“Did you just admit you’ve been checking me out?”
He doesn’t backpedal this time. He smirks, small but real. “Maybe I did. But it shouldn’t be a newsflash to you that I think you’re hot.”
Jesus. I’m done for.
Who is this merciless flirt and what have they done to Cole Hudson?
“Then keep doing it,” I tell him softly, no teasing in my voice. “Look at me as much as you want.”
His eyes lift, meeting mine, and something molten sparks there. I’m on fire.
Cole doesn’t need saving.
He’s standing right in front of me, holding his ground, flirting with me in his own hesitant, devastating way.
I force myself to ask, “Where’s Noah?”
“Volcano duty. Jørgen’s watching.” Then Cole adds, lips twitching: “He’s married, by the way. To Linda.”
He’s teasing me back. Holy hell. He’s actually teasing me.
I huff a laugh. “Was I that obvious?”
“A little,” he admits, blush spreading but his grin stays. Then, like he’s reminding himself of the world outside us, he steps back. “I should go. Thanks for… the company.”
“Anytime,” I say, grinning helplessly, watching him walk away.
I stand there for a long time, towel forgotten in my hands, my whole chest caving in. Because for the first time in a long time, I don’t just feel hope. I feel… awe.
Cole Hudson just flirted with me.
I swear there aren’t enough chilis in this world to rate the hotness.
COLE
By the time I get back to the others, they are in a heated debate about the school’s ‘color palette policy’. We don’t have one. But according to Becky, we desperately need it.
“Color choices communicate values,” she says.“So what we need is a committee for each age group and subcommittees for space purpose and balance. The poor teachers in Baywood are overworked as it is, and the last thing they need is the stress of managing color palette policy planning. It’s up to us, the good people of PTA, to help them.”
Most of the parents just look at her, overwhelmed and probably thinking is participation compulsory, but Michael, dead serious, asks: “Is there a color that enhances a child’s ability to hold their breath underwater?”
“Yes, orange,” Becky fires away like she had a clue. “Oh, that reminds me, Rhodes showed incredible color instincts when he had his finger-painting phase. Talk about throwing a hissy fit if I gave him the wrong yellow!”
Jørgen and I start packing the kids’ toys away, determined to make a run for it before Becky places us in one of the various committees she mentioned.
I’m just buckling Noah into his seat when Lottie’s mom walks over.
“I apologize on everyone’s behalf,” she says quietly. “I don’t even know what it is about Xaden Bailey that makes us so… I don’t want to say obsessed, but that’s kind of what I’m thinking.”
My first reaction is to mumble thanks and flee. Instead, high on some bravery fumes from before, I say: “I appreciate you saying that. But the way you guys talk about Xaden and our relationship is actually very intrusive and makes me uncomfortable.” I can hear my voice shaking, but the words are steady.
It’s a small thing, barely a ripple in the Baywood gossip machine, but it feels like a tectonic shift inside me.
Lottie’s mom nods, taking it in her stride.I feel taller than ever.
A few minutes in, Noah’s already asleep, cheeks sticky with juice and streaked with sand. He’s holding his T-Rex in a death grip. The poor thing had to wait in the car today. I’m not risking another archaeological dig after last time.
We spent two hours searching for it. Becky organized the effort like a professional event coordinator. She turned it into a treasure hunt, got all the kids involved. It was Luca who eventually found it, and Michael immediately started talking about archaeology as a career path and whether modern-day Indiana Joneses make six figures. I bought celebratory ice cream for everyone. It was actually kind of fun. You can think what you want about Becky Fairweather but when it comes to organizing, she’s undefeated.
