The Mrs. Degree (Accidentally in Love 2)

“I’m sorry, Jack.” Penelope lifts her tear-soaked face.

“We’ll figure it out,” I repeat after moments of silence.

We’ll figure it out.

Chapter 9

Penelope

He’s at the entrance of the trampoline park when we arrive, leaning against the tall, glass door, one leg bent behind him, looking all kinds like a male model. Buff arms, ball cap pulled low, and well-worn jeans—the look of his face isn’t the only thing making my heart ache.

It’s the look on Jack’s face when he spies us and sees Skipper climbing down out of the car.

He stands up a bit straighter and pulls at the hem of his shirt, straightening it as if this were a date and he had someone to impress.

He wants to impress his daughter, a small voice tells me. He wants her to like him.

I’ll be the first to admit that impressing a seven-year-old isn’t always easy. In fact, most days, it’s exhausting. It’s as if I’m raising a twenty-six-year-old influencer who has an opinion, wants what she wants, and considers everything and anything a negotiation.

Jack pushes himself off the building and shoves his hands in his pockets nervously.

Skipper bounds forward with zero chill. “Hi! I know you!”

We prepped in the car on the ride over about how she was meeting a friend of Mom’s who was a boy, and how he was special and a member of the family. I haven’t sat her down yet to discuss Jack being her father, but that will come soon enough, and we’ll do it together, he and I.

Now isn’t the time.

For now, she just needs to…get used to him.

“Hi, Skipper,” Jack greets her as she hops on one foot to demonstrate that she is indeed a skipper.

“Look.” Hop, hop.

“Whoa.” He laughs.

Our eyes meet over the top of her little self as she runs onto the sidewalk and jumps onto a decorative boulder near the park’s entrance.

“She is not short on energy today.”

“She never is.”

Up at six, even on Sunday. Chatters from sunup to sundown.

Jack pulls the door open, and Skipper bounds forward. It’s surreal watching them walk through the door together, side by side, two nearly identical figures.

She is his mini-me. A tiny replica. Spitting image—you get the picture.

I knew she resembled him but never knew how much.

It’s…

Wow.

My body physically reacts to the sight of them, legs getting a bit weak, my stomach in knots. Jesus, how did I get myself into this mess?

Once inside, Jack pays so the three of us can jump—not that I want to. I left the house without a sports bra, so this isn’t going to be pleasant. Yeesh.

I somewhat expect him to hang back and not be as interactive with Skipper as I would be, helping her take off her shoes, put them in the lockers provided, and making sure everything is good to go before we head toward the giant, blow-up trampoline set up throughout the park.

But I’m wrong.

Jack is extremely participatory, taking her little jacket off and hanging it on a hook, then making sure her shoes are properly put away—all without prompting or interference from me.

I’m surprised, though I shouldn’t be. He was always a no-nonsense, self-starting individual. He wouldn’t be where he is today if you weren’t. If he were the type of guy who stood around waiting for things to happen.

Suddenly, I feel like the third wheel, trailing them as they take off toward one trampoline after the other, jumping and hopping and screaming, delighted by the thrill. Skipper can’t jump high enough. She can’t show off enough to her newfound friend, this man she’s only just met. One whom she is the spitting image of.

She hasn’t noticed. Of course she hasn’t.

She is a kid. Do they notice those things?

Because Jack is a celebrity, many dads have taken notice, and some younger boys are taking the opportunity to bounce with him and laugh as if he were a regular dad there with his kid.

No one takes any photographs, at least…not that I’ve noticed.

Skipper bounces, shouting, “Skip, LOOK AT ME!” over and over again, doing tricks that aren’t actually tricks and leaping this way and that. What she lacks in skill, she makes up for in enthusiasm, and her father is right alongside her, doing much of the same: showing off. Kicking his legs out.

“You’re going to sprain something if you’re not careful,” I tell him. “We’re not getting any younger.”

“With my luck, I’ll sprain my groin, and you’d have to nurse me back to health.”

That gives us both pause, Jack realizing too late what he’s just said out loud in front of mischievous ears.

“What’s groin?” Skipper innocently asks.

Jack looks at me for answers.

I shake my head. “No way, pal. You’re the one who said it, so you can be the one who explains it.”

He’s got to learn to watch what he says. The little stinker sees and hears everything!