“Thank you, by the way,” Faye says when she reopens her eyes. “For backing the Mother’s Day proposal tonight. Bettany would’ve shot it down without your help.”
“It’s the least I could do.” I drop the Tupperware on her desk and shove my hands in my pockets. “You were right about the need for a change. Sorry again for being an ass about it the first time.”
She blinks, maybe surprised that I’m owning our first-meeting disaster without looking for excuses.
“Either way, I appreciate the support. And”—she gestures with the cookie—“the apology performance.”
I smile now. “You mean how impressed you were with my dancing skills?”
“No remorse, I see, Mr. Evans.”
“None. And we’re supposed to pretend none of it happened, remember?”
She finishes the cookie and licks her thumb. There’s nothing sexual about the gesture, but my blood is pumping south anyway.
“Yeah,” she says. “Fresh start.”
We stare at each other, and I don’t know what she’s thinking about: the first day we met, the dancing, the fairy spice? But I like that, whatever it is, her eyes are smiling about it.
I take my phone out of my pocket. “So, uh. Can I get your number, or do I have to steal it from the renters’ directory?”
“Ah—you’re not just a cookie thief,” she chides, then relents and gives it to me.
“Don’t worry,” I promise as I save it in my contacts. “I won’t text you at every weird hour of the night.” I want to add, unless you want me to, but keep the thought to myself.
She brushes the comment off, changing topics. “Are you sure about the field trip? Twenty-two first graders are a lot to handle.”
I hold her gaze, letting the teasing drop away. “I am. The class needs a chaperone, and I’m happy to help, to support Rhys. Be there for him…” I’m undecided how much to add. I’m about to cross a line I shouldn’t cross with my son’s teacher. But screw it. We’re alone. She’s staring at me with those eyes that melt spines, and I’m tired of pretending I volunteered for this trip purely out of paternal duty when all I want to do is suck that pouty lower lip into my mouth and savor the leftover sweetness of the cookie while I discover what she tastes like.
“And for you,” I finish. “If you’ll have me.”
Faye draws a sharp breath. I watch it rise and fall beneath her cream sweater, watch the way her pupils dilate a fraction before she blinks and looks away.
“The help is much appreciated,” she says, deflecting with the ease some people breathe. “We’ll talk closer to the date. Figure out the logistics.”
She’s dismissing me. The conversation is over. I should take the hint and leave.
Except I don’t want to.
“You heading home?” I ask instead.
“I just have to put the chairs back.”
“Let me help.”
Before she can protest, I grab two chairs by their backs and lift. They’re heavy, solid wood and metal.
Faye’s gaze lands on my flexed forearms, hungry almost. She nods. “Thanks,” she says, picking up a chair herself.
We move in silence, carrying the chairs down the hallway to a storage room near the principal’s office. The building is quiet around us, empty except for the distant sound of the janitor’s cart rattling somewhere on the second floor.
It takes two trips to clear the chairs. When the last one is stacked, Faye locks up her classroom.
We walk down the long hall next to each other, the overheads buzzing like flies. The night outside is black and glossy with the moon rising in the distance.
The parking lot is lit only by a few security lights. Two cars are left, my dusty truck and a sleek, brand-new BMW.
Vehicles from opposite worlds.
