“We’re not friends,” I groused, trying to fend off the little thrill that zipped through me.
“Oh, I know.” The words were lighter than any he’d spoken to me since we met.
A giggle bubbled up inside me, but I choked it back. It was a miracle, really.
I was tired. It was a million degrees outside. And we both had better things to do than stare at each other in the driveway.
“I’d love to hate you,” I told him, “but this house is unfairly beautiful. And the tub is magnificent. I’ll give you that. You hired a great interior designer.”
He crossed his arms, which only made him look beefier. “Hate to burst your bubble, but I chose everything myself. Every single detail.”
“Well,” I huffed, possibly more annoyed by that than anything else he’d said to me. “Then I like it less now.”
The corner of his lips twitched.
Shit. If I had to experience his damn dimple again, I was done.
So I nodded firmly, keeping my tone serious. “Yup. I hate that tub.”
“You love the tub.”
“Fuck off.”
With his head tipped back, he barked out a laugh. “Gladly. Can I go back to my job now? Are you done with your rage apology yet?”
The absurdity of this situation nearly took me out at the knees. I needed to go do yoga or something. All the pressure must have been getting to me.
But instead, I continued to poke this bear. Because though I hated to admit it, it was fun. And the bear had that dimple.
“It’s a wonder there’s no Mrs. Maple Tree in this place. What with your sparkling personality.”
His smile only grew.
“You must be fighting the ladies off with sticks, or …” I trailed off. “Pine cones or whatever country shit you’re into.”
“You could not handle what I’m into.”
A confusing mix of irritation and intrigue hit me. I cleared my throat. “Good. You should go now.”
“Great. Keep your kids away from dangerous equipment please.”
“Excellent,” I gritted out. “Don’t question my parenting again. Ever.”
“Perfect. Distance works for me.”
“I look forward to rarely interacting with you.”
We stood face to face for a beat too long, neither of us moving. Like maybe we’d just agreed to the wrong solution, and we knew it. And then he tipped his hat and started walking away, the dog trailing after him.
Chapter 8
Celine
Week two in Maplewood arrived like a bar brawl disguised as a Monday morning in September. We’d survived the first week of school—a three-day week only, but I still counted it as a major victory. So far, Ellie had forgotten to bring home all the forms she needed signed and Maggie had forgotten her glasses. But we’d made it.
I was doing it. Momming. Teaching. Living in a new place. And I was still standing.
When my alarm blared, I shut it off with a groan, then surveyed Julian, who was sitting on the floor, lining up his Lego mini figs by theme and color.
