Page 2 of Turn My Crank

"Is that so?" I smile at her enthusiasm. I've only met Ms. Reeves briefly at the beginning of the school year, but Susie talks about her constantly. According to my daughter, Ms. Reeves hung the moon and stars.

"She's really pretty too," Susie adds casually, giving me a sidelong glance that's far too knowing for a six-year-old. "And she's not married."

Jesus. My kid is trying to set me up with her teacher. Again.

"Finish your breakfast, matchmaker," I tell her, pointing at her still-full bowl. "We need to go in three minutes."

"But you said we had ten minutes," she protests.

"That was seven minutes ago."

I glance at my watch and curse under my breath. We're definitely going to be late.

Somehow, we make it out the door by 8:15. The cupcakes are precariously balanced in the plastic container on Susie's lap as I navigate my old pickup through morning traffic. I've fixed updozens of cars, but mine remains a work in progress. The engine groans in protest as I accelerate, and I make a mental note to look at it this weekend.

"Don't forget Bunny has to come home with us tonight," Susie reminds me, referring to the well-loved class stuffed rabbit that gets to visit a different student's home each weekend. "It's my turn."

"I won't forget," I promise, though I've already added it to the mental list of things I'll probably forget. Between the shop, the club, and single fatherhood, my brain is perpetually overloaded.

We pull into the school parking lot at 8:28, technically not late but definitely cutting it close. I help Susie out of the truck, taking the container of cupcakes so she can grab her backpack.

"Walk, don't run," I remind her as we make our way across the parking lot. She's practically bouncing with excitement, her uneven pigtails—when did she do those?—bobbing with each step.

We reach her classroom just as the morning bell rings. Kids are still filing in, parents saying goodbyes at the door. I breathe a sigh of relief. We made it.

And then I see her.

Ms. Reeves stands at the door, greeting each child with a warm smile. She's wearing a simple blue dress that matches her eyes, her dark hair pulled back in a loose bun. There's a quiet grace about her that I didn't notice during our brief introduction months ago.

Susie breaks into a run despite my warning, throwing her arms around her teacher's waist. "Happy birthday, Ms. Reeves! We brought cupcakes!"

Ms. Reeves laughs, the sound light and genuine. "Thank you, Susie! What a wonderful surprise."

Her eyes lift to meet mine, and my breath catches. They're the kind of blue that reminds you of summer skies, clear and bright.

"Mr. Reynolds" she says, still smiling. "Thank you for the cupcakes. You really didn't have to go to all that trouble."

I shift the container in my arms, suddenly aware of how haphazardly I've arranged them. "It was no trouble," I lie. "And please, call me Colby."

"Colby," she repeats, and something about the way my name sounds in her voice makes my heart beat faster. "I'm Lacy."

Lacy. It suits her—delicate but not fragile.

"Daddy made a special effort," Susie pipes up, not-so-subtly looking between us. "He says it's important to celebrate special people."

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. "I think what I said was that your teacher works hard and deserves to be celebrated."

"Same thing," Susie shrugs, before ducking past Lacy into the classroom, mission accomplished.

Lacy takes the container from me, our fingers brushing briefly. "These look delicious."

"Store-bought, I'm afraid," I admit. "Baking isn't exactly in my skill set."

"Honesty is refreshing," she says with a small laugh. "Most parents pretend they've slaved over homemade treats."

"Not this parent. If it can't be fixed with a wrench, I'm pretty much useless."

"A mechanic, right?" She tilts her head slightly. "Susie mentions the garage a lot."

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