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“On this sheet,” she says, leaning forward to hand me a piece of paper, ignoring my rebuttals. My eyes drift to her neckline, her modest blouse dipping the slightest bit but her hand darts up to press it against her chest before I can see anything. “I have listed my work email as well as my personal cell. You can text, call, or email if you have any questions or need clarification. Your mother already gave me her contact information as well as your nanny’s information. I also gave her this sheet as well.”
“Great, so what was the point of this meeting, then? It could have been an email, Miss Flower.”
I know what I’m doing. It’s a cheap shot but she’s already under my skin so might as well burrow a little deeper under hers.
“Flowers. It’s Miss Flowers.” Her brows furrow. Gone is that giggly, stumbling woman I met in Paris. “As you can see on the bottom of the paper, there are several opportunities for you to get involved this school year.”
“I do get involved. I donate… a lot.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about volunteering at the annual bake sale and silent auction or perhaps building sets for the end-of-year play.”
“I don’t have time and I also don’t have time for this meeting,” I say, standing up.
“You know, it’s good for the kids to see their parents caring not only about their education and day-to-day life but being involved with it. It helps them feel important and builds self-confidence. Certainly, you can find a little time in your schedule for that… or is it not important enough?”
Okay, now she’s pissing me off. I can overlook her being snippy with me since I was technically an asshole to her the last time we interacted, but I draw the line at telling me how to handle my child.
“Are you a mother, Miss Flowers? Do you have children of your own?” I take a guess here based on no wedding ring and zero photos of children on her desk. Plus, she looks a little too young to have children of her own yet.
“No,” she says, confused.
“I didn’t think so. So don’t lecture me on what my child needs.” Her mouth falls open. “Are we done here?”
“No, we’re not.” She stands up, her chair shooting backward. “Someone really needs to teach you manners. Like when you see a woman who could use your help at the airport, try being a gentleman.”
There it is. I was waiting for the conversation to take this turn.
“I didn’t owe you anything. Per your own words, you overslept your alarm and missed your own flight. Rules are rules for a reason, Miss Flowers, and you look exactly like the kind of woman who likes to follow them. I’m not going to ask the airline staff to bend them for you.”
“But they could for you? Let me guess, you get special treatment because you own the airline? That seems hypocritical. I paid good money for my ticket; it’s not like it was a free ride.”
“Well, considering that plane wasn’t going to get off the ground without me, yes, they absolutely should bend the rules for me.”
“I’m pretty sure the plane would have been just fine getting off the ground without you on it, Mr. Vaughn,” she scoffs.
I take a step toward her, my size dwarfing hers as she stumbles back an inch. “I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have, considering I was the pilot.”
“What? Then who was the other man in uniform?”
“My co-pilot. I wasn’t in uniform but I’m also a pilot, not just the owner of the airline.”
“Oh.” Shock settles over her face. “I didn’t know that.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to, but now you’ve learned a valuable lesson about making sure you make it to your gate at least fifteen minutes before takeoff. Time management is a very valuable skill, Miss Flowers. One that can be learned with just a little discipline.”
“That’s rich coming from you, Mr. Two-hours-late,” she snaps and I can see regret on her face the moment she says it.
“Now, seeing as how this meeting about my daughter has turned into your frustrations regarding me, I think it’s time we end it so that I can get on with my evening.”
She folds her arms around her waist, her eyes falling to the floor to look at her shoes as I step around her desk.
“I guess once again I owe you an apology,” she says sheepishly as that pink glow stains her cheeks. Something about her has me thinking thoughts a man my age has no business thinking about a young woman. She looks far too young and innocent for someone like me to fuck over.
I look down at her, letting my gaze linger a little more than necessary. I have to resist reaching my hand out to slip it beneath her chin. That would be highly inappropriate which makes me want to do it all the more. Since my wife died four years ago, I’ve had zero desire to find any sort of emotional connection. My arrangements have been purely physical, just a sexual means to an end.
No emotions. No sleepovers. No attachments.
But this young woman before me right now, this tiny, innocent little thing that seems to be a complete mess, has me wanting to teach her a few lessons in discipline. To make her realize just exactly how powerful of a man to whom she’s speaking.
