“Is this something his teachers do for you while he’s at school?”
I lean back, scanning her up and down. I feel the sneer touch my lips before I can stop it. “No. But I trust them. I like them.”
Willa blinks slowly, staring at me almost blankly. The silence stretches as her stare shifts into what I’m sure is more of a glare.
Maybe it was a dick thing to say, but I’m not known for giving people the warm and fuzzies. Every time I’ve done that, I’ve walked away a little less whole than I started.
Never again.
I’ve got nothing left to give if Luke wants a dad who can be happy and present.
“I know you didn’t just say that to me.”
I lift one shoulder carelessly. “Sure did.”
The smile she gives me is flat, her eyes dull—all traces of playfulness evaporated. “Well, in that case, I’ll be going.”
She scoots her chair away efficiently, pushes to stand, spins on a heel and leaves me sitting at my table, staring at her perfect ass.
“Willa.”
She deposits her glass of water in the sink but ignores me.
“Willa.”
She ignores me and turns to head down the hall toward the guest bedroom where Luke so happily helped her get settled a couple of hours earlier. I could hear him chattering away at her. Asking her about her horse. About her guitar. About what her favorite type of snake was. Like that’s a normal question you ask when getting to know someone.
If I didn’t think it would wake Luke up and upset him, I’d raise my voice right now. But I’m stuck whisper-shouting “Willa” and she’s not fucking listening.
With a growl, I stand and stride after her. Past Luke’s room and right to the door of her bedroom that veers off the long hallway before it would lead to my master bedroom at the very end.
“Willa.” I catch the door just before she can quietly close it. Obviously, she’s trying not to wake my son as well, something I appreciate, because he doesn’t need to be a part of this conversation.
I stand on the hardwood floor of the hallway, and she stands on the carpet in the bedroom. A brass divider shines on the ground between us like a line in the sand. Me versus her.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Leaving,” she deadpans.
“Why?”
Her eyes roll as she turns away from me and starts setting things back into her barely unpacked suitcase. “Because I’m not spending my summer living with a woman hater who doesn’t trust me and will be an over-the-top control freak the entire time I’m here.”
I lurch back a little like she’s slapped me. “I’m not a woman hater.”
She bends over to grab a pair of pink, fluffy slippers. The kind that would melt into plastic in the heat of a fire. I try not to fixate on the way her shorts creep up the smooth skin on her thighs. “You should try harder not to look at me like you hate me, then.”
It’s not the first time people have told me this. But it’s the first time I’ve faced the reality of how it might make them feel. It’s not intentional. I’m pretty sure it’s just my default facial expression now. My smiling muscles have lost all their tone.
“I don’t hate you.”
She rises, a wry laugh twisting her features as her copper waves fly around her neck. “Could have fooled me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her chin juts out, and she holds up a hand to her ear. “Pardon? I think I misheard that.”
“I’m. Sorry.” I bite out. “I’m having a hard time letting him go.”
I watch her shoulders fall as she hisses out a sigh. “That’s fair. But there’s no amount of money in the world you could pay me to stay here and be your punching bag all summer.”
I fucking love the pair on this girl. If I weren’t so irritated by how attracted I am to her, I’d be cheering her on.
I glance over my shoulder toward Luke’s room, where my entire world is sleeping. The little boy who is excited at the prospect of spending the next couple of months with the firecracker in front of me.
“Stay,” I mutter, holding a hand up to stop her and staring down at that line on the floor. The one stopping me from storming in there and dragging her back out to the table and forcing her to listen to me.
She stops shoving stuff into her bag and turns to face me, crosses her arms beneath her generous breasts and cocks a hip. If attitude were a person, she’d be it.
“Beg.”
“Pardon me?”