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He blinks at me. “I see your observation skills are good.”
“Shut up, Jake. We shouldn’t have empty rooms. I want to do something for the older kids to get their creative juices flowing, and I can’t think of a single thing.”
“That’s not very creative, is it?”
Smartass.
My only response is a blistering stare.
Two young girls pass the room, music blaring from their Bluetooth speaker as they sing along.
There’s always music coming from somewhere here.
I wave after them. “They’re on their own and too wrapped up in their phones, or together, but not together, and I’m not making any sense.”
“You rarely do,” he deadpans.
He’s pacing with me now—brows furrowed in a scowl, hands tucked into his pockets, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up as they always are on a Friday evening. I appreciate the effort, but he’s distracting me. He looks ridiculously handsome when he’s thinking.
We’re civil with each other. We rip each other apart, but it’s a joke…most of the time.
We’re not friends. I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me. But we care about the shelter, and I appreciate how much it means to him.
I nipped his incessant emails in the bud quite early on, and he didn’t like it when I pointed out he was a control freak.
I get it. He wants this to work. And he understands I don’t hold back when I want to say something.
He’s more involved than I originally thought, but I’m here to run this place. I told him when I met him that this is my job, and I take it seriously. He doesn’t interfere. I sometimes feel like he’s sitting on the sidelines to learn, and it makes me more nervous than it should.
At least he stopped calling me Ms. Russell.
“You’re trying to get them to like you,” he points out.
“Of course I am. Teenagers scare the shit out of me. They’re the only ones I haven’t gotten through to. I’ve worked with both women and young children. But teenagers are a different species.”
“Oh, my dear child,” Nora singsongs, tapping the toe of her shoe against the floor. “The answer is staring you straight in the face.”
I stare up at Jake.
He shrugs.
“Jake?” I question, confused, as I turn to look at her.
Before I can say another word, Jay-Jay comes flying into the room, a sheet swinging from his hand.
“Claire, I got picked for a solo in our recital.” His cheeks are roaring red, excitement pouring out of him. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but it makes me giddy.
“A recital? I didn’t know you played an instrument.”
“Yep.” He nods smugly, looking exactly like his father. “Piano.”
“That’s amazing. Well done.”
Then all my thoughts settle, my eyes go wide, and everything clicks.
“Jay-Jay,” I shout, jumping around with him. I kiss the top of his head. “You’re a genius.”
He stills, looking up at me while I continue jumping. “I’m not that good.” He also gets his sarcasm from his father.
