***
I swing into my driveway, slowing when I see the van still parked out front. The plumbers’ logo is splashed across the side, and through the open window, I can hear the low drone of fans. Almost there. They’d promised just one more day, then I could move back in. Logan must’ve let them in for a check before he left for an afternoon skate.
I’m halfway up the path when Betty’s screen door creaks open.
“Well, don’t you look positively radiant,” she calls, stepping onto her porch in pressed slacks and a twinset, her silver hair tucked neatly behind her ears. She folds her hands primly over her middle, then ruins the picture entirely with her next words.
“Either you’ve found religion, or someone's made you scream.”
I almost trip on the step. “Betty!”
Her smile is all sweet tea and Sunday school, but her eyes are sharp with mischief. “What? A woman your age ought to have some fun. You can’t fool me with that glow.”
Heat blazes up my neck. “There is no glow. It’s just been a long day.”
“Mmhmm.” She hums like she doesn’t believe a word, then gestures to the plastic bins stacked on her porch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to drag out the Halloween decorations. Can’t have the block thinking I’ve gone soft.”
My grin slips out before I can stop it. “Halloween already?”
“End of September, darling. By the first of October, everyone’s porch will look like a pumpkin patch exploded. Better get your boxes down from the garage rafters before you’re the last one bare.”
A little thrill sparks through me. Costumes. Candy. Fairy lights and fake cobwebs. “Noted.”
Betty gives me a knowing look, the kind that makes me feel twelve and caught red-handed. “Thought you’d like that.” She pats her pearls primly, then adds over her shoulder as she headsback inside, “Now get some rest before I decide to ask you who put that glow on your face.”
She disappears, leaving me on my porch with cheeks still burning and my brain already spinning with decoration ideas.
After a quick check at mine, I lock up and head over to Logan’s. There’s no sign of him or Dusty, but I knew that already—he’d texted earlier about the boys grabbing dinner after skate, and Dusty loves the rink when he gets a chance to tag along.
I heat water for tea, then grade a few papers at the kitchen island, but every time my pen hovers over a half-baked essay, my brain drifts. Back to his voice last night, back to his mouth. Back to the part where I almost thought he might kiss me and then didn’t.
By the time I give up and curl onto the couch with my phone, I’m buzzing. Which means I do something reckless.
Me:Hypothetically… if a girl had a wishlist. For, you know, certain lessons. Would you want to see it?
The dots appear immediately.
Logan:Hypothetically?
Me:Totally. Hypothetically.
Logan:Then yeah. I’d want to see every damn line.
Heat rushes up my neck.
Me:Okay then. Question #22: What would you do if I added “teacher’s desk” to that list?
Logan:Confiscate it. Then bend you over it.
I smother a squeak in a pillow.
Me:Very authoritarian of you, Coach.
Logan:Don’t test me.
My pulse skitters.
Me:Fine. Question #23: What counts as a lesson?
