I open my mouth to argue, to insist that yes, we’re in an overcrowded bar and that’s the only reason for my flushed face, thank you very much. But the words die in my throat.
Because that prickling sensation in my scalp is back.
The one that tells me I’m being watched. That somewhere in this crowd of bodies and noise and colored lights, Ryder Evans’s eyes are on me.
I scan the bar casually, trying not to be obvious about it. Trying to look like I’m observing the general scene and not searching for one specific person. For the father of one of my students. Dancing with him was already inappropriate, going after him would be unprofessional.
Luckily, I don’t find him.
But the awareness persists, crawling across my skin as static energy. I feel the weight of his attention even if I can’t locate the source. Feel the heat of his gaze tracking me from somewhere in the shadows.
And worst of all—absolutely worst of all—I want it.
Want his eyes on me.
8
RYDER
The syrup pools in the grooves of Rhys’s pirate ship pancake, chocolate chip cannons dissolving into the sweet sludge. My son is perched on a stool across from me, dressed in his weekend uniform of a faded Bobcats sweatshirt and pants. He cranes his neck to spy what today’s creation will be. All-shape pancakes are our Sunday morning tradition. This week, it’s pirates. Last week was rocket ships. Next week, who knows; it depends on what online tutorial I find.
I present the ship.
“That’s perfect, Dad!” Rhys bounces on his stool, diving in. “Can you make me a treasure chest?”
“Sure, buddy.”
“And can we get a parrot?” Rhys asks between chews.
“Tractor would eat it.” I work on the treasure chest—basically a rectangle with more chocolate chips.
“A lizard?”
“Same problem, I’m afraid.”
“Aaah,” he groans in protest and grabs another bite. “Miss Rose would love these,” he announces through a mouthful of pancake. “She likes pirates. We read a book about them last week, and she did the voices. She made the captain sound mean and scary, and the hero brave.”
Of course she does character voices when she reads to her students. And of course, the one second in two days I’m not thinking about Faye Rose, Rhys brings her up.
My thoughts have been stuck on her since Friday night. Since I left the Moonshine and drove home with Remy and Rebecca’s relentless teasing ringing in my ears. I’ve tried to drown out the memories of watching her dance—wild and free —and the sharper ones of having her in my arms.
Nothing worked. Not the hours I spent staring at the ceiling while my brain refused to go to sleep. Especially not the predawn wake-up calls my body has gifted me these past two mornings. A reminder of how long it’s been since I’ve touched a woman.
I tip the treasure chest on Rhys’s plate, then slide my pancake—a boring circle—onto mine.
“She sounds like quite the performer.” I pour myself a coffee.
Rhys nods, cheeks puffed with food. “Everyone listens when she tells stories. She makes it fun.”
I hide a smile behind my mug. “Bet she does.”
“Are you going to date her?”
I choke on the first sip. Coffee burns down my throat and into my lungs. I cough, eyes watering, while Rhys watches with innocent curiosity.
“What? No, why would you— No.”
“Why not? You danced with her on Friday night.”
