She looks at me, confused. “Your name is Scooby Doo?”
“No.” I laugh. “My name is Daphne, but you call me Miss Flowers because that’s my last name. My mom loved her name when she watched the show and decided to name me Daphne as well.”
“I like that your name is Miss Flowers ’cause my name is Daisy and that’s a flower.” She climbs onto the couch as I grab a pillow and blanket for her.
“I like your name very much too.”
We barely make it fifteen minutes into one episode before she’s fast asleep on the couch beside me. I glance at the clock. It’s just after nine which I’m sure is way past her bedtime. A few moments later there’s a soft knock at my door.
“She’s sleeping,” I half whisper as I open the door and motion toward where she’s lying on the couch.
“Here,” he says, handing me a bank envelope.
“It’s okay, really. I don’t need to be paid,” I say, waving away the envelope. “It was just a few hours."
“Don’t be foolish, Miss Flowers. Take the money,” he commands, a bit exasperated. “Don’t ever work for free.”
“Oookay.” I take the envelope and open it, seeing several hundred dollar bills. “This seems very excessive. I can’t accept this much.”
“It’s not. You can and you will.”
“Bossy much,” I mutter, flipping through the bills. My gaze darts upward to his. “Since when did the going rate for babysitting jump up to two hundred and fifty an hour? Pretty sure I made like ten bucks an hour when I was sixteen.”
“Ask my nanny.”
My mouth falls open. “Your nanny makes two fifty an hour?”
“No, not exactly, but I pay her probably three times what most people pay their nanny.”
“Damn, are you hiring for a second nanny?” I laugh, placing the envelope on the table by my front door.
He tilts his head, half leaning against the doorframe. “I think we both know that would not be a good idea.” He stares at me, his eyes dark and heavy. He drops them down to my breasts, then back up to my mouth. I feel like I’m standing stark naked right now, completely vulnerable. My mouth goes dry again and my knees feel like they could buckle at any second.
Why wouldn’t it be a good idea? Because he sees you as a pissy annoyance, remember?
“Are you ever going to let me in to get my daughter?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I step aside, wrapping my arms around myself in a nervous attempt to play off that little scenario.
He walks over to the couch, pulling the blanket from her and scooping her up into his arms. She barely stirs, still fast asleep in his arms, then he grabs her bag and heads to the door.
“Thanks again. I owe you one.”
It’s interesting to see a man who can be so cold and dismissive be gentle and loving to his little girl. I wanted to mention the conversation I had with Daisy tonight about her mother, but it slipped my mind. I remind myself to mention it the next time I see him.
It breaks my heart that Daisy has to grow up without a mother. I can’t imagine life without my own mother. Losing her when I was in my early twenties still felt like I was being robbed of so many memories, so many pivotal moments in life that she should have been a part of.
I grab my phone and flop on the couch. I type Weston Vaughn’s name into the search bar and hit enter, scrolling down to see his wife’s name. “Mirabelle Vaughn,” I say out loud as I click and an image of her fills my screen. She was stunning. Dark hair, big brown eyes, and high cheekbones. Daisy looks just like her.
I get sucked down a rabbit hole of gossip and tabloids about Weston. From whom he’s dated to whom he’s been seen with most recently. I click on a headline that reads: Reclusive Billionaire Weston Vaughn Seen Again with Mystery Blonde. The image is blurry but you can see two grainy figures exiting a restaurant and climbing into the back of the same car. I’m about to exit out of it when I scroll back up to the top and realize this article is only minutes old. I double-check, and in fact, it has today’s date with a time stamp of 9:04 p.m.
Was his very important dinner that he couldn’t miss a date?
If it was, I have no reason to be upset and I’m not… I don’t think, but he could have just been honest with me about it. I place my phone on the coffee table and lounge back onto the couch, continuing to watch Scooby-Doo.
I almost laugh out loud to myself, realizing that just moments ago I thought Weston Vaughn wanted me when in reality, he was probably just in a good mood after getting laid by a mystery blonde.
“Hi, yes, is Mr. Vaughn in?”
“Let me check. Just one moment, please.”
I tap my fingers nervously on my desk. It’s been two full weeks since I saw him last when I babysat Daisy and he hasn’t responded to either of my texts asking if he’s willing to volunteer at the Crestwood Bake Sale and Silent Auction this coming week.
“Sorry for the wait, Miss. No, he’s not in right now. Can I take a message?”
“Yes, can you tell him that Miss Flowers called in regard to my request to have him help out at his daughter’s bake sale and silent auction?”
“Will do, Miss Flowers. Thank you.”
There’s a click and the phone goes dead. “Shit.” I place my phone in my purse just as my class starts filing back into the classroom from lunch. Mr. Fein has been nonstop bugging me about getting Weston to volunteer at the bake sale. I told him that it would probably be a one in a million chance but he insists that if I get him there and the school can brag about it, it will bring in other big shots that will hopefully send their kids to Crestwood.
This isn’t just any bake sale and silent auction. We’re talking high-end art, jewelry, five-star vacations, and trips on private jets. The rich and elite don’t know how to do anything half-assed it seems.
“Miss Flowers?”
Speak of the devil.
“Mr. Fein.” I smile as he motions for me to step out into the hallway.
“Class, let’s settle down into our seats and get ready for our reading circle,” I say before following Mr. Fein.
“Have you been able to get Mr. Vaughn to commit?”
“Not yet,” I say, half-nervous he’s going to freak out on me.
“Good, actually. I was hoping that when you speak to him, you could also convince him to put something on the auction block. Perhaps a weekend on his private yacht or maybe a stay at one of his many vacation homes?”
“Private yacht?” I say in disbelief although I don’t know why it surprises me.
“You’re too funny.” Mr. Fein chuckles, not realizing I’m serious. “Okay, confirm with me when you have that nailed down.” He offers up a quick wave, then spins on his heel and chases down another teacher.
“This should be fun,” I mutter to myself as I step back into my classroom to lead our reading hour.
It’s now been two full days since I left the message with Mr. Vaughn’s admin and just over a week since I sent him two text messages. Still no response.
I check the time as I walk to the train after school. It’s not even four yet so he must still be at his office. I pull up his company’s address and plug it into Google Maps. It’s less than a mile so I decide to walk.