FAYE
The arrival of Ryder Evans creates a stir among the moms.
The reaction ripples through the circle of women. Several gasp. Many say hello while smoothing down their hair or tucking strands behind their ears. They sit up straighter, spines lengthening, chests pushing forward like synchronized swimmers responding to an invisible cue. Even Melissa Roberts, who I’ve never seen show interest in anything besides her twins’ academic progress, sucks in her stomach.
I have to lock my hands on the notebook I’m holding not to do the same. Not to check whether my hair is still neat in its low twist. Not to adjust my sweater or wet my lips or do any of the other dozen unconscious things my body wants to do in response to Ryder Evans darkening my door—literally, since there’s so much of him he blocks all the light. I’m just as unprepared as I was a week ago for the sight of him in those darn jeans and Henley—sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the forearms that have haunted my dreams.
Ryder’s gaze sweeps the room, landing on each woman in polite acknowledgment, before his eyes find mine, and the air disappears from my lungs.
It’s the same look he gave me across the crowded bar at the Moonshine. The same intensity that pinned me to the dance floor and made me forget every reason why dancing with him was a terrible idea. His eyes are the color of twilight, that impossible shade that shouldn’t exist outside of Photoshop. And right now, they’re focused on me.
Something passes between us. A current, live and dangerous.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
“Sorry I’m late.” His whiskey and woodsmoke voice fills my classroom as he steps in, holding a Tupperware in his hands. Did he bring snacks?
“Oh, don’t be silly, Ryder.” Bettany Harlow recovers first. She’s positioned herself in the chair closest to me, the alpha mom claiming a prime spot. “We were just getting started. Weren’t we, ladies?”
A chorus of agreement rises from the other moms, voices overlapping in their eagerness to assure him his lateness doesn’t matter. Not when he looks like that.
Bettany smooths her already-perfect blonde bob and waves her hand toward Ryder like she’s the queen welcoming a visiting dignitary. “As room parent, I’m thrilled to give our first dad an official welcome.”
I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
I should feel guilty about my internal snark. Bettany is efficient, organized, and cares about making school events special for the kids. She’s the kind of parent volunteer every teacher dreams of having.
She also mentions being the class representative the way some people work their Ivy League alma mater into every conversation. How many times will she bring up her title tonight? Should I make a drinking game out of it? Take a shot later for each time she says it? Getting drunk could be useful to forget how Ryder Evans looks in that Henley. At this rate, I’ll be unconscious by nine.
“Happy to help.” He moves deeper into the room, and a shade of doubt crosses his face as he takes in the seating arrangements.
We’re sitting in a circle of adult chairs I brought in for the meeting—for the parents who RSVP’d in time instead of going for a dramatic late entrance. But I only took six. No spare for the unexpected dad who decided to ruin my seating plan with his unreasonably sculpted ass.
The only other seating options are the kid-sized chairs. But no way Ryder Evans is folding his six-foot-plus frame into one of those. The mental image alone, him with his knees up around his ears, legs cramped, is ridiculous.
“Take my chair,” I say, starting to stand.
His hand comes up, waving me down. “A desk will be fine.”
He leans back against one of the front-row desks, long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. The geometry of our circle breaks. The moms scramble, chairs scraping on the floor as they angle themselves to include him.
“I brought cookies.” He rattles the Tupperware container.
Of course he did.
He probably baked them himself, shirtless, flour dusting his abs, while he shimmied around the kitchen to the beat of country music, hips swaying sexily.
And I should stop imagining Ryder Evans doing domestic tasks bare-chested.
“How thoughtful!” Bettany practically squeals.
“Chocolate chip.” He pops the lid, forearms flexing, and hands the container to the nearest mom.
I yank my gaze away from him and force my brain to shut down the memory of how those arms felt around me on the dance floor.
When the plastic container reaches me, I grab a cookie. I need the comfort sugar.
I take a bite. And nearly have a religious experience.
