frame makes the classroom feel smaller. “Uh…did you say Cassidy turned in her project?”

“Yes, she did. The bell rang just as she was turning it in.”

“Good.”

He taps the desk and looks at me through lowered brows. I still haven’t seen a wedding ring on his finger, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you,” he says. He gives me a crooked smile and my iciness thaws somewhat but not entirely.

I nod. “Have a nice day, Mr. Ward.” My voice is cool and his smile falters.

“Henley,” he says.

“Hmm. You can show yourself out, Mr. Ward.”

He sighs and walks to the door, looking at me over his shoulder one last time before walking out.

Well, that was disappointing. After such a fun interaction with Henley this morning, I didn’t see that coming.

Growing up, there were times I wished my dad would stand up for me, so I can respect that Henley did that for his daughter.

But a lifetime of being my dad’s emotional punching bag cured me of ever taking it from another man.

No, thank you.

I’d rather be single for the rest of my life than ever be spoken to that way again.