Page 2 of Single Dad’s Fake Bride (Billionaire Baby Daddies #7)

SADIE

" M arcus, pencil down." I stepped between desks as Marcus wound up for another throw. "We use words, not projectiles."

The boy grinned and lowered his weapon.

Behind me, Jamie Fletcher drew sword battles in his worksheet margins while Eloise Vale sat absorbed in her reading corner.

"Five more minutes," I announced. "Then cleanup and dismissal."

The classroom erupted in end-of-day energy.

I collected worksheets and mediated disputes over missing erasers until the bell rang and the stampede began.

While others rushed past, Eloise stayed behind packing her things.

Once her desk was cleared, she rose and walked to the whiteboard, picking up an eraser without being asked.

I followed her, pausing nearby as she started to wipe down the board.

It wasn't unusual behavior for her, though.

In fact, she had a habit of hanging out after class for a few minutes while the other children always rushed away.

"Did you finish the chapter in Anne of Green Gables ?" I asked, already knowing from yesterday's reading time that Eloise was nearing the scene with the slate and the first hints of real tension between Anne and Gilbert.

"Yes. Anne's being stubborn about Gilbert." She shook her head with mature exasperation. "She obviously likes him but keeps pretending she doesn't."

"Maybe she's scared. Sometimes when we care about someone, it feels safer to push them away."

I picked up the eraser next to her and joined her in the quick chore.

It made my heart warm to know she shared my love of reading.

Eloise considered this seriously. "That's sad. What if Gilbert gets tired of waiting?"

"Then Anne will live with her choice. But that's what makes a good story—characters real enough to frustrate us."

Eloise smiled and handed me the eraser. "You're my favorite teacher ever, Miss Quinn."

I felt my chest tighten—pride mixed with sorrow, warmth tangled with the knowledge that being a substitute at Hawthorne wouldn't last forever.

"Thank you," I managed. "You're pretty great too, Eloise." I resisted the urge to tousle her hair and turned toward the horde of other nine and ten-year-olds gathered by the open door as the bell rang.

Eloise beamed and gathered her backpack.

The remaining students filtered out one by one as I was calling weekend goodbyes and reminders about Monday's math quiz.

But Eloise lingered, organizing the supply caddy with characteristic thoroughness.

"Miss Quinn?" She glanced toward the door, then back at me. "Do you think Anne will figure it out? About Gilbert, I mean."

I perched on the corner of Mrs. Kaup's desk and gave Eloise my full attention. "What do you think?"

"I think she's too proud. She doesn't want to admit she was wrong about him."

Eloise aligned the pencils in Mrs. Kaup's pencil cup into perfect rows, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"But sometimes, people surprise you. Sometimes, they do the brave thing even when it scares them."

The insight struck me as remarkably mature for a nine-year-old. "That's very wise. Where did you learn that?"

"My dad, I guess. He says being brave doesn't mean you're not scared. It means you do the thing you're scared of anyway."

She looked up at me with those serious gray eyes that reminded me so much of myself at her age.

"He was scared when I was born, but he did it anyway. The dad thing, I mean."

My throat tightened unexpectedly.

"He told you that?" Being there for a student sometimes meant helping them with difficult emotions, and I wondered if this was one of those times for me.

"Not exactly. But I can tell. He gets this look when he talks about when I was little. Like he was scared or something."

She moved to the bookshelf and straightened the spines with the same careful attention she'd used on the pencils and then glanced over her shoulder as she asked, "Do you have kids, Miss Quinn?"

"No, I don't."

"Do you want them someday?"

The question caught me off guard.

Most children didn't ask such personal questions, but Eloise had always been different—more observant, more direct in her curiosity about the adult world.

And she was very grown up too, probably the most mature child in this class.

I chalked that up to her life as an only child with no mother, but what did I know?

"I think I would," I said carefully. "But it's complicated."

She nodded as if this made perfect sense. "Everything good is complicated. That's what makes it worth it."

I stared at her, wondering where this philosophical nine-year-old had come from and how she'd learned to articulate things that took most adults decades to understand.

"Where did you live before you came to Hawthorne?" I asked.

"I've always been at Hawthorne…" She moved to the reading corner and fluffed the cushions methodically. "But I don't sleep here." Eloise stopped and looked up at me with full concentration. "He says children should sleep in their own beds down the hall from their own parents."

"What do you think?" I asked her, now more serious.

A student who didn't board here at the school must've felt like an outsider, especially one with Eloise's eccentricities.

It made me feel compassion for her.

She considered this with more seriousness than necessary, but that was just how she was.

"I like it here. I like my school, and my room, and the way Dad makes pancakes on Sunday mornings. But I don't think I'd like sleeping away from my dad." She paused, then added quietly, "But I like you too, Miss Quinn. You make learning feel fun instead of hard."

The simple honesty of it made my chest ache.

"You make teaching feel fun instead of hard."

She grinned, and for a moment she looked exactly like the child she was instead of the small adult she often seemed to be.

"We make a good team."

"We do indeed."

The sound of footsteps in the hallway interrupted our conversation.

Eloise's face lit up as she recognized the familiar cadence.

"That's my dad," she said, shouldering her backpack with a grin on her face. "He's always exactly on time."

Harrison Vale appeared in the doorway, and I registered it and moved past without dwelling on it.

He was tall and lean, dressed in dark jeans and a charcoal wool sport coat.

His hair was slightly mussed from the wind, and there was something about the way he moved—controlled but not stiff—that drew my attention despite my better judgment.

"Ready?" he asked Eloise, but his gray eyes found mine over her head.

"Almost." Eloise hurried to my desk and retrieved a forgotten worksheet. "Miss Quinn was helping me understand Anne Shirley better."

"Was she?" Harrison stepped into the classroom, and I caught a hint of his cologne—something clean and expensive that made me suddenly aware of my own appearance.

My hair had escaped its bun hours ago, and my cardigan bore evidence of a day spent with twenty-three children.

I tugged it more tightly around my body and smiled as I hugged myself.

"Eloise has some very insightful observations about the characters," I said, smoothing my skirt self-consciously with one hand. "She understands emotional complexity better than most adults."

"She gets that from reading so much." His voice carried the quiet pride of a devoted parent. "Thank you for encouraging her. I know she can be… intense about books."

"Intense is wonderful in a student. It means she cares."

I glanced at Eloise, who was pretending to organize her backpack while clearly listening to every word. "She's a pleasure to teach."

Harrison's expression softened slightly. "How long have you been teaching at Hawthorne?"

The question seemed casual, but there was something in his tone that suggested genuine interest rather than mere politeness.

"Since December. I'm covering Mrs. Kaup's maternity leave."

"And after that?"

I felt heat rise in my cheeks.

The uncertainty of my situation wasn't something I liked to discuss, especially with parents who clearly had no financial worries.

"I'm not sure yet. It depends on when Mrs. Kaup returns and whether there are other openings. I'm a substitute, so about as close to being a nomad as a teacher can be, I guess."

My go-to response didn't gain the chuckle I hoped for, and I wondered if Eloise got her ultra-serious side from her father.

He nodded thoughtfully, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was seeing more than I intended to reveal.

"What brought you here in the first place?"

The question was gentle but direct, and I found myself wanting to give him an honest answer despite my usual reluctance to discuss personal matters with parents.

"I needed the work," I said simply. "Hawthorne has an excellent reputation, and I thought it would be good experience. I didn't expect to love it as much as I do."

"But you do? Love it, I mean."

I smiled at him thoughtfully.

"The students are exceptional. The resources are incredible." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "It's the kind of environment where real learning can happen."

"Dad," Eloise interjected, clearly growing impatient with adult conversation. "Can we stop at the bookstore? I want to see if they have Anne of Avonlea ."

"We'll see," he said automatically, but his attention remained focused on me. "Sadie—Mrs. Quinn—thank you for staying late. I know Eloise appreciates the extra attention."

The sound of my first name in his voice sent an unexpected shiver through me. "Miss… And it's my pleasure. Really."

We stood there for a moment in what felt like charged silence.

I was acutely aware of the empty classroom around us, the late afternoon light slanting through the windows, the way he was looking at me as if he were trying to solve some kind of puzzle.

"We should go," he said finally, but he didn't move toward the door.

"Yes," I agreed, though I made no effort to gather my things.

Eloise saved us both by marching to the door with the decisive energy of a child who had places to be.

"Come on, Dad. The bookstore closes at six."

Harrison smiled—a real smile this time, not the polite expression he wore for parent-teacher interactions.

"Right. Books wait for no one," he told her, but his eyes stayed fixed on me for a full ten seconds longer, and I was glad when he turned so he didn't see the heat creeping into my cheeks.

He followed his daughter toward the door, then paused at the threshold.

"Have a good weekend, Miss Quinn," he said.

"You too, Mr. Vale."

After they left, I stood alone in my classroom, surrounded by the familiar aftermath of a school day.

Chairs needed to be put up, supplies organized, the whiteboards wiped down with cleaner.

But for several minutes I simply stood there, replaying the conversation and trying to ignore the way my pulse had quickened during those moments of unexpected connection.

Harrison Vale was handsome, certainly, but that wasn't what unsettled me.

I'd met handsome men before.

It was the way he listened when I spoke, the thoughtful questions he asked, the genuine warmth in his voice when he talked about his daughter.

There was something about him that made me interested, and that was dangerous territory for someone in my position.

I'd learned long ago that wealthy men were charming by nature and by necessity.

They moved through the world expecting doors to open for them, expecting people to accommodate their needs and desires.

They collected women the way they collected art or cars—as beautiful objects that reflected their status and taste—only to ditch those women when they'd had their fill.

I had no intention of becoming anyone's latest acquisition.

I forced myself to focus on the mundane tasks that anchored me to reality.

Chairs on desks, supplies in their proper places, tomorrow's lesson plan reviewed and ready.

This was my world—practical, predictable, earned through hard work rather than inherited privilege.

By the time I'd finished cleaning up, the school was quiet except for the distant sound of the maintenance crew beginning their evening rounds.

I packed my tote bag with the weekend's grading and headed for the door.

My phone buzzed in my purse, and. I fumbled for it, expecting a text from a friend or maybe a robocall about my car warranty.

Instead, I saw Mom's name on the screen.

The phone rang again, and I sighed as I pulled it out.

"Hi, Mom," I answered, not sure what this call would bring but not really ready to jump into caring for her.

I hadn't even had ten minutes to myself yet today.

"Sadie?" Her voice was thick, slurred in a way that made my stomach clench with familiar dread.

She was drunk.

Again.

"Sadie, I need… I don't feel good, honey. I'm really sick this time."

The charm of the day evaporated instantly, replaced by the cold weight of responsibility and fear.

In the space of a single phone call, I went from thinking about attractive single fathers and uncertain job prospects to calculating how much money I had in my checking account and whether Mom needed to go to a doctor this time.

"What's wrong?" I asked, already reaching for my keys. "What kind of sick?"

It wasn't the first time I'd gotten a call like this, and I knew unless Mom got sober it wouldn't be the last.

It made the bittersweet ache of leaving work with such sweet children even worse, knowing at home I was the parentified child and I would be for the foreseeable future.