She helped him turn the table onto its side and flip the legs down, and for a moment he considered inviting Bree to eat with him instead. Trey was working out of town. She might want grown-up company. It would be perfectly innocent with all three of her kids there.

He shook his head. Since Cara changed schools, they were thrown together all the time. Before, she’d always belonged to Betsy, which had made her sexless somehow. How had she gotten so damn beautiful?

Cara was humming “Freddy, My Love,” her curls bouncing as they carried the table back into the storage room. He needed some serious distance from Bree, but his daughter was thriving at St. Alban’s. He couldn’t stop being involved in her activities or, worse, pull her from the school over a few stray pink heart-eyed feelings.

It was probably residue of his love for Betsy. She and Bree had been so close. He’d keep avoiding Bree until he stopped crushing like he was Cara’s age. Maybe he should get back on Match. He’d tried it a couple of years ago. Nightmare. He hadn’t been ready. Maybe this crush was proof that he was now.

“Hey, have you seen my mom?” Anna-Claire leaned in the doorway, looking like the underage-Russian-supermodel version of her mother. Peyton slouched behind her, her face buried in a book.

Cara’s hum abruptly cut out, and she straightened, her cheeks staining. She picked at her plaid skirt. Bree had dropped off a whole bag of the school’s pricey uniforms after Cara got the scholarship, saying they were hand-me-downs from Anna-Claire. Bree was such a good actor that only the one price tag she’d missed had kept him from believing her.

The firm paid him well. He could have afforded the uniforms, if not the tuition. Still, he’d let Bree get away with it. Because she loved his kid. Betsy’s kid. She’d been after him to let her take Cara for private voice lessons, too. Maybe he should, but it would mean seeing Bree more. Last thing he needed.

“Check the parking lot?” he said.

“The car’s gone,” Peyton said, not looking up.

That was strange, but before he could react, his phone buzzed. Bree. His stupid heartbeat quickened when he saw her name on the screen.

He smiled at the girls. “This is her. Probably looking for you.”

Anna-Claire’s eyebrows came together, and she checked her own phone. “Why didn’t she just text me?”

He pushed the button. “Hey. Where’d you get to?”

“Can you take the girls?” It had to be Bree. Caller ID said so, but he didn’t recognize the voice. It was raspy-sounding, guttural.

“Bree?”

“I need you to take the girls.” It was her, but sick and strained.

“Is it Mom?” Peyton asked.

“Do what, now?” He was careful to keep his voice calm and his face pleasant.