Page 74 of Buckin' Around

“Please tell me your first smile wasn’t for me, Ivy Lockwood. Save those special things for Daddy.”

I’m strapping Ivy into her car seat when an older woman wanders to her car, parked on the other side of mine.

“You must be Riley.”

I turn back and straighten. “Hi, yes, that’s me.”

“Oh honey, that accent. Loving it. I’m Glenda.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, it gets a lot of mentions over here.”

“I’m sure it does.” She winks at me.

Confused, I glance at Ivy.

“You know.” She steps closer. “I had a suspicion she was Spencer’s. I guess she gets her complexion from her mama.” Her gaze travels my face.

“What? Ah, no. I’m just the nanny.”

My hand weaves into my long ponytail, twisting as her brows fall, her head tilting like she suspects I’m lying to her.

“Huh. Could have fooled me, sweetheart. From what I hear, you have our guy on his best behavior, if you know what I mean.”

“I—”

“We see the difference in Spencer these days. He’s never had much he cared for, bar that monstrous truck. Fatherhood looks good on him, and it’s lovely to meet you.”

My mouth opens to respond, but she’s dropping into her car before I can formulate a sentence to rebut her assumptions.

With a sigh I feel from the depth of my bones, I sink into my own car and turn over the ignition.

“Home sweet home, kiddo.”

Thirty minutes later, we walk through the front door with four bags of Chinese takeout. One can never have too many noodles, right?

Besides, it feels like a comfort food sort of night.

Maybe a night of movies and letting the world go feck itself.

I’m plating up, Ivy sitting in her high chair, when Spencer walks through the front door.

“Honey, I’m home,” he chirps.

He sounds . . . happy?

I huff a half-amused sound as he sits at the counter. His keys and phone hit the surface as he says, “We have another problem, Riles.”

“We do?” I slide his bowl of food over to him.

I kind of like how my name has been shortened to Riles. Only a few people ever call me that, but from Spencer...

“Yeah. The apartment came with the job, as my father felt it appropriate to tell me on the drive home. He loves kicking a dog when it’s down.” The last few words are soft.

“Spence—”

“I’m okay. Just . . .”

And it hits me. This is the only place the three of us have.