Page 8 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
"We should go," he said finally, but he didn't move toward the door.
"Yes," I agreed, though I made no effort to gather my things.
Eloise saved us both by marching to the door with the decisive energy of a child who had places to be.
"Come on, Dad. The bookstore closes at six."
Harrison smiled—a real smile this time, not the polite expression he wore for parent-teacher interactions.
"Right. Books wait for no one," he told her, but his eyes stayed fixed on me for a full ten seconds longer, and I was glad when he turned so he didn't see the heat creeping into my cheeks.
He followed his daughter toward the door, then paused at the threshold.
"Have a good weekend,MissQuinn," he said.
"You too, Mr. Vale."
After they left, I stood alone in my classroom, surrounded by the familiar aftermath of a school day.
Chairs needed to be put up, supplies organized, the whiteboards wiped down with cleaner.
But for several minutes I simply stood there, replaying the conversation and trying to ignore the way my pulse had quickened during those moments of unexpected connection.
Harrison Vale was handsome, certainly, but that wasn't what unsettled me.
I'd met handsome men before.
It was the way he listened when I spoke, the thoughtful questions he asked, the genuine warmth in his voice when he talked about his daughter.
There was something about him that made me interested, and that was dangerous territory for someone in my position.
I'd learned long ago that wealthy men were charming by nature and by necessity.
They moved through the world expecting doors to open for them, expecting people to accommodate their needs and desires.
They collected women the way they collected art or cars—as beautiful objects that reflected their status and taste—only to ditch those women when they'd had their fill.
I had no intention of becoming anyone's latest acquisition.
I forced myself to focus on the mundane tasks that anchored me to reality.
Chairs on desks, supplies in their proper places, tomorrow's lesson plan reviewed and ready.
This was my world—practical, predictable, earned through hard work rather than inherited privilege.
By the time I'd finished cleaning up, the school was quiet except for the distant sound of the maintenance crew beginning their evening rounds.
I packed my tote bag with the weekend's grading and headed for the door.
My phone buzzed in my purse, and. I fumbled for it, expecting a text from a friend or maybe a robocall about my car warranty.
Instead, I saw Mom's name on the screen.
The phone rang again, and I sighed as I pulled it out.
"Hi, Mom," I answered, not sure what this call would bring but not really ready to jump into caring for her.
I hadn't even had ten minutes to myself yet today.
