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

SADIE

I closed my laptop and gathered the last of the worksheets from my desk, trying to ignore the restless energy that had been building all afternoon.

The classroom emptied quickly after the final bell, but Eloise lingered by the window, her backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Miss Quinn?"

She turned toward me with that earnest expression she wore when she had been thinking about something important.

"Do you think my father would let me stay after school tomorrow? I want to finish the poetry project."

"You'll have to ask him," I said, checking the clock on the wall. "Speaking of your father, shouldn't you be meeting your sitter?"

"She's waiting by the main entrance."

Eloise adjusted her backpack straps.

"But I wanted to tell you that I loved the Emily Dickinson poems you shared today. The one about hope having feathers made me think of the cardinal that visits our kitchen window."

I smiled, remembering how she had raised her hand three times during that discussion, each question more thoughtful than the last.

"I'm glad they resonated with you. Poetry has a way of connecting us to things we might not have noticed before."

"That's exactly what I mean." She beamed. "See you tomorrow, Miss Quinn."

After she left, I finished packing my bag and headed toward the courtyard.

The January air carried the crisp scent of snow approaching and woodsmoke from someone's fireplace nearby.

Students moved in clusters across the brick pathways, their voices creating a gentle hum that would fade as they dispersed toward home or evening activities.

I had nearly reached the parking lot when I heard my name.

"Miss Quinn."

I turned to find Harrison Vale approaching from the direction of the administrative building.

He wore his familiar charcoal wool coat and his expression carried the same careful politeness I had grown accustomed to during our brief interactions at school events.

"Mr. Vale." I shifted my bag to my other shoulder. "Eloise left a few minutes ago. She was looking for her sitter."

It was unusual for him to send her with a sitter, but parents sometimes had to do that.

Still, I was curious why he'd sent her with a sitter when he was here anyway.

"I sent her ahead."

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could see the pale gray of his eyes.

"I was wondering if you might have time for coffee. There's something I'd rather discuss away from campus."

The request caught me off guard.

In the months I had been teaching at Hawthorne, our conversations had been limited to polite exchanges about Eloise's progress or brief acknowledgments when we passed in the hallways.

I tried to read his expression, but his face revealed nothing beyond that controlled composure he seemed to maintain at all times.

"Now?" I asked, glancing around.

Other than going home to care for my mother, I had no plans, but heat flushed my cheeks at the idea of doing something with him outside of the professional setting.

I remembered the way I touched myself in the shower thinking of him and it had me squirming uncomfortably.

"If you're free." He glanced toward the parking lot. "There's a place called Mariner's Rest about three blocks from here. It's quiet and they have good coffee."

Curiosity won over caution. "All right."

The walk took us through the residential streets that bordered the academy grounds.

Harrison matched my pace but remained quiet, his hands buried in his coat pockets.

I found myself stealing glances at his profile, wondering what could be important enough to warrant this unusual invitation.

I was just the substitute teacher, not anyone of significance, though Eloise was a special child.

I convinced myself it was nothing more than him asking about her schooling, and after one block of walking in step, I realized he wasn’t going to open up until we were seated with drinks in our hands.

Mariner's Rest occupied the corner of a tree-lined street, its weathered shingles and blue shutters giving it the appearance of a house that had been converted rather than built for commercial use.

The interior felt warm and lived-in, with mismatched furniture and local artwork covering the walls.

Harrison chose a table near the front window, away from the few other customers scattered throughout the space.

"What can I get you?" he asked, already standing to approach the counter.

"Coffee. Black."

I settled into my chair and watched as he placed our order with the barista, a young woman who smiled at him with obvious recognition.

When he returned with two ceramic mugs, I wrapped my hands around mine and inhaled the rich aroma.

"Thank you for agreeing to this," he said, taking the seat across from me. "I know it's unusual."

"A little." I took a sip of my coffee, which was indeed excellent. "But I'm curious."

He nodded, then seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking again.

"I wanted to talk about Eloise. About what you've done for her this year."

I felt heat rise in my cheeks.

"I'm just doing my job."

"It's more than that."

His voice carried a conviction that made me look up from my mug. "She talks about your class constantly. The books you've introduced her to, the way you encourage her questions. She's always been a good student, but she's never been this engaged."

"She's a remarkable child," I said, keeping my tone very professional to mask how my insides were churning. "Curious and thoughtful. Those qualities were already there."

"Maybe. But you brought them out."

He leaned back in his chair, and for the first time since I had known him, his expression seemed less guarded.

"She mentioned that you've been reading together during lunch periods."

"She asked about extra reading time after we discussed Gothic literature in class. I had a copy of Anne of Avonlea in my desk drawer." I shrugged.

"And the poetry journal?"

"Also her idea. She said she wanted to try writing her own poems after we studied Robert Frost."

I studied his face, searching for some indication of where this conversation was headed.

"Is there a problem with any of this?"

Any teacher wants to feel supported by the parents of the students they're teaching, but for some reason I wanted that from him more than other teachers.

Most likely, it was my strange fascination with his praise the other day, so I tried to push it down.

"The opposite."

He took a long sip of his coffee, then set the mug down carefully.

"Have you always had a way with children?"

The question seemed to come from genuine curiosity rather than polite small talk.

I considered how to answer honestly without revealing too much about my own complicated history.

"I never planned to teach," I said finally. "It was more of a necessity than a calling."

"What did you plan?"

"Writing. Fiction, mostly." I felt the familiar pang of that abandoned dream. "But that doesn't pay the bills."

"Where did you grow up?"

The shift toward personal questions made me wary, but something in his tone suggested he was asking because he genuinely wanted to know, not because he was making conversation about my skill set.

Eloise was miles away from this conversation now, and we inched closer to something bordering on intimate with every question.

"Falmouth," I said. "My mother and I lived in a small apartment near the harbor."

"Just the two of you?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to elaborate on that particular subject. Harrison seemed to sense my reluctance and moved on.

"Where did you study?"

"UMass Amherst for undergrad. English literature with a minor in education." I took another sip of coffee, buying myself time. "The education classes were supposed to be a backup plan."

"And graduate school?"

"Community college for my teaching certificate. Part-time while I worked." I met his eyes across the table. "Why all the questions?"

He smiled then, a real smile that transformed his entire face and made him look younger. "You're kind of hard to ignore, you know that?"

The comment and the way he delivered it sent warmth blossoming through my chest.

I rolled my eyes and laughed, partly from surprise and partly from the unexpected pleasure of seeing him drop his usual reserve.

"You're not the first person to tell me that," I said. "Though never quite in that tone."

The words hung between us for a moment, creating a charged awareness that made me shift in my seat.

Harrison cleared his throat and looked down at his hands wrapped around his mug.

"Eloise is lucky to have you as a teacher," he said, his voice returning to that careful control. "She's grown more confident this year. More willing to share her thoughts."

"She's always been confident. Maybe she just needed someone to listen." I felt the conversation drifting back toward safer territory, though the warmth from his earlier comment still lingered. "She has remarkable insights for someone her age."

"She gets that from reading. Always has a book with her." He glanced out the window, where the late afternoon light was beginning to fade. "Her mother wasn't much for literature."

The mention of Eloise's mother surprised me.

Harrison had never spoken about her before, and I had learned not to ask personal questions about the families of my students.

"Reading can be a solace," I said carefully.

"Yes." He turned his attention back to me. "I think that's part of what draws her to you. You understand that books can be companions."

The observation was more perceptive than I had expected, and I found myself wondering what else Harrison Vale might understand about loneliness and the comfort of fictional worlds.

Before I could respond, he straightened in his chair and his expression became more serious.

"Actually, there's something else I need to discuss with you."

He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully.

"Something that affects both Eloise and me. And potentially you."

I set down my mug and waited.