Page 54 of Situationship
INEED A LITTLE MORE
TIME.
TIMEICAN GIVE YOU
AS LONG AS YOU ANSWER
MY TEXTS AND LET ME
KNOW YOU’RE OKAY.
. . .
. . .
HAR?
OKAY
Who knew that one word—four little letters—could be such a boldface, cowardly lie?
Bok, Bok, Harley Ashford.Bok, bok.
* * *
By the time Teagan pulled into the driveway, it was nearly three and she was dead on her feet. Her excitement, though, that was at a giddy grin. Not only had she sold out, she’d run into Delores, who owned the Lighthouse Hotel and wanted to give Bread N Butter a trial run as her sole bread supplier.
It was one of those right place right time situations. Serendipity at its best.
She walked through the front door and headed straight for the family room. She needed to see her girls, put her feet up, and maybe even have a celebratory glass of wine. Teagan hadn’t treated herself to an afternoon glass in years. But she was bursting with pride and excitement.
She totally had this mommy-preneur thing down. Successfully balancing work and parenthood and excelling at both. A harmonious split she hadn’t been sure she’d ever achieve. And a huge part of that achievement was due to Harley really stepping up.
“Har?” she called out. “You’re never going to believe what happened.”
She reached the entry and stopped. The house was a complete disaster. Toys were strewn across the floor; plates with sandwich crusts and neglected carrot sticks sat on the no-food-allowed coffee table.
The house had been spotless when Teagan had left and now it looked as if a toy bomb had detonated. Hard proof of a hurricane blowing through.
Teagan moved to pick up an abandoned tutu and nearly tripped over a stranger sitting in Harley’s re-hung hammock, her well-worn tennies violating Teagan’s treasured coffee table.
Her first thought was that one of Harley’s tumbleweed friends had decided to crash. Or maybe she’d forgotten to lock the door on her way out. She was tired as hell and three days ago she didn’t know what day of the week it was.
None of that mattered now. Maybe it was all the true crime shows she’d been marathoning, but for all she knew, she could possibly be facing down a serial killer.
Her heart pounding, knee pits sweating, she grabbed The Slugger from the umbrella stand and choked up on it as if she were Babe Ruth and this was the World Series.
“Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my house?” Teagan demanded. “You have thirty seconds to leave or I’m calling the cops.”
“Please don’t call the cops—my dad will freak.” The woman slowly turned and Teagan gasped, because it wasn’t a woman—it was a teenager.
“Maddison?” she asked because, with her wavy hair and green eyes, she was a dead ringer for her father. “What are you doing here?”
She tried to come up with a good answer to that question, or why the teen was watching her television and eating Pop-Tarts in her front room. Nothing came to mind.
Hands in the air, Maddison said, “I’m the new PA.”
“PA?”
