Reactions to triggers aren’t just emotional, they can be physical too. Which is something I teach my clients, and even helped some of them with when they were experiencing fits of rage or mania. My clients and my education are the only way I was able to pinpoint what was happening,after the fact. In the moment, of course, I was just feeling and acting like an uncontrollable lunatic. It’s been over a year since the outbursts started and they are much less severe than in the beginning.
But they aren’t gone.
I take a long, deep breath in and let it out through my nose, the bouncing in my legs starts to slow and fizzle away. I realize I’m also white knuckling the steering wheel, so with another deep breath I finally unclench and wipe my sweaty palms off on my skirt.
You have everything under control.
I pull down my visor to give myself one last look over. A truck pulls up beside me—in this enormous parking lot with at least fifty feet of space to the front door, and a plethora of other options than right next to me.
But no, this truck just had to park there.
And of course, out of the truck stepsBenny.
Benny, whom I have been told by my sister, and new coworkers, is everyone’s best friend—their go-to guy—the one you call if you need a ride. The guy that will bend over backward for his people. Benny hosts the game nights, and he always answers your phone calls. Benny is the guy that brings the dip to the potluck—the freaking dip.
Another thing about everyone’s favorite boss—something my sister conveniently forgot to mention to me when I accepted this job—is that Benny is hot. And not just warm-your-face-in-the-summer-sun hot.No. Benny is the kind of hot that bakes you from head to toe, slowly melting you into a pile of ash.
He stands there, running his hand through his rich, dark hair before reaching for his bag in the backseat. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, heat moving up my neck at his swift movements.
He’s practically glowing in the sun. As if his skin wanted to be sunburnt but the good genetics he has took over and created this creamy blend of olive and auburn. The color pops against the pale blue, linen button-up shirt he’s wearing.
With the top button undone . . .
My heart pounds into my throat as my eyes note the small divot that lies in the center of his chest.
Excuse me, sir, this is a school.
Please cover yourself up . . . for my sake at least.
The shirt stretches taut across his chest and arms. It’s so tight it looks like one perfect flex of his muscles underneath will cause the fabric to shred.
Is his shirt too small or something?
I squint subtly for a better look. Nope, the shirt is fine. It’s loose around his waist—doing it’s best not to cling too close to his abdomen. Probably to prevent lingering eyes . . . which isexactlywhat I am doing as he approaches my car window . . .
“Good morning!” he yells through my still closed window.Roll it down, you idiot.
“Morning,” I say through the window,stillnot rolling it down.
“Can I walk you inside?” It’s probably just my wishful thinking, but he seemed hopeful when he asked. But I can’t walk in with him. Those broad shoulders and big arms swaying next to me? Too distracting. I won’t be able to keep my eyes off him, and then I will face plant onto the pavement.
Unless . . . I follow behind him . . .
No, stop it.
“I’ll be right in,” I say through the window, gesturing that I need to make a phone call.
I dial Emma—anything to get him to go away. I have had the worst time this week trying to make small talk, feeling mushy and weak in the knees around him. The guy probably has no idea the effect he has on me. And walking fifty feet to the door with him will do me in.
I’m sure I seem a little closed off to him, running in the opposite direction when it was just the two of us in the hallway, or keeping my office door closed an abnormal amount. But there was something going on inside of me anytime he was around, and I had to shut it down immediately.
He nods as if I just shot him in the gut and heads for the door. I take in the view as he walks away. I might not be able to act on this sudden attraction, but I can at least admire him from afar. I silently thank the man upstairs for putting such a good-looking specimen on this Earth.
A few students yell and laugh as they race past my office windows when the tardy bell rings. The annoyance I feel is definitely plastered on my face as some of them make eye contact.
Children.They aren’t my forte, teenagers especially.
They’re too happy—and oblivious to the real world.
