We follow Ellis as he returns to the front of the classroom, leaving the kids playing alone for a few minutes.
“By the way,” Ellis says, “I don’t suppose you two want to lead the Spring Fair organizing team this year? I want to say you have a choice, but it’s you or a bunch of women I had the displeasure of meeting recently.” His face is nothing if not pleading.
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but Fletcher’s wide smile scares me. A lot.
“We’ll do it,” he says without breaking eye contact.
“You do know the meaning of consent, right?” I ask.
“Come on, cupcake, it’ll be fun.”
I let out a long sigh, which Fletcher seems to take as acceptance.
5
FLETCHER
My momalways says I have a special talent to sniff out trouble and then head right into it. She says it’s my way of rebelling against their flower-power generation values.
And although I know I’m pushing all Harrison’s buttons, I can’t seem to stop, so she may have a point.
The man is frustrating and beguiling in equal measure.
His rapid and false assessment of my son’s character is still stuck in my throat. I want to grab him by his sexy muscled forearms and drag him outside. I want to say all the things I can’t in front of Ellis or the kids.
But considering how skittish Harrison is, that’s probably a terrible idea.
Speaking of bad ideas…what got into me when I spoke for Harrison and agreed we could lead the Spring Fair organizing team?
I cross one leg over the other to stop it from bouncing on the floor.
Harrison is sitting a few desks away from me while Ellis is back at his own desk, typing something on his laptop.
The kids are still searching for the pirate book.
When Ellis took Harrison’s silence as agreement about the Spring Fair, he left us to catch up with work. We each picked a chair and sat down, in yet another silent agreement to leave the kids to play a little longer.
I quickly glance at the clock on my phone. George and I need to get on the road soon if we want to get to the cabin before dark.
Harrison seems busy on his phone, but every so often, I see him look up. I pretend not to notice his glance toward the kids and then me.
What is he thinking?
When we met at the auction, he was like a book sealed with a heavy lock and a lost key. The only times I’m sure I saw the real Harrison was when I witnessed his freakout in the restroom and when I touched him after the auction.
But was that the real Harrison?
He stands. “I’ve gotta take this,” he says, holding his buzzing phone.
I check the time again.
“Gigi, buddy, we need to go soon,” I say, breaking the hushed conversation between the kids.
“But we’re still in F for frogs,” Megan says.
My face must give away my confusion because she clarifies.
“We have to check all the letters first.”
