Anna DeStefano - All-American Father

“This is my work and my cell number,” he said. “If there’s any trouble tomorrow afternoon…”

“I’ll let you know.” She hesitated, then took the card.

A zing of awareness shot up her arm from where their fingers brushed. An instant of pure sensation that felt better than anything had in a long time. Good enough to tempt her with the need for more, whatever the cost.

Dear God.

What had she gotten herself into?

“I CAN’T BELIEVE I can wear your tennis shoes.” Leslie snickered. “Are your feet really that scrawny?”

The first thing Bailey had done once Leslie arrived at the Stop Right was hand over an old T-shirt to replace the tank top Leslie had worn that morning—because it irked her dad that he could see the straps of her bra beneath it. Then Bailey had shoved a ratty pair of sneakers at her.

“Cracks about how you’re already as big as I am,” Bailey snapped, “won’t end well for you, when your dad asks if you’ve been working and playing well with others.”

Leslie couldn’t stop the giggle that followed.

Maybe working in this dump wouldn’t be so mind-numbing after all.

“I didn’t hear your boss say anything about having to dress frumpy to do the job,” she snarked, even though the sneakers were way more comfortable than the strappy sandals she’d worn all day.

Who knew fitting in at school could hurt her feet so much?

“Trust me,” Bailey said as she handed over the same kind of band that held her own ponytail in place. “Frumpy is preferable to ‘Hey, baby, you wanna wait outside ’til I’m off work?’ We get a steady stream of beer drinkers in here. You won’t be selling them anything, but you’ll look cute enough stocking shelves for them to notice. Better make it clear that even thinking about touching you would be illegal.” Bailey pointed toward the hair band. “Pull your hair back.”

Eager to cooperate and grossed out by the thought of skanky guys gawking at her—Leslie made her own ponytail.

“Is that why you dress the way you do?” she asked. “Because you don’t want men to notice you?”

Bailey seemed smart enough, even cute, for a grown-up. Leslie’s dad had clearly thought so.

“I dress this way—” the woman looked down at her wrinkled shirt and raggedy jeans, as if she’d just noticed them “—because what does it matter how I look when I’m hustling from one dead-end job to another, so I can make my mortgage? That’s what people do when they have no other choice.” She nailed Leslie with a wicked-cold glance. “A lot of people would kill for the opportunities you’re throwing away. So, listen to your dad. Figure out a way not to lose the good things he’s trying to make sure you have in your life.”

The guy from behind the register poked his head into the storeroom as Bailey turned toward a stack of boxes.

“Someone’s out here to see the kid,” he said, before heading back up front.

“Oh, my God, my dad’s such a tool.” Leslie made her sigh extra bratty, to cover a sneaky rush of happiness.

He’d broken away from his all-important job even earlier than he’d promised, just to check on her.

“Unpack the chips in these boxes into a cart, then restock the displays out front.” Bailey patted her shoulder. “I’ll deal with your dad.”

And even though Leslie had only known Bailey for a few days, she had no doubt that the woman could handle just about anything.

DRESSED IN paint-splattered cargo pants and a curve-hugging tank top, the woman waiting by the register looked just as exotic as she had at Margo’s. The memory of how Derrick had pulled Selena Milano into a hug, laughing in an easy, familiar way, had Bailey gritting her teeth against a ridiculous spurt of jealousy.

The man could hug whomever he wanted to. What business was it of hers, if his taste in women had progressed from flighty blondes to something more substantial? Bailey was the shop girl who’d agreed to babysit his kid, nothing more.

She held out her hand. “You’re Selena, right? You didn’t have to stop by. I told Derrick he could call and check in.”

“I don’t know if you remember it or not, but I was in Derrick’s class at Western. And—” A teenager and a barking whirlwind skidded down the aisle, nearly barreling into Bailey. “Drew, I told you to play outside.”

“They’re okay.” Drayton was long gone. He’d split as soon as Bailey made it clear she wasn’t backing down on her ultimatum to be made a salaried manager, or she was out of there as soon as the Cavenaugh girl was.

She smiled down at the boy and the animal.

“Just remember, if you break it, you buy it.”

Having a pet to wreak havoc on her own life was on the list of nice-to-haves Bailey never gave a second thought. The must-haves kept her busy enough.

“Outside.” Selena jerked her head toward the door, raising an eyebrow as her son inhaled to argue. “You’re already in the hole for two weeks’ allowance. Wanna make it three?”

Boy and dog dragged their feet and paws as they trudged outside. The door’s jingle snickered at the dejected picture they made.

“What on earth am I going to do with him?” Selena asked the world in general.

“Your son?”

“Him, too.” The artist smiled. “Are you in the market for an overactive canine to add a little color to your uneventful life?”

“I wish.” What would uneventful feel like? “He’s not your dog?”

“Looks like he is now.” Selena’s smile widened as Leslie pushed a shopping cart full of snacks into the store. “Hey, kiddo, how’s it going?”

“Is my dad with you?” Leslie tried hard to look like she didn’t really care.

“No, sorry,” Selena commiserated as the twelve-year-old’s shoulders slumped. “Drew and I were out this way for his baseball team’s pre-season meeting. I thought we’d stop and see how things were going. Nice threads,” she added with a wink.

“Yeah, they’re swell.” Leslie shuffled toward the half-empty rack of snacks. “Everything’s just peachy.”

“Tell her father she’s doing great,” Bailey offered, still trying to place Selena in her Western High memories. But Bailey had been four years behind Derrick’s class, and all she could seem to remember was him.

“You’ll probably talk to Derrick before I do,” Selena said. “He only shared that Leslie would be spending afternoons here because I nagged him about it. He told me not to bother you while I was in town. That he trusted you, which was unusual enough to make sure I wouldn’t pass up the chance to snoop. He’s one of my closest friends, but that man doesn’t trust much of anyone these days, women most of all.”

“Oh, well…” Bailey caught Scott Fletcher hanging on every word. She stared him down, and he finally turned back to the sitcom blaring from the small TV Drayton kept behind the register. “I guess I should get back to the office. I have to balance the weekly accounts before heading over to Margo’s later.”

“How are things going at the Gables?” Selena snooped on, undeterred.

Bailey hesitated, finally deciding the best response to the out-of-the-blue question was saying nothing at all.

“I know,” Selena conceded. “I sound like a hopeless busybody, but I’ve always loved that old place. I actually stopped in the middle of the street the first time I laid eyes on it. The Victorian architecture… The picture the house makes on the edge of that bluff overlooking the bay… It’s really something. I have Langston clients who bring me out this way a few times a month, and everyone around the community admires how hard you’ve worked keeping the inn going for your grandmother.”

“Yes, well…” Everyone? “The bank still lets us live there.”