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“Perfect,” she said, taking them from my hands. “You just saved me a ton of time.” She thumbed through the booklets, as if double-checking I’d ordered the pages correctly. And then, seemingly satisfied with the work I’d done, she looked back up at me. “I’m sure you have work you need to get to, but you’re welcome to stay for a few minutes if you want.”
Finley, who was drawing at her table nearby, had overheard this. “Yeah, Daddy! Come color with us.” She turned to the girl beside her and announced with a smug grin, “My dad’s an artist.”
How could I leave now?
I joined Finley and her friends at their table, accepting a blank piece of paper and a basket of markers that was scooted in my direction. “Draw something cute, Dad,” Finley demanded.
“Like what?” I asked, taking the lid off of the black marker.
And before long, I found myself taking requests from all sides. Most of the kids in Kendall’s class were gathered around me, craning their necks to see my paper as I drew a frog on a log—a little nod to Kendall’s rhyming activity—and added details as the requests came in. “Give him a hat!” “Put mushrooms on the log!” “He needs a friend!”
The kids were enjoying this, but nobody was as impressed by my impromptu illustration as Kendall, who peered over my shoulder with her arms crossed against her chest. “Okay, so when you said you’re a freelancer—please tell me it has something to do with art?”
“Kind of. I used to illustrate for a small publisher in Indy, but after moving here, I’ve just been taking on little commercial design jobs.” I looked at Finley, who popped the lid off a green marker and began coloring in the frog I’d drawn. “I’m not exactly utilizing my creative talents anymore.”
She studied my drawing a bit longer, smiling at the way Finley wasn’t quite coloring inside the lines. “Would you consider creating something for the shirts for this fall festival I’m in charge of planning? I mean, it’s not a paid gig, but it might allow you to put your creativity to use?”
“Absolutely.”
“Really?”
“Sign me up.” The silence that settled between us was only amplified by the noise level of the kids around us, many of them begging me to add more details to the background of the drawing.
I knew by agreeing to take on this additional project, it meant I was going to have to spend even more time with this woman who was tempting me with her soft lips, delicious scent, and perfect ass. Resisting the urge to speak every salacious thought that entered my mind would probably grow more difficult as time went on. But she wanted my help, and I couldn’t tell her no.
When it was time for the kids to line up for lunch, some of them running over to their cubbies for their lunchboxes, Kendall stood beside me at the door and asked the kids to tell me goodbye. They all groaned when they realized I didn’t get to go to lunch with them.
“We’ll see Mr. Reed again on Wednesday,” she announced as we stood by the door—and their whines turned into cheers. Kendall turned to me with a grin. “Um—there’s a PTO meeting Thursday night. Do you think you could have a sketch of the fall festival shirt design by then?”
I nodded, distracted by Finley, who was swinging her arms like helicopter blades and coming dangerously close to knocking poor Elijah clean out with her lunchbox. “Yeah, I could probably have a mock-up for you by Wednesday.”
“Perfect,” Kendall said, and I redirected my focus back to her. How she dealt with these kids, especially mine, seven and a half hours a day was a feat I couldn’t even begin to fathom. “I appreciate your help today.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome,” I said, letting my hand rest on the doorknob. Behind her, the kids were getting antsier by the second. Her once-straight line was now zig-zagging across the back half of the classroom. Finley was clucking her arms like a chicken, much to the delight of the children closest to her. “Well, I should get going before these kids form a dance circle around my kid.”
Kendall laughed as she tucked her hair behind one ear. “We’re going to be making cinnamon playdough Wednesday morning. Think you can handle that?” I almost didn’t catch it—the subtle crinkle in the corners of her eyes or the way she was pressing her lips together tight in an attempt to suppress a grin. But it was the mischievous glint in her eyes that confirmed the dirty undertone to what she was saying—another callback to our text exchange.
I smirked right back at her. “We’ll see,” I answered, shooting a quick glance in Finley’s direction to return her goodbye wave. And as I made my way out the classroom door, pushing it open with my back, I gave Kendall a wink. “See you next time, Ms. Devin.”
**
It was cloudless and eighty-degree day, which made the basement feel like a prison that afternoon. So I took my work outside, lounging in a deck chair while putting together a collection of marketing materials for an online boutique. There was minimal illustration involved with this project, and I found myself just plunking text and design elements together. They could’ve done this themselves, for crying out loud.
Feeling frustrated, I put my laptop down on the table beside me and reclined the deck chair, daydreaming about Kendall. And as luck would have it, that was the moment my father opened the sliding door and walked out onto the deck. Why couldn’t he have gotten home just a few minutes sooner—he would’ve seen me hard at work instead of lounging around like he assumed I did all too often.
My father paced toward the deck railing and looked out at the trees behind our house, sticking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He clearly had something to say.
“Was your hearing canceled?” I decided to initiate the conversation to keep the focus off of me.
He turned toward me and stared, looking from me to the laptop on the table next to me. “Yeah. Client accepted the plea deal at the last second. Saved us both some time.”
“Looks like you’ve got the rest of the afternoon to enjoy this weather, then.” I never knew what to say to my dad—it always came back to the weather.
“I don’t have the luxury of lounging around. Too much work to do.”
I took a deep breath, knowing this was a dig at me. I considered defending myself, letting him know I had a heavy workload myself, but there was no use. I ignored him instead, pulling my laptop back onto my lap. My dad turned on his heel and went back inside without another word. That man had a special talent for finding new creative yet subtle ways to cut me down, and after twenty-six years, I was used to it.
Someday, I’d stop letting his comments get under my skin.
