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The cookies are indeed a little brown, but still edible.
I do all the things she tells me to do with them before and leave them to cool on the racks, and then start to roll out the next batch of dough.
I glance over at her and her eyes are closed.
I feel awful for letting her fall asleep with her head resting on her forearms on the table.
So I do what any self-respecting male would do; I lay her down on her bed, despite her protests.
“I got this. I can follow a recipe. Like you said. Now go ahead and take a nap and let me get some work done.”
Chapter Nine
Mal
When I wake up, it’s two hours later, the shadows are long, and the whole house smells like heaven. Again.
Rolling over, I smile as I realize I hear Shelby’s voice chattering away in the kitchen.
I get my bearings and realize why that is.
Shelby’s home. And it’s Tuesday evening. And if she’s talking to somebody, that must mean…
Oh. Shit.
Well. Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she hasn’t figured it out yet.
Maybe…
Who am I kidding? There’s no way to explain this away.
I throw some lipstick on and brush my hair, but there’s no way I can hide the flush in my cheeks. The swollen, stubble-brushed lips and chin.
Besides, I don’t think I can hide my feelings when I look at Quinn, not even in front of my daughter.
“Shelby-cakes!” I shout her nickname as I scurry into the kitchen because I cannot help but get excited whenever I see my baby girl.
I love this little chick more than life itself. Her honey hair is the same color as mine, as are her big bright eyes. She inherited the beautiful angles of her father’s face, the cheekbones, jawline, determined brow. Her eyes light up when she sees me, a huge blessing that I don’t take for granted from a 15-year-old.
“Mumsy!” she shouts and bolts over to me, nearly knocking me over.
“You’re home early! How were the grand old sticks-in-the-mud?” I ask. I know I shouldn’t smack-talk her father’s parents, but that went out the window the first time she came home from a visit with that side of the family and told me they tried to tell her dancing led to sex and that’s how her mother ended up pregnant at 16.
She laughs through her nose because her mouth is full of oatmeal raisin cookies and shakes her head. “Fine,” she says, covering her mouth.
“So,” I say, looking over at Quinn, who is grinning ear to ear and fetching my daughter a glass of milk. “I assume you know Quinn.”
Shelby raises an eyebrow. “You mean Mr. Pope from school? Yes. I was planning on enrolling in his class next semester, but if he’s dating my mom, that could be curtains for me at ol’ Greenbridge Academy.”
My mouth falls open. “Oh. Mr. Pope and I are…”
Quinn looks at me expectantly, waiting to see how it is I want to define this relationship of ours. Shelby is looking at me like she is just waiting for me to feed her some bullshit excuse about why her extremely good-looking English teacher is in our house while I’m taking a nap.
“Dating.” I say the word and it’s officially real now.
I mean, I don’t expect my own daughter to plaster it all over social media, but it is definitely out in the open now.
“Is this weird? If it’s weird for you, even a little bit, I’ll end it right now,” I offer. And I would. It would hurt like hell, but better to end things with Quinn now before anyone at school finds out. Anyone besides Headmistress Moody, that is.
