Page 53 of Freefall

“I get that, but there are boundaries.”

He raises a brow as if this is a new word for him.

I open my mouth to say something else, but before I can, a large man in an overcoat bumps into me on his way into the classroom.

“Oh, sorry,” he drawls. “Didn’t see you there.”

“It’s okay.” I turn to look back at Nate, but he’s already sauntering through the door behind Overcoat Guy. With a sigh, I follow him into the classroom.

Ms. Dawson is young. Like really young. TJ told me it’s only her second year teaching. Not just at this school. Ever. There’s no way she’s over twenty-three, and with long auburn hair and eyes the color of the ocean, she's also stunningly beautiful. I haven’t given it much thought, just some appreciative feminine awe, but when Nate walks by and those soft blues turn electric, raking over him like hot coals, I’m suddenly very aware of it.

The desks are set up in pairs, so when Nate sits down, after choking back a laugh at seeing a six-foot-four man sitting in a chair meant for a second grader, I make the decision to sit beside him. You know, so Ms. Dawson doesn’t get the wrong idea.

What idea would that be? I mentally bat away my inner voice. A few stragglers file in, and then Ms. Dawson finally takes her eyes off Nate long enough to speak.

“Thank you all for coming tonight!” she says excitedly. “I know I’ve met most of you, but there are some new faces—” She flicks her eyes to Nate. “So I thought I would reintroduce myself.”

She projects a PowerPoint presentation on the whiteboard, with the first few slides being exclusively about her—hobbies, interests, education. She went to UConn for undergrad, did her student teaching in Greenwich, and has a cat named Mister Mittens, whose name she spells out in full on the screen rather than abbreviating it. There’s no mention of a significant other and no other person lurking in any of the ten-picture collage of her and Mittens—I’m sorry, Mister Mittens.

Oh, and she likes to hike on her days off. The more strenuous, the better. Gotta love that payoff at the end when you’re standing at the top of the world looking at the view below.

A picture of worn brown hiking boots and the sunrise on a mountain peak floats into my mind uninvited.

New beginnings.

Despite my irritation with him, I can’t help but wonder if Nate likes to hike, too, or if it was a one-time thing. He never mentioned anything about hiking when we were together. As if he can hear my thoughts, Nate taps his finger on the desk in front of him, reminding me how close he is. All I can think about is how that same finger was inside of me a few days ago. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of his every move. The way he shifts uncomfortably in the seat, which is way too small for him, the way his watch slides an inch down his wrist when he brings his hand up to rub his temple.

I remember thinking how every little thing he did back in college was incredibly sexy. He could make even the most mundane tasks feel like he was filming a thirst trap video.

I need to get a grip.

I turn my attention back to the front of the room, where Ms. Dawson has moved on to talking about this year’s math curriculum. She makes ridiculous jokes like “I hope I’m not being too obtuse, I just really love geometry,” and each time, her nose crinkles in this adorable laugh that ends in a little snort. It’s soft enough to be cute instead of off-putting.

She keeps turning her attention to Nate every so often, but the way her eyes dissect him is more than just appreciation. It’s more like familiarity.

It’s obviously all in my head. My irritatingly jealous head.

When she’s finally done with her presentation, Ms. Dawson tells us we are “dismissed to lunch” and reminds us to remember our “magic manners.”

As I’m walking out, I catch a glimpse of her looking like she’s going to walk over to us, but then she shakes her head and says something to herself, turning toward her desk instead.

“Nate Caldwell?” A shrill voice echoes behind me. I turn to see Lottie Fairchild standing behind me, and yes, that’s her real name. Well, I suppose Lottie could be short for Charlotte. Either way, she’s the PTA president, and while she may be older than Ms. Dawson, she’s just as pretty. She’s also five foot nothing, so she literally has to strain her neck to look up at Nate. Standing next to her is her second-in-command, Lacey. Yep, Lacey and Lottie.

“It’s been so long,” Lottie continues. “I didn’t know you had kids.”

“Hi Charlotte,” he says politely.

Well, that answers that question.

“Nate’s a friend,” I tell her. “He’s here for…moral support.”

“I see.” Her eyes narrow, focusing on the glimpse of chest showing beneath his shirt, where the top button is undone. “So you’re still single then?”

Lacey giggles like she’s not a thirty-five-year-old woman, and Nate opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t let him. “It was nice to see you, Lottie. We’d better get to the cafeteria before all those delicious baked goods are gone.”

Her dark brown eyes snap to mine. “Right, of course. Be sure to check out the brownies.” She’s looking at Nate now. “I made them from scratch.”

“Oh, and the snickerdoodles,” Lacey cuts in. “I also made them from scratch.” That earns her some serious side-eye from her boss. But Lottie recovers quickly and winks at Nate as I grab his arm and pull him toward the hallway.