Page 3 of Class Act

“Hillary, that’s so kind of you to invite me, but birthday parties are special, and your dad has never met me,” I said gently, hiding my relief at being able to turn down the invite without her father being involved in the discussion. “Do you have a friend you can invite?”

Her smile dipped, and she bit her lip as she thought. “No. Daddy says it’s for adults, and the only kids allowed are me and Henry.”

Henry, her ten-year-old brother, was across the cafeteria eating one of the tacos I was supposed to be selling as a part of tonight’s school fundraiser fair. The sight of the taco had me looking to where I’d left Meredith alone with a tub of taco meat. The line had grown to rival Disneyland. Neither of us understood the draw, but both of us had pasted on a cheerful face and pretended the tacos weren’t going to cause a bad case of indigestion later. Nothing like forking out good money for school lunch tacos and then paying all over again when it hit your stomach.

My eyes sneaked back to Hillary’s dad. Ford. Even his name was dreamy. I cleared my throat and tamped down that thought.

“I’m sure you and Henry will have a good time together,” I said kindly.

“No,” she shook her head. “Brothers aren’t that fun at fancy parties. But I think Daddy would let me invite you. You’re an adult, you know.” Her little nose scrunched up. “I know how to fix this. I’ll have you meet him, then you aren’t a stranger.”

I opened my mouth to suggest, I don’t know, anything else, but she darted over to her dad and tugged on his sleeve. I’d done this to myself, really. I should never had said the part about him not knowing me.

He was still speaking with another parent, so he gave her a pat on the back and wrapped up the conversation while I tugged down the front of my apron and reached up to smooth my hair. He’d never met me and now this taco princess outfit was going to be his first impression of me. It was a letdown, to say the least.

My imaginary world and the real world were not ready to collide. I needed to stop this. I needed time to prepare before coming face-to-face with those charismatic vibes he was giving off that had nothing at all to do with playing pretend.

Mr. Whittaker finished up his conversation and glanced down to Hillary. I noticed his expression soften, and I tilted my head to the side at the shift. It was subtle but sweet and told me a lot about his relationship with his little girl. I was glad. He’d been widowed when Hillary was only three years old, and although Hillary loved her nanny, I’d worried that her dad was . . . Well, it didn’t matter what I’d worried about because he was looking at me and walking my way.

So this is what it felt like to have those eyes focus on me. It was almost as good as when Fake Ford . . . nope . . .

I forced a serene smile. “Hello, Mr. Whittaker. I’m Hailey Thomas. I taught Hillary when she transferred schools last year.”

He reached out a hand and, oh my gosh, we were going to touch. I wondered if his hands would be soft or calloused. Would his grip be strong or that dead fish thing that I hated so much? Our hands had almost connected before I remembered I was wearing plastic gloves covered in taco meat, and I hastily stopped the progress of my hand. Then I remembered I had just smoothed my hair with this hand, and I could only imagine how taco meat juice looked strung through my short and sleek white-blonde bob. Fantastic.

“I’m sorry,” I forced a chuckle even as my mind was screaming at me to run to the bathroom and fix the damage, “I almost forgot, I’m covered in taco meat.”

I waved my hands at him, and his hand dropped. It was for the best. I was barely keeping from passing out as it was. My hands trembled at my side as I waited for him to speak. What would his voice sound like? Would it be like the videos on his company page, or would it sound different in person? Would it be rehearsed and professional or casual?

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Thomas,” he acknowledged politely.

His voice was deep and easy, friendly in a way that would translate well to the boardroom to keep things from getting heated. It had the opposite effect on me. It made me want to cozy right up.

“It’s Miss, Daddy,” Hillary supplied helpfully. “She’s not married, and I want to bring her to your birthday party.” She bounced on her feet, clapping her little hands together.

He merely nodded as he held my gaze, and I was immediately weak in the knees. There was no way my expression was as relaxed as I was trying for, and it didn’t help that he seemed to be sizing me up. Was he trying to decide if I should receive an invite to his party? My pits began to sweat, and suddenly the taco stand seemed like an oasis calling me to safety.

Under his thoughtful stare I felt like I had an eight-year-old agent trying to get me into the cool club in town while I stood there smelling of salsa and wishing he’d never been torn from my fantasies and thrust into this unpleasant situation.

I realized in that moment that I was going to have to rescue myself, so I plastered on a bright grin and waved a taco hand. “Oh, that’s so sweet Hillary, but I’m sure the guest list is all set and that you’ll have some people there to spend time with.”

Ford--better make that Mr. Whittaker -- nodded down at Hillary. “Grams will be there,” he said. “She’s really excited to spend time with you and Henry.”

“Yes, exactly.” I nodded repeatedly. “You told me your grandma lives far away. I don’t want to interrupt your time together.”

Hillary’s lips twisted in thought. “Grams is old, though. I can play with her before the party, and then you can come to the party when she goes to bed,” she said to me.

I looked over my shoulder to where Meredith was slinging tacos like she was born to it. The line, though, was bogging down, and I once more saw my escape in the glorious form of tortillas. I hooked a thumb that direction and offered Mr. Whittaker a smile before glancing down to Hillary.

“I really need to get back to helping Miss Atwood, but I love that you thought to invite me, Hillary. I think you’re fun and smart, and I miss having you in my class. Your dad’s birthday is a special occasion, but maybe next week you could stay late one day, and we’ll paint our nails together?” I shifted my focus up to Mr. Whittaker, expecting to see relief, but his expression gave nothing away. “If your dad says that’s okay?” I nudged. I’d given the man an out. Why wasn’t he taking it?

Hillary looked to her dad, too, her eyes exactly the same gray-blue color and shape of his. “She’s trying to be nice,” she said sincerely. “Cause it’s rude to invite yourself places.”

He grinned, and my heart tripped. “True. Miss Thomas seems to be a very polite person.”

“She wouldn’t be a problem at your party. She has good manners,” Hillary pleaded.

I bit my lips as they tugged upward. She’d given me quite the glowing recommendation.

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