Chapter Twenty-Four - Hannah
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Hannah
Hannah stood at her classroom whiteboard, carefully writing out the day's schedule. The marker squeaked slightly against the surface—they were running low on supplies again. She'd have to stretch what they had until next month's budget.
"Ms. Miller?" Zack’s voice was quiet. "Are you sad?"
Hannah's hand stilled on the board. "What makes you ask that?"
"You keep looking at the window at the rain," Sarah chimed in.
Hannah turned to face her class, all those eyes studying her with that unnerving perceptiveness unique to children. She thought she'd been hiding it better—her disappointment, her lingering hurt. But of course they'd noticed. They always did.
"Sometimes grown-ups get sad too," she said carefully. "Just like we talked about with our weather paintings."
"Is it because of that fancy man?" Liam asked. "The one with the nice clothes?"
Hannah nearly dropped her marker. "What do you mean?"
"He used to smile at you in the lobby," Liam explained. "When he thought no one was looking. But now he just looks at you and doesn't smile."
"He must be really dumb," Michael declared with eight-year-old certainty. "Only dumb people make nice people sad."
"Michael," Hannah admonished automatically, but her voice lacked conviction.
"My sister says boys are stupid," Sarah offered helpfully. "Especially the pretty ones."
A laugh bubbled up before Hannah could stop it. "Let's focus on our lesson, shall we? Today we're learning about—"
"But Ms. Miller," Lily persisted, "if he made you sad, why don't you just tell him? Like how you taught us to use our words?"
Hannah's throat tightened. How could she explain that sometimes words weren't enough? That sometimes people showed you exactly who they were, and no amount of talking could change that?
"You know what would make me feel better?" she said instead. "If we worked on our community art project. Speaking of which..." She moved to her desk, pulling out the budget spreadsheet she'd been avoiding. "We need to figure out how to make our supplies last."
The children clustered around as she showed them the simple math. Even with careful rationing, they were going to run short before the big show. The school board had approved the program but couldn't provide funding, and her own savings could only stretch so far.
"We could sell lemonade!" Sarah suggested.
"Or my mom could bake cookies," Tommy added.
Hannah smiled at their earnest solutions. "We'll figure something out," she said with more confidence than she felt. "Now, who's ready to learn about cloud formations?"
As she began the lesson, Hannah caught her own reflection in the window. She did look sad, she realized. But she also looked determined.
She was good making things work, at stretching resources, at finding ways to help others even when her own heart felt heavy.
"Ms. Miller?" Tommy raised his hand. "Can I draw you a happy sun? To keep on your desk?"
Hannah's eyes burned slightly. "I would love that, Tommy."
She watched him work, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, and felt something ease in her chest. James Park might have proven her worst fears right, but here—in this classroom with these children—she was exactly where she belonged.
Even if she had no idea how she was going to afford enough art supplies to make their dreams come true.
══════════════════
Hannah hadn't expected to run into James at the grocery store. She'd promised to help Mr. Thompson with his weekly shopping—his arthritis made carrying bags difficult—but she hadn't expected to find James already there in a white button-down and casual jacket, carefully selecting produce while Mr. Thompson supervised from his motorized cart.
"The tomatoes need to be firm but not too firm," Mr. Thompson was saying. "My Caroline always knew exactly how to pick them."
James was handling each tomato with careful attention, like produce selection was as important as any business deal. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that Hannah definitely wasn't noticing.
"Hannah!" Mr. Thompson brightened when he saw her. "Look who's helping me shop."
James looked up, a tomato still in his hand. Something flickered across his face—surprise? pleasure?—before he caught himself. "I was just—"
"Checking tomato firmness?" Hannah couldn't help smiling.
A faint blush colored his cheeks. James Park, former master of corporate takeovers, blushing over produce.
"These should work," he said, putting the tomatoes in Mr. Thompson's cart. "Unless..." He glanced at Hannah. "Did Caroline have any specific tomato-selection techniques I should know about?"
The simple fact that he asked—that he cared about getting it right for Mr. Thompson—made something in Hannah's chest squeeze painfully.
Thunder rumbled outside as they finished shopping.
"We should hurry," James said, glancing at the darkening sky. "That storm's moving fast."
They made it halfway home before the sky opened. Hannah squealed as the first fat drops hit, and James immediately shrugged out of his jacket, holding it over Mr. Thompson.
"I can't let you ruin your jacket," Mr. Thompson protested, but James just laughed.
"Mr. Thompson, I think we both know there are more important things than my clothes."
The way he glanced at Hannah as he said it made her breath catch.
They were soaked by the time they reached the building. James's white shirt had gone nearly transparent, clinging to his shoulders in a way Hannah was trying very hard not to notice. Water dripped from his hair, running down his neck.
"Let's get these groceries upstairs," Hannah said quickly, needing something to focus on besides how James looked with rain darkening his shirt.
In the elevator, she became intensely aware of the small space. Of how James's damp clothes smelled like rain and that subtle cologne she'd never quite forgotten. Of how his hair curled slightly when wet.
Mr. Thompson was chattering about Caroline's famous tomato sauce recipe, apparently oblivious to the tension crackling between them.
A drop of water slid down James's neck. Hannah watched its progress, remembering how his skin had felt under her fingers when she'd kissed him in the lobby. His throat worked as he swallowed, and she knew he was remembering too.
The elevator dinged. Hannah nearly jumped.
"I'll just..." She gestured vaguely with the grocery bags.
"I can help—" James started.
"No!" It came out too sharp. She softened her voice. "I mean, you should change. You're soaked."
"So are you," he said quietly.
Their eyes met. Hannah felt her pulse skip at the warmth in his gaze.
"Children," Mr. Thompson said with obvious amusement, "I may be old, but I'm not blind. Now, help me put away these groceries before you both catch cold making eyes at each other in my hallway."
Hannah felt her face flame. James let out a startled laugh—a real one, nothing like his polished corporate chuckle.
"Yes, sir," he said, following Mr. Thompson into his apartment.
Hannah stood frozen for a moment, then hurried after them. She had groceries to unpack. Tomatoes to arrange. Anything to focus on besides how James looked with rain in his hair and warmth in his eyes.
She was absolutely not thinking about kissing him.
She wasn't thinking about that at all.