driveway, complaining to my mother on the phone about after-school care.

After I hung up, he leaned against his fence.

“What time does Emma get out?”

“Three.”

“My rehearsal finishes at two-thirty on Tuesdays through Fridays. Place is two blocks from her school. I can walk her home.”

I laughed. “You want to pick up a seven-year-old from elementary school dressed like that?”

He glanced at his leather vest.

“Good point. I’ll wear a tiara.”

I smiled for what felt like the first time all week.

We handled everything properly. The school copied his ID, I completed the authorization forms, and Travis was officially added to Emma’s pickup list.

Emma thought it was the greatest thing that had ever happened to her.

Ryan did not.

“I don’t want our daughter depending on some biker every afternoon,” he said the first night.

I was washing dishes. “He’s not some biker. He’s