Leah #2
“No,” I say too quickly. “I mean, no, I was just curious and …” I lose my words as she raises an eyebrow. I sigh. “Nick … is Nick—my Nick. Well, not mine, but—” I huff again. “He's the guy from the bar.”
Chelsea crosses her arms, her jaw opening and closing as she stares at me. “And he didn't kiss you?”
A laugh bubbles out of me. Of all the things Chelsea Santiago could have said at this moment, that was not the response I was expecting. “Did I really misread the signs, or—?”
“No, no, no. I mean …” She shakes her head, mouthing the word wow. “Look. I love that man. He is my brother, and I would go to bat for him, but—” she shrugs—“eh, let's just say monogamy isn't his game.”
“Oh.” I cross my arms, my fingers fiddling with my necklace. “So, Cowboy Casanova draws the line at kissing me. Great,” I joke.
“I'm just saying it's … different. This isn't his MO.” She studies me for a moment, hiding an obvious, knowing smile before blinking away, and looking at the next car in line.
Her words linger, and despite my better judgment, a warmth flutters through my veins.
But it doesn't matter.
The night at the bar served its purpose. We laughed, talked, and enjoyed each other's company for a few hours, but that doesn't mean it has to be anything more. Nick is the father of one of my students, and I have no business entertaining thoughts that suggest otherwise.
***
Stepping into the thick, humid air, I head toward the dumpsters in the well-lit back parking lot of Low Places.
For such a slow evening, the tips were generous.
I casually glance around the empty lot, my hand gripping my keys tightly at my side.
I toss the bag of trash, but before I can pivot around, a large shadow passes over me.
I gasp, whirling around as my heart lurches into my throat.
I pause.
The pale glow of the streetlight catches a familiar crooked grin, highlighting a pair of handsome dimples.
I sigh. “Mr. Crawford—”
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“Thanks for the tip.” I offer a cordial grin. Quickly pushing past him, I continue to my car. He stays close. “Are you stalking me now?”
“Stalking?” He playfully holds a hand to his chest.
I smirk. “Are you really going to pretend that you haven’t been watching me from your truck the past few weeks?”
He stops short, the streetlight revealing a faint wash of color climbing his neck.
“What?” I snicker. “You think I haven't noticed?”
“I guess I was hoping for subtle.”
I snort. “I hear that subtly is not your forte, Mr. Crawford—”
“Can we stop with that already? I'm Nick. My dad is Mr. Crawford.”
I stifle a grin. “Fine, Nick. Why are you stalking me?”
“Would that bother you if I was stalking you?”
The question catches me off guard, and I am suddenly very aware of his size, at how he towers over me with broad shoulders and confidence. And yet, I am anything but terrified.
“You hesitated.” He barks out a laugh.
“I did not hesitate! I was … um …”
“You did it again!”
“Stop,” I playfully whine. “I was just … I …” I let out a grumble which makes him laugh harder. “I asked you a question.”
“So?”
“So answer it, cowboy!”
An abrupt silence falls between us. Warmth blooms across my cheeks as Nick’s eyes soften. A genuine grin curls his lips as he takes a step closer.
“There she is,” he croons, his voice deep with gravel.
“W-who?” I ask, my eyes wandering to his full lips.
“The woman I met that night.”
The air shifts as the memory settles between us. I blink away, the moment suddenly too raw. “I better go—”
“Wait. Can I ask you something?”
My gaze meets his again, but something is different, somber. “Of course.”
Gazing aimlessly around the parking lot, he pulls out a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket.
My letter to Tiffany about Grady.
“And you don't have to sugarcoat it.” He unfolds the paper, glancing down at it.
“Tiffany made it sound like he was just having a rough start, but then I read this, and suddenly we're talking about evaluations and placement testing and 504s and C-3PO.” He lets out a sardonic laugh, his jaw tightening.
“I don't even know what half of this means.”
His eyes find mine. “I just met him. Did you know that?
Not oh, I just decided to be in your life; I literally didn't know that he even had breath. I never knew he existed—” He looks away, the twinge of emotion in his words.
He clears his throat. “I know kids have different ways of learning and processing information.
I'm not worried about that.” He swallows.
“But he is not going to fall behind because I didn't try.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Nick, it's after midnight, and you're standing in the dark next to a dumpster because you're worried about your kid. I think you're doing an awesome job.” I study him. “Let's schedule a meeting with Tiffany, and we'll come up with a new gameplan and get Grady evaluated.”
“And in the meantime?”
Over the next several minutes, I walk him through the same recommendations I'd made to Tiffany, from reading together every night to working on sight words to incorporating counting and letter recognition into everyday routines.
Nick soaks up every idea like a sponge, sharing his own creative ways to incorporate learning. I recommend a few of my favorite dinosaur books that are perfect for Grady's age, and he asks me to repeat the titles twice before typing them into his notes app.
Staring down at his phone, he nods confidently before peering up at me. “Thank you, Leah.”
“Of course.” I open my car door. “I better head home. School night.”
“Right. Of course.” He tips his head to me in a quiet goodbye.
I slip into my car and turn on the ignition. Rolling down my window, I wave one last time, but he stops me.
“Just for the record, I’m not stalking you.”
I snort. “Okay. Cowboy. Then why are you always out here when I close up?”
He shrugs before tucking his hands into his pockets. “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”
My breath catches. A rush of warmth pools low in my belly as my fists tighten around the steering wheel.
I stare at him, not having a clue what to even say, and yet for some reason, simply being with him fills the silence.
We can't do this.
This is ridiculous. I don't even know him—not really. A few conversations and a handful of stolen moments should not be enough to leave me this flustered.
The problem is my heart is blissfully unaware of the fact that if I don't get out of here soon, I'm liable to do something incredibly stupid.
Like stay.
I offer him one last smile before easing out of the parking lot. The further I drive, the harder it becomes to ignore the hammering in my chest because no matter how many times I tell myself it was a simple act of kindness, my heart seems determined to make it something more.
The next morning arrives far too quickly. With a large coffee in one hand, an overstuffed satchel digging into my shoulder, and a stack of books teetering against my chest, I make my way toward the building.
Before I can make it to my hallway, the secretary stops me. “Ms. Harrison? You have a delivery this morning.”
I raise an eyebrow. “A delivery? At—” I glance at the clock—“seven?”
She nods, holding the door open.
I walk into the quiet office and instantly pause. Sitting in the middle of the room is a pink rolling tote bag with dozens of storage features.
I slowly set my coffee down on the counter. “Is this … for me?”
The secretary buzzes with excitement as she nods. She takes my books and rescues my shoulder from my oversized bag. “Trust me. You're gonna need both hands.”
Resting on top of the tote is a single bag of peach rings with an envelope taped to the package with my name scrawled on the front.
Effective immediately, no more scavenging through the lost & found. It's time to leave your life of petty crime behind. Attached is a link to your new online wishlist. Need it? Add it. Want it? Add it. Your students ask for it? Add it.
Everything will be taken care of.
-NC
I nip at my bottom lip, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest. Honestly, the nerve of that man …
“Keep going,” the secretary instructs, her hands clasped over her heart.
I nod, but I already know what I'm about to find. I carefully unzip the main compartment.
And gasp.
For a second, my brain can't make sense of what I'm seeing.
I expected a box of crayons—which alone would've been incredibly thoughtful.
But this? This compartment is filled to the brim with items from my classroom supply list. Not some of it. All of it. Glue sticks, tissues, markers, disinfecting wipes, even writing pads. He has it all stacked and neatly tucked into different compartments.
I pick up the note again, tracing his handwriting with my fingertips as I read it again. Only this time, a nervous flutter blooms in my chest as my pulse skips a beat.
Oh no, cowboy. What have you started?