Page 9 of Against All Odds

I used my phone to pay for the candle.

“Some good, some not. Back in San Diego, my classmates focused on grades like our lives depended on it. Everyone talked about college applications and where everyone wanted to go. Here,thatpressure is considerably less.” She slipped the wrapped candle into the tote bag she’d brought along.

“That’s a good thing, right?”

I hated that kids her age were obsessed and stressed with the college application process. What was supposed to be the start of their adult life was treated like it was the be-all and end-all of their lives. Alexa subscribed to that philosophy and wanted Juno to go to an Ivy League school. I just wanted her to study what inspired her.

Juno wrapped her hand around my arm and leaned in closer. “The not-so-great part is that they haveactualmean girls here. Like in the movies, you know? In San Diego, we were all so stressed about grades and studying that no one had time to bully anyone. But here, themean girlsfind time.”

“Is someone bullying you?” My heart hammered at thethought.

“Oh, please, I’m almost Aspen royalty, thanks to Grandma and Grandpa,” she chuckled. “The mean girls want to be friends with me.”

Alexa’s parentswerewell-known in Aspen, since her father had been the mayor. They were still seen as the Old Guard, wealthy, elitist, and pillars of Aspen society. They wereverydifferent from Juno’s paternal grandparents.

My father and mother, now retired, had both taught as professors at a small liberal arts college in upstate New York, where I grew up. My brother still lived in the same small town—and even though I’d moved around quite a bit while I was building my career as a hotel man, I had ended up in San Diego for a good decade, and I had thought I’d stay there until I retired, whenever that would be. I had thought that Alexa and I would be together as well—which also didn’t happen.

“What do these mean girls do?” I asked.

She frowned. “They pick on the girls that don't come from money…that kind of thing. It’s disgusting. There are a couple of girls they go after. There’s this trailer park that’s in the same district as our high school, so we have a lot of different socioeconomic statuses, which is nice and so different from San Diego.”

She wasn’t wrong. In San Diego, the classes didn’t mingle.

“How are you handling it?” I asked.

“I’m struggling with it,” she admitted as she slowed to examine a stall selling chocolate-covered pretzels. “But,” she continued, grabbing a bag of candy, “since Iam thought of as being the popular former mayor’s granddaughter, I hang out with those girls. They don’t trust me yet, but you know me, we’ll get there.”

I was so proud of her, I wanted to beat my chest. Nah, I didn’t have to worry about Juno turning into her mother. No fucking way.

She handed the bag to the vendor and then looked at it with an arched eyebrow. "If you want some, you get your own. This one is mine.”

“You know the rules, Junebug; you’ve got to pay the snack tax.” I used my phone, again, to pay for the pretzels.

She smirked and held up the bag. “Fine, you can haveone. But only because I’m feeling generous.”

“I’ll take it.” I wrapped an arm around her. “Every win with a teenager counts, even if it comes in the form of overpriced chocolate.”

“I think this is more pretzel than chocolate,” Juno thoughtfully said after she took a bite.

We finished eating the pretzels and then grabbed a couple of fresh-pressed juices from a stall near the corner. We were talking and walking when I spotted a familiar face—two, to be exact.

Bambi was standing by the cheese cart with Hillary Simmons.

I knew Hillary from the bank, as she’d been the one who helped when my checkbook went missing. And Bambi? Well, I wanted to get to know her, so I was lucky she was with Hillary. Wasn’t there something about single dads being attractive to women?

She hadn’t noticed me yet.

She looked gorgeous, I thought, as her dark hair spilled over the collar of her spring jacket when she tilted her head as Hillary talked.

She laughed suddenly.

That soft and shy sound hit me right below the belt, which made me uncomfortable since I was with my kid.

I was about to walk up to the duo when Hillary turned and smiled wide. She waved. “Heath, what a surprise.”

Unfortunately, Sable didn’t seem to share Hillary’s enthusiasm because she stiffened when she saw me, and her smile, if you could call it that, was polite but tight. She was guarded.

“Hillary. Sable. This is my daughter, Juno.” I rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Juno, this is Hillary and Sable. Hillary is the one who saved me when checkbook-gate happened.”

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