Page 169 of The Overtime Kiss

Her mom looks on knowingly. “She sure does.”

“A plan is good,” I say.

And I have one too—to build and grow this business. That is what I’m going to do. And I don’t need the distraction of a man getting in the way.

And he, clearly, doesn’t need or want the distraction of me.

So I don’t give that to him.

I take care of the kids. I pick them up. I chauffeur them to their activities. I coach Luna on her single axel at the rink. I visit High Kick Coffee with them, say hi to their great-grandmother while they do homework and try out her newest treats.

If I were keeping a list of all my nanny accomplishments, I’d be acing it. Because I am excellent at this.

And really, that has to be good enough.

Tiffany is working on her bunny hop, making progress faster than I’d expected.

“Go you! You’re acing it already,” I say as she shows me her moves at our next lesson.

“Itoldyou I could do it,” she says.

“You were right.”

When the lesson ends, her mom beckons me over to her spot on the bench.

“So…I’ve been thinking.”

My heart skips faster. I have a feeling. “Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking about lessons,” she says.

I want to squeal, but I keep my composure. “And?”

“And I kind of want to do a girls’ night out on the rink. Just me and my besties. What do you think?”

Goosebumps rise on my arms. I think that sounds amazing. “I wouldloveto host it,” I say, already thinking of ideas, things to teach them, basic moves, the fun we can have.

“Perfect. Let’s do it.”

Later that day, before I pick up the kids, I slide into a booth at Moon Over Milkshakes with Isla, Trevyn, and Leighton. Beach music plays faintly overhead and servers bustle by with plates of burgers and fries, sandwiches and salads.

“How’s everything going?” Leighton asks me, her tone lined with concern. Like she senses I might be going through some shit.

But I am not dwelling. I am not wallowing.

“Great!” I say, then urge them to order and once we do, I dive into updates about my students’ progress. “And it occurred to me—I should do girls’ nights out. I should offer that. Isn’t that a great idea? Especially since I’m skating this weekend at the Sea Dogs arena again. It would be a great opportunity to capitalize on that. By having girls’ night out options on my site,” I say, then snap my fingers. “Oh, that reminds me—I need to post the skating video that Ty?—”

But I swallow the wordTyler.

I don’t want to go there. Don’t want to rehash the hurt.

The more I throw myself into work, the less I’ll feel it. The faster I’ll move on.

“Tyler,” Isla supplies, tilting her head from across the mint green booth. “What’s going on, friend?”

My heart squeezes. My throat tightens.

“Sweetie,” Trevyn says, reaching for my hand. “You can tell us.”

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