Rescued By A Perfect Stranger: A Single Dad, Age Gap Romance (Bearberry Bay - Rescue Series Book 4)

Chapter 25

~~ Lorelai ~~

I watch my phone every second for the last hour of work instead of adding the office supplies that were just delivered to my inventory spreadsheet. I don”t know which I’m more nervous about, Mrs. Corbyn’s inevitable critique or a call from James. No. I decide it’s definitely a call from James.

The classroom teachers already have a rotation for manning the pickups. Most of them are so familiar with the parents’ cars that the children are already waiting with their backpacks and lunchboxes by the time the parents sign them out. I think there’s no reason for the parents to even have to come in, and I add that to my list of things to think about “after”.

Mrs. Corbyn’s office is the only one with a window looking out on the front, and she has the security displays in her office, so I can’t even watch to see when James comes to pick up Emilie. I fiddle and check my phone and fiddle some more. I’m relieved when Darla from the two-year-old class peeks her head in to give me the all-clear and I can head out.

By the time I make the final turn onto the main road downtown, I’ve abandoned all the affirmations I learned in therapy. I’ve convinced myself that even if James saw my number tucked into my email signature with the other contact information, he wouldn’t bother to contact me. I’ve said all the horrible, self-deflating things I can think of to convince myself not to wish, not to hope.

I skip dinner, and I’m lying face down on my bed at the B B. I was able to dismiss the idea of James as a fantasy if I didn’t see him, but now that it’s time to discover his reaction to my presence in Bearberry Bay, I’m terrified.

I must have dozed. I wake to the light coming in my window dimmed so much I think the streetlamps must be switching on. My phone chimes and buzzes at the end of the bed with a text notification, which happens so much more often now that I’m in a group chat with the lovely ladies I met at the bakery.

I inch the phone closer with my foot, then stretch down to snag it without moving from the hollow I’ve made in the memory foam.

Oh. Shit. It’s James.

Yes, I stole his number from Emilie”s file. But just so I’d see his name before answering. That doesn’t even register as a minor infraction in my book.

“It’s James. Can we talk?” it says. My body freezes.

Then, “I know it’s late. Sorry.” My brain freezes.

A half-second later another message. “Just got Emilie out of the bath. My neighbor can sit with her if you’re free to meet.”

Oh.

He wants to meet.

In person.

After the mental beating I gave myself on the ride home, I’m nervous now.

I start to type, but my fingers lock up. I don’t know how to be casual. I want to say, “fuck, yes”, or “just say where and when”, or “please touch my skin”. I know I should send none of those!

I must’ve hesitated too long. Another text comes in. “It’s okay if you can’t, or don’t want to.”

And another right after. “I guess I don’t have any right to ask.”

My heart tips sideways with the thought that I must have left him feeling awkward with my delay in responding. I type “Yes” before I really know what I’m doing and hit send.

I stare at my one-word answer. Ugh. Stupid.

“The Thai place near you should still be open.”

Another chime. “Or do you prefer a bar?”

“The Thai place is fine.” I send back. I know the one he means. It’s across the square, just a minute or two to walk there.

My phone chimes again. “30 minutes?”

“Yes,” I send, cringing again. I know my social skills need work, but damn.

A thumbs up emoji appears on the screen.

I don’t know how to take that. Is he upset? I rub my hands over my face.

My therapist would tell me to focus on facts not feelings. I have no proof he’s angry, so I should not assume he is. I cover my face with a pillow and scream into it.

“Okay, enough of that. Get up.” I tell myself aloud.

Next dilemma. What to wear?

I start flipping through the small assortment of clothes I’ve added to the closet in the past couple of weeks. Arguing with myself over what to wear is also stupid. He’s seen me in nothing! Does it really matter what I wear? But yes, it does. Now I’m his daughter’s teacher, I have friends, I will have neighbors at some point. Not that I care overly what people think, but I do want to present a positive impression.

Oh, who am I kidding? I want to look sexy because it’s James, and the tension between us today was not awkwardness because of the surprising situation. It was because I could see the hunger underneath that, and I felt it, too.

Ultimately, I pull on the most comfortable jeans I have. With some hesitation, I choose a cropped, bubble gum colored sweater that has a smattering of tiny iridescent sparkles. Madison had insisted I take it when I bought three pairs of the swingy slacks she made for me.

I haven’t worn pink since I was conscious of colors, but she wouldn’t let me leave without it. “I know you love it. You’ve walked by and touched it five times.” Then she had whispered, “It doesn’t have to be practical. You deserve to feel pretty.” And so, it has tempted me from its padded hanger every day.

Every time I’ve taken it down, I’ve changed my mind and put it back in the closet unworn. But every time, I’ve loved it more.

It’s time to wear it.