Who's the Daddy (Crescent Cove 3)

One

I faced the chaos in front of me and propped my hands on my hips.

What had I done?

Oh, right. I had declared to the universe that I deserved the perfect new home. And somehow I’d gotten one.

Well, I’d gotten this.

I’d driven up Main Street in Crescent Cove with Oblivion playing on satellite radio and my hair blowing in the breeze, determination oozing from my pores. Every building with a “for rent” sign was out of my price range. I didn’t have a roommate, and a lot of the places had views of Crescent Lake, which drove up their asking prices.

Also, I was still paying the last month’s rent on my other apartment. Because, sure, a kindergarten teacher could totally pay rent on two places at once. That was completely feasible.

I could’ve asked my parents for help. A short-term loan. Money for a lobotomy. Whichever. But I wasn’t going to do that, because I’d rather be tight for a bit then lean on my already plenty generous parents.

My little sister, Rylee, was the one who needed loans and emotional support and all that jazz. I was the responsible older daughter who tried to hide her moments of irresponsibility and didn’t have that many to start with.

Socially awkward might could have been the title of my theme song. But the reality of my world wasn’t nearly so zany.

I taught little kids. After school, I tutored students in advanced reading and two days a week, led the school’s newly created “music is fun” program. Once a month, my parents, Rylee, and I met at Spaghetti Warehouse for our standing date of—wait for it—spaghetti and meatballs.

That pretty much summed up my version of excitement, unless I was feeling particularly frisky and made myself come twice via whatever naughty fantasy was currently turning my crank. Often involving Tom Hardy. Most of the time, I was too worn out from school to self-service once, never mind twice.

And dating? Yeah. Please drive through.

Minus the impromptu hookup I’d had a few weeks ago with my ex after his granny’s funeral. The next morning, I’d awakened to a text brushoff.

And after I’d rocked his world in the sack.

Pfft.

I had dated sporadically after Tommy had broken up with me the first time, citing “different life directions” and “unclear goals as a couple.”

Okay, then.

So this whole being impetuous and finding-a-new-place-or-bust plan of mine was so outside my sphere, I was practically dizzy.

But my life needed some shaking up. As did I.

I stopped in many places that day post-Tommy breakup part deux, and the next few that followed. Until I happened to be making oh, my fiftieth trip down Main Street and noticed the square building being renovated between the auto shop and the florist. That seemed like a convenient spot. Auto repairs and overpriced sunshine in a vase were both things I needed in my life, especially since I had no one to buy me flowers and my SUV had been on its last legs forever.

The only thing that could’ve made the building better was closer proximity to The Spinning Wheel, but I probably didn’t need to mix dubious decisions with fifty proof. At least not until I was moved in and could walk home.

And also probably not until Christmas break. Principal Gentry would not be amused by my need for spirits of the liquid kind, rather than being filled by the Holy Ghost.

Prayers and blind optimism and possibly a healthy dose of stupidity had led me to this place. I’d signed the lease and gone back to my home in Turnbull to pack up the rest of my things—not that there was much, thank goodness, because it would’ve been relocated into storage—and wait for moving day.

That day was now here. One new life, coming right up.

First, I should probably unpack. And dust. And try not to laugh hysterically until I cried.

Swallowing hard, I let my gaze wander my infinitesimal space. That echoing sound in my head was the universe chuckling at me now, I was sure.

You wanted a place near school? Ta da. Enjoy.

It wasn’t as if the apartment was bad per se. Yes, it was small. Optimistically, the listing had called it a one-bedroom. So what if the closet in my place in Turnbull was almost as big? I wasn’t one of those women with mountains of shoes or a ton of clothes. I actually had a few sensible basics that I paired with some of the more eclectic pieces in my wardrobe.

See, practical. That was me.

Perhaps that was why Tommy had dumped me twice. What I considered being a freak in bed might be Tommy’s version of ho-hum.

God, now I was getting depressed over something other than my choice in living spaces. Hell, choice? I’d had no options if I wanted to liv

e in town and not put it off any longer.