A knock at my door makes me jump. It’s too early for the kids, so I already know it’s Lance. “Getting excited for your basketball player’s visit today?” What a loaded question. Lance knows who Jordan is to me—mostly. He’s my best friend’s brother. And my friend as well. Yeah. That’s all.
“I think so. The kids have been bouncing off the walls—especially the boys. It’s like they’re meeting Michael Jordan or something.”
“It’s all over the school. A few other teachers are definitely jealous—especially after looking him up online.” That makes me smile, because Jordan is undeniably handsome.
“Fishing for an invite, Mr. Dayton?” He laughs, shaking his head.
“No, darling. Just checking in. Have a good day.” He drops a quick kiss on my cheek and disappears back into the hall.
My heart sinks when I think about telling Jordan the truth about everything. I’m broken. Used. These thoughts slide in, uninvited and my therapist keeps trying to reroute them with “positive self-talk,” but it’s a daily fight. Trey manipulated me for years, and it wrecked my self-esteem. I have to remind myself, over and over, that I’m worthy of good things. A good man included.
I drop my students at the lunchroom and duck into the restroom. As I wash my hands, I catch my reflection. The broken girl who left North Carolina looks like the best version of herself. It’s not just the pregnancy glow—it’s me finding myself again. This city has helped me heal in ways I didn’t even know I needed.
My normally bare face has makeup on, including red lipstick. I even curled my hair into loose waves down my back instead of yanking it into a bun. I went with black, comfortable wide-leg trousers and a soft, fitted white blouse. Red block heels show off my fresh pedicure and I feel… confident.
Obviously, I want to look my best at work—regardless of who’s visiting. But I can’t deny I tried a little harder because Jordan’s coming today. I’m not trying to impress him. I want him— everyone back home—to know that I’m thriving and living my best life in London.
Yeah, it’s not for him. Keep telling yourself that.
I scarf down lunch at my desk until the office calls to say Jordan’s here—and on his way. Our secretary is probably eighty and she sounds like a schoolgirl, giddy because Jordan Mills is in her office.
“Knock, knock.”
I still.
His voice. So familiar. It’s deep, and it vibrates through my body.
I look up—and meet those deep brown eyes.
Home.
“Jordan.” My voice comes out breathy, like I’ve just run a marathon, but it’s just what he does to me. The greeting feels heavy.
I stand and cross the room, he opens his arms, and I walk straight into them, and it feels comfortable. Right.
When he lets me go, he hooks a finger under my chin, tilting my face up. He’s smiling down at me, and my heart races.
What is happening right now?
“Mack. You look… incredible. I’m so happy to see you.”
I swallow, shake off the ridiculous nerves, and smile at one of my oldest friends. “You look good too, J. I’m so glad you’re here.” I pull him farther in and give him the quick tour, and within a few minutes, the students fill in with loud gasps and excited squeals at the sight of a professional athlete in our classroom.
“Class, this is Jordan Mills. He plays basketball in America for the Charlotte Sting. He’s here to read you a story, and then you can ask a few questions. What do we say?”
“Hello, Mr. Mills,” they shout in unison, like we haven’t practiced it a thousand times. Which we have.
He laughs, then looks at me with a grin. “Wow. That might be the best greeting I’ve ever gotten. You must have the best teacher ever.” Then he winks and heat climbs to my cheeks.
Sweet Colin shouts, “Ms. Banks is the best teacher in the whole world!”
Jordan points at him, “You’re right about that. Raise your hand if you want to hear a story about one of the best basketball players ever?”
Every hand shoots up, and Jordan pulls out the book I had picked when he said he wanted something interactive. I can tell he’s practiced—he barely has to look at the page, and he does different voices for the characters. My kids eat it up, I’m impressed, but not surprised. Jordan has proven he doesn’t do anything halfway.
When he finishes, he takes a few questions about playing basketball, school, and all the usual kid-curious stuff. Then a hand shoots up, and a voice asks, “Is Ms. Banks your girlfriend, Mr. Mills?”
Jordan actually blushes. My cheeks go hot and I press my palms to them. Before he has to answer, I swoop in to save him.
