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“You must be Mrs. Vaughn.” I smile at the older woman standing next to Daisy, the last student in line. She looks much too old to be Daisy’s mother, but I don’t want to assume and embarrass myself.
“Well, yes, I am but I’m the grandmother, not the wife. Regina.” She smiles, holding out her slim hand. “Unfortunately, my son is running very late today so he instructed me to pick up Daisy.”
“Oh, is he still coming to the meeting?”
“Daddy is always late,” Daisy says, looking up at me with her big blue eyes. She rolls her eyes dramatically, making her grandmother and me laugh.
“Yes, he will be. Usually it’s me who picks her up from school and sometimes the nanny, Roxy. I’ve included both of our contact information here. If Roxy is picking her up, you’ll hear from me first. Otherwise, she has no allergies and honestly is a very easy little girl.”
“I can already count to two hundred in English, Spanish, and French,” she says emphatically.
“Wow, that’s even more than me.” I smile down at her. “Maybe you can teach me.”
“He’ll be here shortly but we have to get going to her ballet class. Pleasure meeting you.”
Whoever Weston Vaughn is, his mother is a very stunning, elegant woman who screams old money. She smiles politely, waving her manicured hand toward us as she and Daisy walk out of my classroom.
I finish cleaning up from the day, glancing at the clock. It’s now ten to five and I’ve been waiting for over an hour to meet Mr. Vaughn. I hear the soft click of steps down the long marble hallway, a frustrated voice muttering as the steps grow closer.
“Yes, listen, I need to go. I have to meet with my daughter’s teacher. Apparently, first graders require a parent-teacher meeting in the middle of the fucking day like we aren’t busy enough.”
I flinch at the harsh comment but straighten my back as the door swings open and in steps Mr. Weston Vaughn.
“You,” I say in disbelief as the stranger I dumped my coffee on in Paris steps over the threshold of my classroom. The same stranger who pretended not to know me so I couldn’t board my flight home.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says, shaking his head.
Chapter 2
Weston
“I’m glad you could finally show up, Mr. Vaughn.”
She smiles but it’s clearly hiding her frustration… or attempting to. Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her, her petite shoulders squared, her chin jutting out slightly.
“What? No coffee to throw at me this time?” She’s clearly not amused by my comment. “Some of us have important work to do that can’t just be rescheduled. My mother told you I was running late, didn’t she?”
“That doesn’t excuse it. All the other parents managed to make it on time.”
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I, Miss…?”
“Flowers, Daphne Flowers,” she says. “You couldn’t even attempt to pretend to remember my name from the three reminder emails I sent you about this meeting?”
“I don’t need a lecture from a woman who looks barely old enough to order a drink. I’m not one of your students. So can we get on with this meeting or not? Otherwise, I have another meeting I should be at.” I scroll through my phone, double-checking my next meeting time before flipping over to my text to respond to a message from my lawyer.
“One that’s more important than your daughter’s education?”
I snap my head up, sliding my hands into my pockets as I narrow my gaze at her. I can’t help but want to smile at her attempt to appear tough as she crosses her arms over her chest, her breasts pushing together so that the silk of her top scrunches between them. She might be young, too young for me, but I’m still a man and her defiant little attitude only spurs on the desire to bend her over my knee.
She’s even more beautiful than when she slammed into me in Paris. Annoyed is an understatement regarding how I felt at her clumsiness that day, but the second her big brown eyes looked up at me with those full pouty lips, I wanted to blow off my meeting and ask her what the hell she was doing there alone.
She’s stunning, a tiny little thing who clearly doesn’t like to be kept waiting and I don’t blame her. Though if I had to guess, her anger stems from our last interaction in the airport. Her pale-pink blouse accentuates her slim neck and narrow waist, tucked neatly into her full, flowery skirt that overwhelms her slight frame. With a name like Miss Flowers and her almost ethereal appearance, she’s everything you’d expect a sweet, innocent schoolteacher to be.
“She’s in first grade. I can’t imagine that her homework will stump me or that she’s having any interpersonal relationship issues on the first day.”
“Mr. Vaughn, if you could please have a seat, I want to go over communication practices between me and you or your mother regarding Daisy and this school year.” She gestures toward a chair in front of her desk and I oblige, taking a seat.
“Tell you what, why don’t you just text me should anything arise?” She’s clearly not open to negotiations.
