Silence hums for half a second, awkward and thick, before he speaks again.“Carly?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for picking her up.”
The words are simple, but there’s something inherently warm to them.I tighten my grip on the wheel. “Of course. And don’t worry, I double checked the booster seat is installed properly before I left.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you at home?”
God, that sounds weird. “Yep.”
I hang up and immediately wish my car had an eject button.
The pickup line at Penelope’s school is a slow crawl of luxury SUVs, glossy imported sedans, and parents in expensive coats wearing the specific expression of people who have already done one full day and are somehow expected to start a second one.Even the school itself looks rich — stone facade, immaculate landscaping, discreet little crest by the entrance, the kind of place where kindergarten probably has a waiting list and a tuition price that would make an ordinary parent shrivel up and cry.
I pull forward when directed, hands light on the wheel, trying not to look like an imposter.
I’m not her parent. I’m barely her nanny. I have exactly one full night of living in Grayson’s house under my belt, one traumatic business lunch, and one fake relationship currently active in at least two people’s minds.
Totally qualified.
Then Penelope appears through the school doors in a little coat and backpack, scanning the line until she spots my car.
Her whole face lights up, and it’sridiculous how fast that tiny expression brightens my day like nothing stressful has happened.
“Carly!” she squeals as soon as the teacher helps her into the back seat.
“Hi, Pen.” I twist around long enough to grin at her. “How was school?”
“Good! We did numbers and I got a green smiley face and Ellie cried because she wanted the purple marker but Mrs. Jensen said she had to wait and then we had crackers and I only dropped one.”
“That is an excellent school report. Very thorough.”
She beams as if I’ve just awarded her a gold star.
By the time I get us out of the pickup line and onto the road, she’s already moved on to describing a worm someone found on the playground and the ongoing scandal of who gets to be line leader on Wednesdays.She talks the entire drive home without needing so much as a running start, and I mostly just listen and laugh in the right places, asking questions when I can.
It’s… shockingly easy with Penelope.That might be the most dangerous thing of all, because the more I like her, the more I feel the edges of this arrangement digging in.
The house somehow looks even bigger when I pull into the driveway alone.
Penelope unbuckles in a burst of motion the second I park, and the moment we’re inside she decides, apparently, that I need a second tour hosted by her.
“Come on,” she says, grabbing my hand with absolute authority. “I have to show you stuff!”
“Youhaveto?”
“Yes!”
She drags me through the kitchen first even though I have, in fact, seen the kitchen.
“This is where the lady who drops off groceries puts the fruit sometimes,” she says importantly, pointing to the island. “And this drawer has band-aids but Daddy says not to touch the scissors in there because they’re not like the safety ones. And that pantry has the cookies.”
From there, I get the Penelope version of the downstairs, which is better than Grayson’s because hers includes crucial details like where the best blanket for movie night lives and which couchcushion is the bounciest, even though she’s not supposed to jump on it.
Then she takes me to the back doors.
“And this is the pool. Or kind of. Under the big cover thing.”
