Rancher Daddy: A Single Dad & Nanny Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m putty in his hands. But soon, I hope, I’ll begin to learn how to return the devotion. I want to make him feel like I feel. I want to make love to him.

  We have time. We’ll get there. This thing we have is still so new, I’m just going to go with it; enjoy it. There’s absolutely no need to over-think it.

  I aced my art history exam.

  At the exam, Hayes dropped the test paper in front of me with a shrouded smile. He knows how hard I studied, and how much I’ve struggled with the class because of all the other demands on my time.

  “You’ll do great,” he mouthed. “I know you will.”

  When the test was done, he collected my paper along with the others. As I moved out of the room, he winked at me.

  “See you at home.”

  I know a couple of the other students saw that and wondered.

  I don’t care. Let them talk.

  This morning I kissed him goodbye at the airport, taking his keys in hand.

  “I’ll get a taxi home when I’m back on Sunday,” he said grinning. “Drive yourself to work. Don’t wreck my car. I’ll miss you, Angel.”

  I wish he wasn’t going, but that last parting kiss put me on Cloud Nine.

  On Thanksgiving, I wake up alone for the first time in four days.

  I know Hayes got his grades logged in before he left. I’m hoping the rest of the faculty did too. I sign in to my school email account looking for reports from mid-term assessments. It’s the first time I’ve checked my VCU account in weeks.

  Art History isn’t there and that’s no wonder. Hayes just collected the tests, but he didn’t log scores or grades for Liza. She’ll do that herself in the coming week.

  I have an ‘A’ in Design, an ‘A’ in Typography, and an ‘A-’ in Printmaking. I can live with all that. Bob Rasche, my photography professor, hasn’t logged mid-term grades for his class yet, but I expect and ‘A’ in that course as well.

  I scroll through the lengthy list of unread mails in my inbox, when one jumps out at me. It’s from Hayes, with the subject line, ‘A little help never hurt.’

  Hayes and I text frequently and talk on the phone occasionally, but I have no idea why he would email me, and certainly not at this address. He knows I use my Google account for everything. For security reasons, the school insists we use the vcu.edu account for official university communications, but otherwise I neglect it.

  I click on the note to see what it’s about.

  Chloe,

  I’m proctoring your AH test on Tuesday for L.J. while she’s traveling. I know it’s not your best class. See attached. This should help free up some time for me.

  -- Hayes

  What the hell?

  I click on the attachment, launching a PDF file. When the document opens, I don’t even know what to think. It’s the test I took yesterday—with the instructor’s answer key included.

  Why would he do this? Why didn’t he say anything? This makes no sense at all.

  I read the note again, then check the date.

  Jesus. He sent it in the wee-early hours of Sunday morning when he was drunk at the party, after the crazy confrontation in front of everyone, but before he wound up in my bed.

  Is it possible he doesn’t even remember sending it? Was he that drunk?

  If anyone finds out about this, we’re both so screwed.

  My Cloud Nine evaporates. I’m not sure whether to be outraged that Hayes would do something so reckless, putting us both at risk, or disappointed that he thought so little of me, believing I’d view cheating as help, and that would somehow endear him to me.

  This calls everything I thought I knew about him and about myself into question.

  I’m a naïve child, and he’s a manipulative cheat. Fuck!

  I spend all the rest of Thursday in the studio working on sketches for my semester project, the logotype Hayes assigned me to do in place of using my father’s mark. I can’t help it, but I’m seething. The more I think about what Hayes did, and what it says about his opinion of me, the more furious I become.

  I work harder that anyone. I don’t cheat. I don’t need to cheat. I never would cheat.

  My phone rings. It’s Hayes.

  I don’t want to talk to him. I’m so angry, I doubt I could form words adequate to express my outrage. Instead I reply to his call with a text.

  I saw the email u sent me. wtf was that? ru insane?

  A few moments later he texts in response.

  What email? No clue what ur talking about.

  Me: Asshole. Check ur VCU outbox. Sunday AM. At ur party.

  Hayes: What is it? I didn’t send you anything. Why ru mad?

  Me: Lying asshole.

  He calls again. When I don’t answer he texts,

  Chloe. Please talk to me. I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t understand what happened. Talk to me.

  Me: U really don’t want to talk to me right now. Trust me.

  Friday I’m scheduled for a double at the restaurant because half the staff is out of town on Fall Break. Hayes has called every two hours since early this morning. When the phone rings again, I’m just about ready to throw it in the ice bin at the bar. Then I see the incoming call isn’t Hayes. It’s a local number.

  I answer. “Hello?”

  “Chloe Harvey?” a familiar, if terse voice on the other end responds.

  “Yes,” I say, trying to identify the speaker.

  “This is Professor Johnson. I need to see you as soon as possible. Today.”

  Liza Johnson has never called me. I feel a knot form in my gut, reaching all the way to my knees. Something is very, very wrong.

  “Dr. Johnson,” I say weakly. “Ah… I’m at work… I…”

  “I don’t care if you’re at work,” she bites back. “If you’re in town, you need to be in my office before four. Some disturbing information has come to my attention, and I need you to account for it. Now.”

  She knows what Hayes did.

  The mid-afternoon crowd at the restaurant is thin. The bar is almost empty. I explain to my boss, Gerry, that I’ve been called by the chairman of my department, and really need to go see her. Gerry is a sweetheart, and a pretty good bartender. She tells me to go.

  I drive Hayes’ car to school, parking in a visitor’s spot, even though he has a faculty permit. I figure I’m already in enough trouble, I don’t need to compound it. The art building is as desolate as a tomb because of break. True to her word, Liza is upstairs in her office waiting, wearing an icy expression.

  “Sit,” she instructs me, pointing at the chair in front of her desk.

  I do as I’m told. She pauses before speaking, regarding me with an expression both angry and superior.

  “What, precisely, is going on between you and Hayes Chandler?”

  That knot in my gut, it starts doing summersaults. It springs up to my throat, almost choking me.

  “Ahm… we’ve… we’ve been dating… on and off… for a few months,” I reply haltingly. My heart pounds in my chest. What’s going to happen now?

  Liza shakes her head, clenching her jaw. Then she slides a piece of paper in my direction.

  “Tell me about this,” she says.

  I lift the paper. It’s a print-out of the email Hayes sent to me, with the attached PDF of the mid-term exam and answer key.

  “I only just saw this yesterday,” I say, feeling a little more confident. “I haven’t talked to Hayes about why he did it. I don’t know what he was thinking.”

  Liza rolls her eyes, snatching the paper back. “I know exactly what he was thinking,” she huffs. “He was thinking about what he could do to get in your pants. Apparently, it worked. Half the school saw him follow you into your apartment. No one saw him come back out.”

  “Dr. Johnson,” I begin, this time more forcefully. “I did not see that note until yesterday. I didn’t know he sent it. I didn’t cheat on the exam.”

  “You had a low C going into the exam b
ased on weekly quizzes and class participation,” she reminds me. “And then suddenly you ace the mid-term with a ninety-eight. You expect me to believe that? You’re not even a clever cheat.”

  She levels me with a stony glare. “Chloe, I want you to withdraw from school on Monday. Clean out your personal effects from your studio space, and return any keys and any equipment you’ve borrowed.”

  Say what?

  “No!” I shout, surprising myself. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I swear. I studied my tail off for that exam. Ask Hayes. I was…” It occurs to me as I’m saying it that Hayes’ word on this is useless. “I studied. I studied for two days straight.”

  “If you don’t withdraw I’m going to take this to the Dean,” Liza threatens. “If that happens, you’ll likely be expelled after a disciplinary review, which will go down on your permanent record. It may also lead to Hayes losing his position. This is cheating, Chloe. The university takes a very dim view of it.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I insist. “I am not going to withdraw because of something Hayes did, that I didn’t even know about until after the fact.”

  Her beady little eyes, which are too close together already, narrow. “This is going to go hard on you,” she says, forming her words into a chilling promise. “Your defiance is unbelievable. It won’t serve you well.”

  I try again to assure her that I did nothing wrong, but she isn’t listening.

  “I’m referring this to the Dean. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll have no further contact with Hayes until after this has been dealt with. I’m going to tell him the same thing, so mind yourself. If you two try to collude, contriving a story, it’ll just be worse for both of you.”

  I have no clue what to do next. That said, I don’t see how a disciplinary hearing could possibly find me guilty of anything, because I didn’t do anything wrong.

  This is all on Hayes.

  Chapter 14

  Hayes

  The house is locked up tight, dark, desolate. I pay my cab driver, then haul my bag to the porch alone. Across the street the bulldozers and land movers have finished their work. Where once stood a derelict, falling down shamble, occupied by a handful of under-funded art students, now there’s an empty lot, cleared of all debris. It’s like a pulled tooth; a gaping hole in the scenery. It hurts me to look at it, almost as much as it hurts me to conjecture where Chloe has gone, and if she’s coming back to me.

  When I left for Thanksgiving the plan was that she would be here to meet me when I returned. She even offered to cook us dinner. The only thing greeting me is silence.

  She hasn’t taken my calls. She won’t respond to my texts. The last thing she said to me was ‘lying asshole’ and something about an email I sent.

  I drop my bag in the front room, heading upstairs to my office. I need to log on to my computer and see for myself what set her off; what I am supposed to have done.

  Accessing my university email account, the first thing I see is a note from Liza; subject heading, “Monday, 8:00 meeting. We have some issues we need to work out.”

  I inspect the contents of the note but it’s vague. Liza only says that she wants to see me and it’s important.

  Chloe referred to my outbox. I switch to that and it doesn’t take long to find the note.

  The email was sent Sunday morning, six after two.

  I’m not certain, but I’d be willing to swear under oath that at that precise moment I was sitting on the stairs outside Chloe’s apartment, waiting for her, praying she was safe.

  There is no way in hell I’d send a note like this with that attachment. For starters, I have my own reputation to think of. I may be sleeping with my student who I’ve known since we were both kids, but that doesn’t mean I’d cheat for her. In fact, I hold Chloe to an even higher standard than I do the balance of her peers.

  And let’s just face it, Chloe doesn’t need my help.

  I try calling her again; she doesn’t pick up.

  It’s time to dig deep. I log in to the VCU faculty intranet, pulling up student records for Paul and Greg.

  I dial Paul’s number. It rings then goes to voicemail. I follow-up with a text explaining that I’m looking for Chloe and need to see her. I do the same thing with Greg. And then I wait while nothing happens.

  Peering out the back window I see that Chloe’s apartment is dark. No one’s there.

  Where is she? She could be anywhere. She’s probably crashing at one of her friend’s houses, fuming, believing that somehow, I sent this email.

  But so what? She didn’t use it. I know that. I don’t know what happened, but I do know that neither Chloe or I did anything wrong.

  An hour after I text Paul, I receive the following from him;

  “Chloe is fine. Among friends. You need to leave her alone. You’ve done enough.”

  I don’t even know what that means, I’ve ‘done enough.’ Does he believe this shit?

  I haven’t ‘done enough’ because I don’t know where she is and I don’t understand why she’s so angry – why she’s gone. When I lay my head down on my pillow to sleep, I can’t. I want her here with me. Something is horribly messed up, and for the life of me I can’t wrap my feeble brain around it.

  Why would someone do this? Who had access to my computer Sunday morning? What’s to be gained by it? And how do I fix it?

  “I didn’t send that email,” I tell Liza, emphatically. “There were a lot of people in my house Saturday night. Any one of them could have done it. I wasn’t even in the house when the thing was sent. I was at Chloe’s.”

  She scowls, shaking off my explanations. “Are you sleeping with her?”

  Is this really any of her business? Fuck it. I’m proud of Chloe. She’s the best thing that’s happened to me, ever.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “But the fact that we’re in a relationship has no bearing on the matter at hand. I would never help a student cheat. And Chloe doesn’t need to cheat. She wouldn’t.”

  Liza gives me a look that communicates her opinion of my naivety.

  “Hayes, I think you’ve been played,” she says. She explains how badly Chloe was doing in art history before the mid-term exam. She shows me her quiz scores and attendance record. It doesn’t look good, but I know she studied hard for the test. I was with her.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” Liza tells me. “I’ve given all this to the Dean, and he’s taking it to the administration. There’s going to be a disciplinary review. One of the university attorneys will be there, along with a representative from the Chancellors office…”

  “Good Lord, Liza… What the hell?” I can’t believe this misunderstanding—whatever it is—has gotten so far out of hand.

  “I’m going to do everything I can to defend you on this,” she continues. “The Dean and I will confer. You have a right to a faculty representative to plead your case. I’m working on putting that together.”

  Plead my case?

  “This is going to move fast. The administration doesn’t like allegations like these. They’ll want to resolve it as swiftly as possible. You need to cooperate.”

  Her expression is deadly serious.

  “My job is on the line?” I ask. “Seriously?”

  “Yes,” she replies. “You need to steer clear of Chloe. No contact. Not until we get this resolved. Don’t talk to anyone. We need to keep this contained for the sake of your reputation. Do you understand me?”

  No. I don’t understand how any of this has happened. Someone is seriously sabotaging my career and my life, and I don’t know why.

  I’m not surprised at all when Paul shows up for class with Chloe’s work in hand. He hangs her comps on the wall, giving me a look that could freeze lava.

  “Where is she?” I ask him. I know he’s well aware of what’s going on. I don’t care what Liza said, I need to talk with her.

  “Right now?” he asks. “Right about now I figure she’s at her place, packing her shit up, moving it out.
”

  What?

  “You know they suspended her, right? Told her to stay off campus until the administration has some kind of disciplinary review.”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” I reply weakly, the weight of this thing sinking in deeper. “Paul, neither of us did anything wrong. I didn’t…”

  “Save it,” he interrupts. “I saw the email.”

  He walks away without any further observation. His tone and expression tell me everything I need to know. If that’s what he feels, then Chloe’s opinion must be the same, magnified tenfold.

  Because of meetings and classes, I can’t get away from school until late afternoon. When I get home, Chloe has come and gone. I use my key to let myself into her apartment. She hasn’t moved everything, but she’s put a dent in it. Most of her books are still here, but her clothes and toiletries are gone. All her pens and markers, her toolbox filled with art supplies, they’re missing. A few posters are still pinned to the walls, but her photographs are taken away.

  The place feels empty, dead. All the life is stripped away. The emptiness mirrors the void I feel in my gut. My heart is breaking. Chloe is gone, and I’ve never felt so miserable.

  An hour later, sitting alone with a glass of Scotch, my phone rings. It’s Liza.

  “I told you this was going to move fast,” she says. “We have a meeting at the Chancellor’s office tomorrow at two. Wear a tie.”

  But I haven’t even had time to try to figure out who did this. Or why?

  “Liza. It’s too soon. I need to…”

  “You need to let me handle this,” she states firmly. “You’re new. You’re young. You’re not used to the politics of how these things work. Just let me and Dean Hunt manage it. All you need to do is show up, and don’t get in your own way.”