Chapter 12
RYDER
As the meeting wraps up, Bettany claps her hands together like she’s calling kindergarteners to circle time. “Oh! One more thing.”
The moms, already intent on plotting their escapes, stop halfway through putting away their planners, ready to align like dutiful little soldiers to the tyranny of the room parent.
“Before we adjourn,” she announces, “I’d like to suggest that our chaperone and Miss Rose exchange contact information.
” She purses her lips for max dramatic effect.
“Miss Rose’s private number isn’t given to just anyone.
I, as the room parent, am the only one entrusted with it.
” Bettany can’t resist squeezing in an extra reminder of her title.
I glance at Faye.
Her left eye twitches. A tiny spasm at the corner, barely noticeable unless you’re watching her the way I’ve been doing for the past forty minutes. It’s the same tic I caught each time Bettany repeated she’s the room parent as if the title came with a sash and a crown.
“But Ryder should have it, too,” Bettany concludes. “In case of emergencies, before or during the trip.”
Oh, bless her power-hungry heart.
“That’s a wonderful idea, Betty,” I agree, keeping my voice casual, even though my pulse kicks up like a spooked horse as I search Faye’s face for a reaction. “Better to be prepared.”
She lifts her head and catches me staring.
I flash her a little troublemaker smile. “I promise I’ll use Miss Rose’s number responsibly.”
Faye’s eyes narrow. Her lips press together in a thin line of displeasure that makes something hot and reckless coil in my gut.
That expression—prim disapproval mixed with barely contained irritation—makes me want to kiss it right off her face. Makes me want to back her against one of these tiny desks and find out what other expressions I can put there instead.
The moms twitter with approval, oblivious to the current crackling between the teacher and me.
“Perfect,” Bettany beams. “I’ll send you both a confirmation email with the trip details by tomorrow.”
She stands up, sweeping her bag off the chair and gathering her notes. The other moms follow her lead, collecting their things. They file out, calling goodbyes over their shoulders.
“Don’t forget to exchange numbers!” Bettany reminds us from the doorway.
“We won’t,” Faye assures her, a professional smile firmly in place.
Bettany lingers for another beat, like she’s waiting for us to do it right now under her supervision. When neither of us moves, she finally leaves with a little wave.
And then it’s just us.
A hush falls over the room.
Faye busies herself with the papers scattered across her lap, pushing them into her notebook and studiously not looking at me.
She’ll have to, eventually. And it’s okay; I’m not in a hurry.
I’ve still got half an hour before I have to pick up Rhys.
I slide off the desk I’m still perched on and close the distance, the Tupperware once again in my hands. A cookie is left, sitting lonely at the bottom.
“Last cookie?” I hold out the container. “You look like you need it.”
Faye raises her chin. “Is that your polite way of saying I look exhausted? Because I am. Long week.”
“Not at all. But you’ve had a nervous tic going every time Betty mentioned she was the room parent,” I tease. “You’ve earned this cookie.”
She levels me with a prolonged stare. Does she think I’m a creep for noticing? But then her shoulders relax, and she reaches for the cookie with a resigned sigh.
“That obvious, uh?” Faye asks, breaking off a piece. “I’m too prickly. Bettany is an excellent room parent, just a little overbearing.”
“A little?”
“Okay, a lot overbearing.” She takes a bite and lets out a tiny sound of pleasure I’m not positive she’s conscious of making. An unguarded hum from her throat that I would give a year of my life to hear again, but for a very different reason.
Her eyes close as she chews. And I wish I were the one making her close her eyes in ecstasy.
So much that I have to look away, focusing on the poster behind her about kindness that features a cartoon sun with a smile.
“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.
I can’t help it. I low-whistle. “Nice ride.”
Faye’s entire body tenses. And she dismisses me with a curt nod. “Thanks.” The car blinks unlocked as she approaches, without her even needing to press a fob. She opens the door, then glances over at me. “Goodnight.”
The message is clear as the stars overhead. Some topics are off-limits. Where she’s from. Why she moved to Blue Crescent Harbor. Where her money comes from. The car she drives, one that costs more than most people in this town make in a year.
She gets in, starts the engine, and drives off with a smooth purr. I stand there, watching the red taillights fade into the dark, until I’m the last person in the parking lot.
Beautiful mystery, indeed.
The careful distance she keeps, and how badly I want to cross it.
I’m an idiot. A fool. A man who should know better than to fall for someone who’s made it crystal clear she doesn’t want to be fallen for.
But her gravity doesn’t care what I want, and down I go.