Page 5 of Single Dad’s Fake Bride (Billionaire Baby Daddies #7)

SADIE

T he afternoon had been chaos from start to finish.

By dismissal time, I felt as wrung out as a dishrag.

The students filed out in their usual stampede of backpacks and chatter, leaving behind the familiar debris of childhood education—crumpled papers, forgotten lunch boxes, and one mysteriously damp mitten that nobody claimed.

I was stacking chairs on desks when I heard footsteps in the hallway.

Most teachers had left already, and the custodial staff wouldn't arrive for another hour.

I glanced toward the door, expecting to see a parent retrieving forgotten homework or a colleague making the rounds.

Instead, Harrison Vale stood in the doorway, hands tucked into his coat pockets, that familiar expression of careful observation on his face.

"Mr. Vale." I set down the chair I'd been holding and smoothed my cardigan. "Is everything all right? Did Eloise forget her backpack?"

"No, she's at home working on a book report."

He stepped into the classroom, his gray eyes taking in the organized chaos of my end-of-day routine. "I was driving by and saw your car in the lot. Thought I'd check in."

The explanation felt thin given that he'd left the school only forty minutes ago to take her home, but I nodded as if it made perfect sense for the parent of a student to drop by unannounced after school hours.

"How's the book report going?"

I kept moving, picking things up, cleaning the space so I wouldn't stand there feeling awkward.

"She's writing about Anne of Green Gables , naturally. Five pages on character development and thematic elements." His mouth curved into a smirk. "I suspect she's going to exceed the assignment requirements by a considerable margin."

"That sounds like Eloise. She doesn't do anything halfway."

"She gets that from me, I'm afraid. Once we commit to something, we tend to see it through to the bitter end."

He moved closer, and I caught that same clean scent I'd noticed before—expensive cologne mixed with something indefinably masculine.

"How are things going? With the class, I mean. You mentioned uncertainty about your position here."

I stopped and clutched the stack of notebooks I'd picked up to my chest as I faced him.

"It's day-to-day," I said carefully. "Mrs. Kaup's recovery is taking longer than expected, so I'm here at least through the end of the quarter. After that…" I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant about the uncertainty that kept me awake most nights.

"And after that, you'd want to stay? If the position became permanent?"

I studied his face, searching for clues about why he was asking these questions.

His expression remained neutral, but there was an intensity in his eyes that suggested more than casual curiosity.

I knew the headmaster had passed away, and while I couldn't confirm with certainty that Eloise was related to him—maybe his granddaughter—I'd had my suspicions.

Maybe Harrison was insinuating something?

"I love it here," I admitted. "The students, the resources, the community. It's exactly the kind of environment I always hoped to work in."

"But?"

Harrison shifted, leaning on the back of one of the students’ chairs.

He'd heard the hesitation in my voice, the unspoken complications that came with loving a job I knew was temporary.

But that was the life of a substitute teacher.

I could be in a new city in two months and it wouldn't be my choice.

"But loving something doesn't always mean you get to keep it," I said finally. "Sometimes, circumstances make choices for you."

He nodded as if this resonated with something in his own experience. "Circumstances can be… challenging. But they can also change."

"Not always in the direction you want them to." I moved, heading toward my desk to sit down.

My feet were tired and I was ready to go home.

"True." He was quiet for a moment, studying my face. "What do you think of Hawthorne? Not just as a workplace, but as an institution. Do you think it lives up to its reputation?"

The question felt loaded, though I couldn't pinpoint why.

"It's an exceptional school. The academic standards are rigorous, the facilities are outstanding, and most of the families genuinely care about their children's education."

"Most of them?"

I hesitated, unsure how much honesty was appropriate in this conversation.

"There are always parents who see education as a commodity they're purchasing rather than a partnership they're entering. But that's true everywhere, not just at private schools."

"And the administration? The board? Do you think they understand what makes education effective?"

The questions were becoming increasingly specific, and I felt as if I were being interviewed for a position I hadn't applied for.

"I think they care about maintaining Hawthorne's reputation and ensuring its financial stability. Whether that always aligns with educational excellence…"

I let the sentence trail off diplomatically as I sank into my seat and set the notebooks down.

"You're very tactful," he observed. "It's a useful quality in this environment."

"It's a survival skill in any environment where you're not the one writing the checks."

The blunt honesty surprised us both.

I felt heat rise in my cheeks, embarrassed by the admission of financial vulnerability I usually kept hidden.

"I didn't mean?—"

"You meant exactly what you said, and you're right." His voice was gentle, without a trace of condescension. "It's honest. I appreciate honesty."

We stood there surrounded by small desks and colorful bulletin boards while something shifted in the air between us.

I was acutely aware of how I must look—tired, rumpled, my hair escaping its bun after a long day.

He looked as composed as ever, but I noticed his shoes—plain old Doc Martins.

Not the expensive stuff I'd seen other parents wearing.

It puzzled me, and I found myself staring at them wondering what sort of man Harrison Vale was.

"You're beautiful," he said quietly.

The words snapped me out of my critical examination of his clothing and I laughed, a sound that came out more nervous than amused.

My hands busied themselves arranging pencils in the cup.

"That's very kind, but I look like I've been wrestling with elementary students all day. Which, technically, I have."

"You look like someone who cares about her work. Someone who puts her students' needs before her own comfort."

He moved closer, and I felt my body grow stiff as I met his gaze. "That's beautiful."

The compliment felt genuine in a way that made my chest tight with an emotion I couldn't name.

When was the last time someone had noticed that I cared, rather than simply expected me to perform?

"Eloise is lucky to have you as a teacher," he continued. "And as a friend. She talks about you constantly."

I seized on the safer topic, grateful for the redirect.

"She's an extraordinary child. Thoughtful, insightful, genuinely kind. You've done an amazing job raising her."

"I've done my best. It hasn't always been easy, doing it alone."

I knew from school records that Eloise lived with her father, but I'd never heard any details about her mother or their family situation.

So why was I now looking down at his left hand?

What was wrong with me?

He wasn't my type—did I even have a type?

I awkwardly sat there, unable to speak, and he continued for me.

"I should let you finish up here," he said, glancing around the classroom. "Thank you for the conversation. It's been… illuminating."

"Of course. Have a good evening, Mr. Vale."

"Harrison," he corrected. "After hours, I think we can dispense with formalities."

"Harrison," I repeated, testing the name on my tongue.

It suited him—traditional, solid, with an edge of old-fashioned elegance.

He headed toward the door, then paused at the threshold. "Sadie? Take care of yourself. You work too hard."

After he left, I stood alone in my classroom.

I finished stacking chairs and gathering my materials, but my movements felt automatic, my mind elsewhere.

There had been something different about Harrison tonight—more open, more curious.

He was definitely checking me out, and I didn't know how to feel about it.

The drive home through Cape Cod's winding roads felt longer than usual.

My Honda coughed and wheezed through the hills, reminding me of yet another expense I couldn't afford to address.

The radio played softly, but I barely heard it over the replay of our conversation in my head.

He thought I was beautiful.

By the time I pulled into my apartment complex, full darkness had settled over the converted Victorian.

I climbed the narrow stairs to my second-floor unit, keys jingling softly in the quiet hallway.

The smell hit me as soon as I opened the door—stale alcohol mixed with cigarettes and the sour odor of unwashed clothes.

My heart sank as I took in the scene—Mom sprawled on my futon, still wearing yesterday's outfit, empty wine bottles scattered on the coffee table like accusatory witnesses.

I set down my bag and began the familiar routine of damage control.

Bottles in the recycling bin, cigarette butts disposed of, windows cracked to let in fresh air.

Mom didn't stir, lost in the deep sleep of someone who had drunk herself into oblivion.

The stress of the day settled into my shoulders and I decided I needed a shower, needed to wash away the classroom dust and the lingering scent of desperation that seemed to cling to me lately.

Under the hot spray, I let myself relax for the first time in hours.

The tension in my neck began to ease, and my thoughts drifted back to the unexpected encounter with Harrison.

The way he'd looked at me, really looked, as if he were seeing someone worth his attention.

The genuine warmth in his voice when he'd called me beautiful.

Heat and steam wrapped around me, but the memory of Harrison’s eyes burned hotter.

I closed my own, leaning into the spray as exhaustion and tension tangled in my muscles.

It had been so long since anyone had looked at me that way, as if I wasn’t just another worn-out teacher scraping by, but someone worth seeing.

My hands slid over my arms, slow, absent at first, just chasing comfort.

But my mind wouldn’t let go of the image of him standing in my classroom doorway—broad-shouldered, calm, that faint trace of cologne clinging to the air between us.

I remembered the way his gaze had held me still, the low warmth of his voice saying I was beautiful.

The thought made my breath hitch, my palms flattening against slick skin as a different kind of tension coiled low in my stomach.

I let my head fall forward, letting the water mask the sound of my uneven breathing.

God, it had been forever since I’d felt anything close to this—a need that wasn’t about survival or stress relief, but about being wanted.

My thighs pressed together unconsciously, the ache sharp enough that my body refused to ignore it.

My hand slid down, slow at first, until my fingers found the place that throbbed with need.

A breath caught in my throat as I pressed harder, chasing a feeling I hadn’t let myself have in too long.

My other hand flattened on the tile, keeping me steady while I moved my fingers in tight, sure strokes.

I pictured Harrison behind me in the shower instead of standing in my classroom doorway.

I imagined his chest close to my back, his hand gripping my hip, his mouth against my neck.

He would say the same thing he’d said earlier, but rougher this time, his lips brushing my ear as he called me beautiful.

The thought sent a shiver through me.

My hips rocked forward, my breath turning ragged as I worked myself faster.

I imagined him turning me toward him, pinning me against the wall, his thigh parting mine as his hands slid everywhere I craved them.

My fingers slipped over swollen flesh, heat spreading fast through my stomach, my legs starting to shake.

A low sound left my throat, the shower hiding it from anyone else, but the fantasy only burned hotter.

I wanted his hands, his weight, his mouth on me until I couldn’t think anymore.

I imagined Harrison’s hands covering mine, guiding the pace, his voice low and rough in my ear telling me not to stop.

The image tightened something deep inside me, need twisting hard, unstoppable now.

In my mind, he lifted me, pressed me to the wall, his hips grinding against me as his mouth claimed mine.

I felt the phantom heat of him everywhere, his weight pinning me, his fingers replacing mine and working me harder, relentlessly until I broke apart for him.

The fantasy dragged me closer to the edge, every muscle straining, my breath coming out in broken sounds I couldn’t hold back.

The climax ripped through me, my knees weak as I sagged against the wall.

A small cry escaped my throat, muffled by the rush of water.

My body trembled as waves of pleasure rolled through me, leaving me spent and shaking, clinging to the tile for support.

When it passed, I stood there catching my breath, water pouring over my flushed skin, the thought of Harrison still lingering like a secret I couldn’t wash away.

And it was chased by shame that I'd allowed myself to want that—to desire a man I knew was entirely out of my league, and based on previous experience in my life, probably not the type of man who would stick around.

I shut the water off and climbed out of the shower after rinsing off.

The sore spot in my heart left behind when my father ran out on us and left my mother to spiral into alcoholism would never quite heal.

I knew that much.

But I'd gotten better at letting it go.

Still, the last thing I needed was to get wrapped in a man just like him who'd only end up deserting me the way my father deserted my mom…

I saw the red flags from miles away.

I wrapped myself in a towel, feeling more relaxed than I had in weeks, when a crash from the living room shattered the peaceful moment.

"Sadie!" Mom's voice, slurred and panicked, echoed through the thin walls.

"Sadie, where are you? I need… I need a drink. What did you do with my wine!"

And just like that, my peaceful moment was gone, shattered by the reality that life never quite worked out the way we planned.

"Coming, Mom," I called, and I braced myself for dealing with a situation I wished would just go away.

I wanted my mom back.

And I wanted her whole.