Dance Away with Me(46)

“I can’t. I don’t go out with men who smoke.”

“Maybe I’ll give it up.”

“You do that, and then we’ll talk.”

“Damn, Tess. Why you gotta be like that?”

Savannah shot Tess a dirty look from the blender station, where she was taking forever to unwrap a stack of cups. “It must be nice having time to flirt with the customers while I’m working my ass off.”

Tess appreciated having an excuse to end her conversation with Artie, so she didn’t point out that Savannah had spent most of the morning chatting on her cell phone.

*

Tess returned to the schoolhouse shortly before noon, at the same time Ian emerged from the ridge trail. He took Wren from her car seat without waiting for Tess to do it. Although he didn’t interact with Wren the way Tess did—no baby talk or funny faces—he no longer seemed to avoid touching her.

“Tough day at the office?” he asked.

“Courtney Hoover—she works at one of the budget hotels, but her real job is wannabe Instagram Queen. She still hates me. I’m not sure why. And people who used to be friendly look at me as though I’m a serial killer. I do know why. Fortunately, Ava Winchester and her crowd have been in school during my shifts, so nobody’s asking me questions about flavored condoms or blow jobs.”

He gave her a lazy smile that made her wish she hadn’t mentioned blow jobs, then closed the car door with his free hand. “I heard from Wren’s grandparents. They’ll be here in an hour.”

“Crap.” She raced upstairs.





Chapter Ten




Tess should never have put off doing laundry for so long. Her jeans and mocha-stained T-shirt didn’t exactly project confidence, and she needed to present herself as the most competent professional nanny ever. Trying to quell her panic, she dug out Wren’s last clean outfit and hurried downstairs.

Ian was coming in from the kitchen with a sandwich in his hand. “Change her!” She shoved Wren at him and, not bothering with a jacket, took off at a run for the cabin.

Sunlight streamed through the front curtains as she let herself inside. She’d thought she’d left the curtains closed to keep any random strangers from peering into the empty cabin. She was sure she’d left them closed. Almost sure. Not sure.

She rushed upstairs and grabbed her best pair of dark slacks, along with a plain white pullover and hip-length gray cardigan. Simple. Professional. She snared her hair into a ponytail and secured as many of the loose ends as she could into something approximating a bun. Like Mary fricking Poppins. The book version, not the movie.

She arrived back at the schoolhouse out of breath. No strange car was parked outside, so she still had time to pick up all the baby detritus strewn around, but as soon as she got inside, Ian appeared from the kitchen with the announcement that Wren had thrown up.

She dashed over to get her. “Come on, Wren! Work with me here.”

“She doesn’t seem to be a people pleaser.”

Tess grabbed the baby from him and started up the stairs again only to hear a car pull up in front. “Shit.”

“Tsk. Tsk. Not in front of the child.”

Ignoring him, she spun around and raced back downstairs to get to the paper towels in the kitchen.

“You kind of look like a prison guard in that outfit,” he called after her.

“You’re not helping!” she shot back.

“Relax, will you?”

“Don’t you tell me to relax!” she shouted.

A knock sounded. The wolves were at the door.

“Shit, shit, shit.” She hurried toward the sink.

He stuck his head in the kitchen. “Stay here until you calm down enough to stop acting like an idiot. That’s an order.”

She grabbed the edge of the counter with one hand and made herself breathe. Wren smelled like sour milk. She snatched a paper towel, wetted it, and did her best to clean her up.

Wren gazed at her with those big navy eyes. Her mouth quivered. Her forehead wrinkled. “No!” Tess whispered. “No, sweetie, no. Please. No crying.”

Tess put the baby to her shoulder and jiggled her, using the two-in-the-morning move that sometimes soothed her. “Have I ever asked anything of you? Have I?” she whispered into the top of her fuzzy, dark hair. “Anytime other than in the middle of the night?” She heard voices in the living room. Ian had let them in.

Wren’s legs and spine stiffened, and her whimper grew louder. “Not now. Please, not now . . .”

The baby let out a window-rattling wail.

A woman shot into the kitchen. She had to be in her sixties, but she looked younger. Warm, blond highlights shone in her jaw-length bob. Her makeup was perfect—neither too little nor too much. She wore precisely tailored white slacks with a crisp black shell, a chunky silver and jet necklace, and a youthful denim jacket. Although she wasn’t a tall woman, the three-inch heels on her strappy nude booties brought her to a respectable height.

“Is that her?” The question was rhetorical because the woman was already reaching forward, arms outstretched, ready to snatch the squalling baby from Tess’s arms. “Oh, sweetheart . . .”

Tess was allowed to call Wren “sweetheart,” but not this slender, Chicos-wearing, pathetic excuse for a grandmother. Where was the curly gray hair, the pillowy breasts, the scent of cookies baking? This sleek, new operating system was an insult to cozy grandmothers everywhere.