Page 164 of Pucking Daddy

“Has he told you what this is?”

My spine stiffens. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Whatever version of reality he’s selling you.” Her gaze is cool, almost pitying. “The stable home. The devoted father. The man who finally found someone he can trust.”

I keep my expression neutral.

Rachel goes on. “Men like him don’t fall in love with women like you,” she says, almost gently. “They rely on them. Until they don’t anymore.”

For one horrible second, it’s like she’s reached into my chest and put a hand around every secret insecurity I have.

The difference in our worlds.

The fact that Jaxon is all sharp edges and wealth and command, and I still sometimes feel like I’m making up adulthood as I go.

The way everything between us has been real and not real at the same time, built in stolen moments and heated glances and things neither of us fully says out loud.

My throat goes tight.

I hate her for this.

I hate myself more for the split second where doubt opens inside me like a crack in ice.

Rachel watches me with a predator’s patience.

“I’m not trying to be cruel,” she lies. “You actually seem nice. That’s why I thought you should know. Before you embarrass yourself.”

I swallow hard. “Are you done?”

“Almost.”

She glances toward the doors as voices rise inside the building. Children. Teachers. The end-of-day shuffle.

Something in her posture changes. Becomes more alert.

My own instincts go on high alert with it.

Rachel looks back at me, all composed elegance. “I’m Lily’s mother. You should remember that before you start mistaking proximity for importance.”

Then the bell rings.

The sound slices through the tension like glass shattering.

The front doors swing open and kids begin spilling out, bright backpacks bouncing, voices overlapping in a hundred excited pitches.

And then I see Lily.

She comes through the doors with two girls from her class, her pink cardigan unbuttoned, one shoelace half untied, the paper crown they made in class slightly crooked on her head. She’s laughing about something, animated and bright, until her gaze lifts.

She sees me first. Her face lights.

Then she sees Rachel. And everything in her expression changes.

The smile drops away. Confusion rushes in first. Then hope. Then something smaller and more fragile that hurts to look at.

Rachel’s entire body softens in an instant. It’s so fast, so practiced, that if I hadn’t just stood here while she tried to gut me open with a smile on her face, I might believe it.

“Hi, baby,” she says, voice warm as honey.